Bella~ She/Her, 25, honestly who even has set theme in the big year of ‘26? 90% fic reblogs and 10% relatable memes. Tumblr trooper with the occasional quest on AO3.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ Warnings: +18, NSFW , canon targcest, yearning aemond, somewhat innocent reader, male masturbation, wet dreams, making out, grinding, handjob, female masturbation, bathtub sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex, aftercare with soft aemond and creampie.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ Summary: During your visit in Kings Landing, your uncle's eye cannot leave your body, all tension comes to a head when you interrupt him masturbating while bathing.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ Word count: 4.9K
The sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a golden-pink haze over the scattered buildings of King’s Landing.
The heat of the day, once stifling and sharp, mellowed into a tepid warmth that clung to the stone streets and rooftops.
From the bay, sea winds rolled inland, cool and briny, teasing through the open archways of the Red Keep.
In the high halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, the air held the faint linger of roast meat and summerwine, now grown stale with tension.
It was the hour of the bat, when shadows stretched long and torchlight flickered in golden sconces.
Supper had almost come to a close, mercifully. What should have been a warm family gathering was nothing more than a tightly choreographed farce. Each smile was painted on, every word a cut disguised as civility.
Your jaw still ached from how tightly you'd been clenching it.
King Viserys had sat at the head of the table, trying, desperately, to pretend that all was well. But the rot in the family tree was painfully obvious.
Your mother, seated with the stiffness of a queen forced to endure, barely looked up from her plate.
Across from you sat your uncle, Aemond, so still he might’ve been carved from ice, save for the occasional flick of his eye toward you. You couldn’t have been put in a worse seat.
Forced to face the boy you were taught to hate, now a man.
You didn’t look at him. Not directly. But you felt him. That infuriating calm. That knowing smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth every time you bit your tongue.
The silent dare in the single eye that always found yours. He sought a fight, any excuse to break you, or your brothers. However, you didn’t.
Determined to stay polite, to please the king. And follow the ladylike, dutiful script your mother had perfectly laid out for you. No, your uncle would not win tonight. It would only give him a reason to hurt your brothers.
Still, every time you met his- eye. Something other than hate lurked beneath the surface.
He had very much become a man, no longer the little boy that hid in the library to avoid his brother and nephews.
You cursed yourself for letting your mind drift, wondering if he had grown the same lust and appetite as his brother. Just as another depraved thought started to form once more, his eye fell on you again.
Uncontrollable butterflies swirled in your belly, you felt entranced underneath his gaze. Heat spreads over your skin like fire. The air becoming too thick to swallow.
Quickly averting your eyes to the full plate in front of you, his gaze did not leave your body.
It would be impossible for him to read your mind, though you felt like he had. Like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
And you couldn’t help but wonder if he had such thoughts about you as well. The idea made you blush.
You yourself had grown to become a woman, a princess. Many letters had fallen in your mothers lap, lords across the realm begging for your hand, your Valyrian blood.
Upon your arrival that early afternoon, having been welcomed by your family, and seeing your uncle for the first time after all those years, it was entirely a coincidence that you had chosen a more...mature dress for the evening.
Maybe some part of you felt tempted to entice him, to gain his interest and attention. If you had been successful you could not tell, as such was his stoic and cold demeanour.
Aemond would have never shown you how much you had affected him. How his fingers gripped his cup of wine with such strength, it almost broke under his grasp.
How with every shift in his seat, he could not tear his eyes away from your chest.
Anger rose within him every time you fluttered your innocent eyes at him. You somehow turned the man into a boy again, making him feel flustered and riled up from the smallest movements.
He hated himself for it, all these years he had perfected his training, his mastery over Vhagar, his High Valyrian. In every aspect his mother had finally seen him as perfect.
No one doubted the one-eyed prince any longer.
Even his brother had left him alone, and now here you were. His little niece, ready to ruin everything he had worked so hard on.
With the way your breath hitched when his gaze fell on you, how your lips brushed the cup in your hand when you took a sip.
Every time you leaned forward to pick at your plate, he got a perfect view of your tits.
It all distracted him from his initial plan. He was so eager to get a chance at putting the strong boys in their place, but their big sister had wrecked it all.
Aemond hadn’t felt this relieved in a long time, at last supper was over and everyone was allowed to retire to their chambers. His eyes kept following your form, even when he tried so hard to pull away.
He didn’t like it, didn’t like how you made him feel. Vulnerable. Weak. Restless.
He was glad when you both left the room and parted ways. Aemond headed towards his bedchamber, his own space where nobody could touch him, where nobody looked at him.
It was too early to head out yet, too busy in the streets. His brother too sober.
So he waited, and waited, until he was sure everyone was asleep. And swiftly but quietly disappeared into the darkness of the night.
He had to satiate this hunger inside him, though when he arrived at madam Sylvi’s alcove, nothing she tried relieved him of his yearning.
His niece didn’t fare much better.
Sleep did not come easily.
You tossed and turned beneath the silk sheets, your body restless, your mind unable to quiet.
When slumber finally claimed you, it was not the peaceful kind- it was the kind that teased and tormented. Dreams haunted you, vivid and visceral.
Aemond’s hands, those long, veined hands, touched your skin like they owned it. His smirk, sharp and maddening, tugged at your mind.
His silver hair, like your own, fell across his cheekbones as he leaned closer. You dreamed of his mouth, possessive and greedy against yours, of his breath mixing with yours in the dark.
You woke with a gasp, skin damp with sweat, sheets twisted around your legs. The sky outside your windows had only just begun to lighten, but the rising heat of the summer sun left no room for comfort.
Sleep would not return.
With a sigh, you slipped from the bed and called for your maids. There was no use lingering in your chambers, not when your thoughts were already betraying you.
They dressed you in cool silks, braided your hair, and left you to your own devices.
The Red Keep was still, hushed in the early hour, the courtiers slow to rise. That silence emboldened you.
You mounted your dragon and soared into the skies, chasing the winds and shaking the memory of him from your bones, if only for a little while.
By the time you returned, sweat clung to your back beneath your bodice, but the wildness in your chest had calmed. A tray of fruit and bread awaited you in your chambers, alongside a steaming bath drawn with herbs and rose petals.
You slipped into it gratefully, eyes fluttering shut, Aemond’s face still lingering somewhere behind your lids.
The morning passed quietly, and though the solitude had been welcome at first, by afternoon, it began to press in. You needed distraction, conversation, company, anything to ground you back into the present.
So you wandered into the gardens, where the ladies of court had already taken refuge from the heat. You joined them, half-listening as they prattled on about fabrics and feasts, until the topic turned.
They spoke of you now.
Of how many suitors had come to Dragonstone. Of how each lord had attempted, and failed, to win your favor.
You offered little in return, but the laughter among them grew, amused by your restraint, impressed by your influence.
As the sun began to dip low once more, you were summoned for supper.
Dread curled low in your stomach.
You weren’t sure if you could bear sitting across from Aemond again, not with the memories of your dream still simmering beneath your skin.
The way he had looked at you last night, as though he could see straight through you. As though he wanted to.
You told yourself you didn’t crave his approval.
But you were lying.
You didn’t want his kindness, or his favor. You wanted his attention. His focus. His desire. And after the night you’d spent tangled in arousing dreams, you could no longer pretend otherwise.
What you didn’t know was that elsewhere in the Red Keep, your name was already being whispered in the hallways.
He moved through the halls with practiced grace, his steps measured, until the fluttering whispers of ladies caught his ear. They didn’t see him approaching- at least not until it was too late.
“…they say yet another lord rode to Dragonstone last month. Thought she’d say yes, but she sent him off with barely a word-”
“He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. She’s turning them all down.”
“She must be waiting for someone better…”
Their giggles turned to stunned silence as Aemond passed them, his lone eye fixed straight ahead. But they had said enough.
His jaw clenched.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care.
But he did.
Anger coiled in his gut- jealousy, too, bitter and hot. The idea of those men- weak, simpering lords, daring to think they had a claim to you made his blood run cold.
Yet there was a strange satisfaction as well.
You hadn’t accepted any of them.
He tried to push the thoughts away, bury them beneath cold logic. But the moment he nearly collided with you in the corridor on your way to supper, all sense fled.
You froze for a heartbeat as your eyes locked.
Your breath caught.
His did too.
Without a word, he stepped back and gestured for you to pass first, as etiquette demanded. His head dipped slightly, but his gaze lingered long after you moved by.
When he entered the dining hall, he chose a seat farther from yours this time, perhaps in an effort to compose himself. Distance would quiet the storm inside him, or so he hoped.
But tonight, it was you who stared.
He felt your gaze as surely as if your hands were on him. You tried to be subtle, sipping your wine and lowering your lashes, but he caught you, again and again.
And when he did, your cheeks turned pink.
It filled him with something strange, something powerful.
Desire, yes.
But more than that, confidence.
The ladies of court often stared at him too, but when he met their eyes, they averted theirs in fear. His scar, his silence, his reputation… they saw him as something to avoid.
But you?
You looked at him like you wanted to know what lay beneath the cold.
It made him feel good, desired even.
He wanted to chase that feeling, perhaps he could make you feel good too.
That night, when the doors of his chamber closed behind him. A bath was waiting for him. Though there were no servants.
He preferred to bathe alone, he didn’t need some stupid girls trembling hands to try to wash his hair.
He could do it himself.
Aemond was glad he was alone, for when he had rid himself of his clothes and stepped into the searing bath, his cock began to swell.
A sigh escaped his lips when he let himself fully sink into the water. When he closed his single eye, all he could see was you. Images of you filled his mind, they started off innocent, your smile, your sultry eyes, your silver locks.
Then he thought about how you smelled, how warm your skin would be. But then it turned darker.
He thought about kissing your plump lips, about ripping that stupid dress open and freeing your tits. To suck and nip at them until you whined for him.
Subconsciously, his hand that rested beside him moments before, trailed up his thigh, teasing himself until he softly traced the length of his cock.
A groan left Aemond as his hand wrapped around his shaft, embarrassment crept up on him as he allowed these thoughts of you to drive him to touch himself.
However, all shame left him once he began to tug at the soft skin. The hot water wrapped a cloak of steam around him, the water rippling with each movement of his hand.
A silent moan dragged out of him when he cupped his stones under the water.
Aemond planted his feet on the bottom of the copper bath as his knees rose above the water, his lust clouding his mind when he bucked up his hips in pleasure.
Just these depraved fantasies of you turned him on more than what madam Sylvi tried to do.
His cock ached for release, his skin damp with sweat and water combined. His one eye closed as the pleasure of his own hand consumed him.
As he pumped his cock faster, his lips parted and soft groans left his lips.
Flashes of your bare tits and your wet cunt wrapped around him drove him to the edge of release, precum releasing into the water as Aemond massaged his stones firmer.
His hand and specifically his thumb focusing on his tip until his balls drew tight against his body- he was about to cum when a loud knock pulled him right out of it.
Of course now was the moment someone needed something of him, when he was fucking his fist to the thought of his niece.
Aemond, assuming it was Criston Cole as it usually was, called them in.
“Come.”
He called out from behind the screen that protected his naked body from the door. Though he made no move to get out of the bath to get dressed, his cock was still rock hard. He planned to get Cole out quickly so he could resume his- activities.
He couldn’t see who entered the room, but the soft and graceful footsteps did not match the weight of the armour of Cole. His mother perhaps? What awful timing she would have.
“Uncle?”
Aemond’s heart sank and he froze in the bath, gaze falling on his cock. Of all people to catch him in his depravity, it was her.
“Niece.” He stated, not wanting to tempt her to step beyond the screen. The thin feeble thing that shielded her innocent eyes from his naked frame.
“I did not realise you were... indisposed. Perhaps I’ll come back later-”
He stopped you before you could turn back.
“Perhaps not. Why are you here? What could you possibly need of me at this hour?” His words silenced you for a while. He almost thought you had left.
“In truth... I do not know. It was stupid of me to come here, my apologies. I’ll leave at once.” You said hastily before turning around, you were close to the door until Aemond’s low voice halted your movements once more.
“Wait- Don’t go.” He regretted it the moment the words left his lips.
Still, you obeyed. You turned back towards the screen, waiting to be commanded by him once more.
“Yes?” Your sweet honeyed voice echoed through his chambers.
“Come here.” Aemond called out, his voice raspy with lust.
Your lips parted in shock, you knew he was taking a bath, the steam filling the room gave it away immediately.
“Uncle-” You protested weakly.
“Now.” He ordered, all restraint flew out the window upon hearing you call him that. A reminder of what you were to him, his sweet innocent niece.
He could hear your dull footsteps approach the screen, hesitant, you walked around it. Your breath hitched once your eyes met his. You couldn’t see him...completely, but he was obviously bare.
Aemond’s soft breaths summoned you closer, not too close but close enough to where he could make out your now heavy breaths.
“Come closer.” The words left him before he could even think about it.
Without thinking yourself, your feet pulled you towards his bathing form. You swallowed the nerves in your throat once your eyes ‘accidently’ fell on his hard cock. However you were still out of his reach.
“Gūrogon hen aōha grēza.” Take off your dress.
Aemond was testing you, but when your hands started to undo the laces on the back of your bodice, he held back a groan.
His eyes followed your hands as you undid all the laces and knots that held your dress together.
When you let the loosened dress fall to the floor, your thin undergarments were the only thing still shielding you from your uncle.
He didn’t have to say anything, for your hands were already pulling those off too. Once you were fully naked, shoes and tights forgotten on the stone floor as well, Aemond licked his lips.
His cock throbbed upon seeing your bare body.
“Renigon aōla.” Touch yourself. He groaned, his heavy lidded eyes focusing on your cunt.
You frowned in confusion, touch yourself how? When you made no move, Aemond feared he had gone too far, but once he noticed your confusion, he understood.
“Kesan urnēptre ao, māzigon kesīr.” I will show you, come here.
Your bare feet carried you towards his outstretched hand. Upon placing your hand in his, he rose from the tub, but made no move to get out.
Your eyes flicked nervously to his, Aemond held your gaze as he lowered his head.
Before you could register what he was about to do, his lips pressed against yours. A foreign hunger consumed you as his lips touched yours, you gasped against his mouth.
When you felt his hand on your cheek, still warm and wet from the water, you sighed into the kiss.
But Aemond had no patience for soft loving kisses. His tongue prodded your lips open before licking desperately into your mouth. You moaned, gaining him more access as you let him devour you.
A warm sticky wetness gathered between your thighs, his lips alone spread fire through your body. When he was forced to breathe, you parted.
His eye met yours, and this new look in his eye, unknown to you, made you shudder.
His chest was now heaving, his skin glistening with sweat and his purple eye had turned black with desire. His hand, once on your cheek, made its way down your jaw, towards your breast, giving it a firm squeeze, eliciting a groan from him.
“Fuck.” Aemond sighed, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. If he wasn’t so pent up right now, he would’ve stopped, and saved you both the disgrace, but he couldn’t.
His hand trailed lower, over your belly, stopping right above your cunt.
“Ivestragon nyke jaelā nyke, ivestragon nyke jaelā aōha Kepus.” Tell me you want me, tell me you want your uncle. Aemond whispered lowly.
You nodded, your chest rising with each breath. You closed your eyes, anticipating his touch. When you still didn’t feel him, your eyes snapped open.
“Jaelan naejot rȳbagon vestrā ziry.” I want to hear you say it.
“Kostilus renigon nyke Kepus.” Please touch me uncle. You almost whined- begged for him to touch you, even though it was foreign to you, your cunt ached.
That drove him insane, the way your sweet voice told him you wanted him in your mother tongue, his cock twitched. Two of his fingers darted out to glide between your slick folds, it immediately pulled a moan from you.
Aemond almost gasped upon feeling the wetness between your thighs, he knew you would probably be sensitive- but for you to be this wet already? You must want him as bad as he wants you.
When one of his fingers found your clit, he circled it, drawing more soft gasps and pleads from your lips.
“Sir ao.” Now you.
Aemond used all his restraint to pull back, and lower himself in the bath again.
You almost cried when his fingers left you, but when you saw him lean back in the bath again, his hand starting to stroke teasingly along his cock, your own hand made its way down your body.
Remembering what Aemond had just taught you, you used your own two fingers to repeat what he did. Letting them glide through your folds first, before touching your clit.
Your eyes never left his as you put on a show for him, now understanding what he wants.
Aemond now jerked his cock firmer, trying to almost match your movements. Both of your heavy breaths and moans filled the room, urging you both closer to release.
Your fingers worked faster when Aemond pumped his own cock faster.
Holding each other's gaze, you were the first to come. Your thighs clenched shut with your hand still between them. Your other hand shot up to clamp over your mouth as you cried out Aemond’s name.
Aemond halted his movements and watched with parted lips as your legs trembled. Your first orgasm hitting you hard. Your knees almost buckled underneath you from the sheer force of your pleasure. When your climax ebbed away, you opened your eyes again.
Aemond summoned you back to him. When he was able to reach you, he helped you in the bath. Once you stood over his lap, both feet on either side of him, he helped you lower down onto his lap.
You couldn’t stop yourself from kissing him again, Aemond gasped in surprise as you hungrily moved your lips against his. When you moved a bit too close to his now flushed and angry cock, he groaned into the kiss.
He felt your arms wrap around his neck, his own hands holding onto your waist as he pulled you closer to him. Aemond almost came- just from feeling your cunt press against him.
His cock so sensitive and aching from being denied to cum twice already, but Aemond knew it was worth it.
When he pulled away, his grip on your waist tightened as he used you to grind your cunt on him, moving back and forth until short waves formed in the water.
“Ao sagon ñuhon.” You're mine.
You moaned at his words. Aemond nipped at your neck before aligning his cock up with your hole. His tip first dragged through your folds before he dared nudge his dripping head inside, once he felt your walls clench around him, he paused for a moment.
Aemond looked up at you, it seemed as if you were completely out of this world. Your eyes were closed, face red and damp.
A bruise in your neck from his biting and nipping. Your hair loosely falling over your back, you were a sight for the Gods.
He kissed you fiercely before pulling you fully down, until his entire length was sheathed inside you. You whined against his lips, the stretch and fullness of him overwhelming.
When you came across his chambers this evening, having no plan about what to say to him, you did not quite imagine this.
Aemond was now the one moaning as he tried to buck up into you, the desperation to cum overpowering him.
“Fuck-” He groaned when you parted.
“H-how do I…” You whispered, a slight tremble in your voice.
“Move up and down or just hump- yes- yes- fuck like that-”
You immediately did what you were told, you wanted nothing more in this moment then to make him feel good too, to fuck him as if it was your last night alive. Using all your strength you bounced up and down on his cock.
Aemond’s strangled moans and heavy breaths spurred you on, driving you to fuck him faster, only your knees started to hurt and your thighs started to cramp.
“Uncle- help- please-” You whined as your legs started to give up. Aemond wasted no time in planting his feet on the bottom of the tub and driving his cock up into you.
The sheer force of his thrusts caused the water to spill over the sides of the tub, turning the chamber into a huge mess.
Neither you or Aemond cared, the bliss and satisfaction of each other's bodies was all that mattered.
Aemond thrived off your moans and whimpers, he knew it was all him who caused it, that no other man had ever made you feel like this.
The slapping off skin, you and your uncle’s moans and the slashing of water was sure to be heard outside, your coupling would surely be no secret.
“Fffuckk!” That was the first time Aemond had heard you cuss, and it brought a smile to his lips, spurring him on to fuck you harder.
The way you clenched around him, your moans getting higher, and your breath getting stuck in your throat- he knew you were close, he just had to push you over the edge.
He was surprised he had managed to hold off his own orgasm for this long but he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
While you held onto the sides of the tub, Aemond used one hand to hold you steady while the other sought out your bud, with a steady thumb he managed to get you gushing around him in seconds.
Crying out his name in ecstasy, you came hard around his cock.
Aemond, at this point, had reached his limit. With some final hard thrusts, his balls drew tight against his body, cock twitching as he filled you with his cum.
He released a strangled cry from his throat, letting himself get consumed by his peak.
Once the final spurts of his seed had left his body, he sagged against your shaking form. Heavy breaths were now the only thing that could be heard. The water tepid and finally calm.
What you did not entirely expect was Aemond pulling you flush against him, making you hold him as he melted into you. A satisfied sigh left his lips as his cock softened inside you. Yet he made no move to pull out.
Neither of you wanted to move.
Your limbs were tangled beneath the surface of the water, skin against skin, warmth clinging to every inch of you that had been touched, claimed.
You were both suspended in a moment outside of time, outside of duty, outside of honour. The soft drip of water from the edge of the tub was the only sound, save for your slowing breaths.
You rested your cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed, heart still pounding. His arms had remained tight around you, as though if he let go, even for a second, you might vanish into smoke.
Reality waited just beyond the door, and yet neither of you dared look toward it.
You wanted to stay here forever. In this hazy, sacred silence. In his hold.
You were trying not to think about what it meant, what you'd done. Not because you regretted it, but because the weight of it was too much to bear all at once.
It wasn’t just lust that had driven you into his arms. It was something deeper. Something dangerous.
“I meant it.” Aemond whispered, breaking the silence at last.
Your lashes fluttered. “Hm?”
He turned his face into the crook of your neck. His voice was low, a rumble more than a sound.
“You’re mine.”
The words sent a fresh wave of heat down your spine. You could feel the way his jaw tensed against your skin, the possessiveness simmering just beneath the surface.
Not rage, not anger- just wanting.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him.
His violet eye met yours, burning. The sapphire gleamed faintly in the dim candlelight, and for once, there was no mask behind his expression. No cold control. Just him. Raw and open.
You only whispered, “And you’re mine.”
Something shifted in his face.
A crack in his composure, a softening that made your heart twist. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek, then your lips- slow, reverent.
As though he was trying to memorize every part of you, just in case this moment didn’t last.
But it would. It had to.
His hand found yours beneath the water, threading his fingers between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I won’t let them take you from me,” he murmured against your lips. “Not now.”
You nodded once, heart thundering in your chest.
You didn’t need promises. You didn’t need sweet words or vows made in the godswood.
You just needed him. The truth in his touch. The honesty in the way he looked at you now, as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
summary: On the verge of failing Potions thanks to your idiotic lab partner and Quidditch rival Draco Malfoy, the two of you are forced to sneak into the greenhouse at night for a final ingredient, only to stumble into some strange plants along the way.
tags: 18+ MDNI, [sex pollen] [enemies to lovers] [quidditch rivals] [eighth-year at hogwarts] [mutual masturbation] [dubcon but only because it's sex pollen lol ] [oral sex] [malfoy whimpers] [hate sex] [switchy] [penetrative sex] [multiple orgasms]
author's note: It felt weird not writing Draco & Snitch from Lessons in Losing, but i hope you like Nineteen :) Title is inspired by the song Fatal Attraction by Reed Wonder. 9k words
“This is a terrible idea,” you hiss, rounding the corner toward the side exit of the castle.
Draco scoffs. “Like you have a better one.”
While he draws his wand from his robes, you cast another wary glance over your shoulder. The hallway is empty behind you, lit with dim floating candles. The castle sleeps, blissfully unaware of the plans you and your Quidditch rival have in store tonight.
Sadly, you don't. Have a better plan, that is. That's why you're out after curfew, dodging prefects and paintings like it's your full-time job.
"There's just got to be another way," you say, checking behind you again.
"There's not. Unless you count failing an option. You want to fail tomorrow, Nineteen?”
Draco Malfoy has never called you by your real name—only your Quidditch number. Because that’s all you are to him. Not a person. Just an obstacle on the pitch. But you know the truth: you’re the only Seeker in the entire school who gives him a run for his money.
“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”
“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”
You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.
Prick.
You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.
And why should he care?
It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.
The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.
You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.
He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”
“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”
“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”
You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”
“Not yet, you’re not.”
Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.
You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.
“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.
You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”
“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”
You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”
Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.
That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.
Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.
He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.
“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.
You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.
Blame him.
Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.
“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”
You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.
Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.
You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”
He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”
He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—
You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.
You’ve never really understood it.
The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.
The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.
There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.
The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.
But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.
All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.
Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.
You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”
He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.
“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.
“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”
He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.
“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.
By moonlight reveal.
Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.
As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.
Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.
Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even.
You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.
You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.
“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.
He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.
These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.
As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.
You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.
But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.
“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.
His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.
Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.
Draco frowns. “Thief.”
You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.
It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.
When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.
“I’m doing it,” you say.
“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”
Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”
“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”
You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”
“I—yes! I know more than—”
“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”
Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”
Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.
Push, pull, counter, strike.
You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.
The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.
“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.
You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.
You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.
“Shit,” you mutter.
“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”
With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.
You grin. “Got it.”
Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.
“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.
He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.
His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.
You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.
“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.
“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”
Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”
“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”
“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”
His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”
He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”
To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.
It’s…silent.
Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.
He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.
You know exactly what that is.
The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.
Sex pollen.
You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.
“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.
But it’s too late.
Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.
Shit.
“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”
The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.
One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.
You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.
“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.
Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”
“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”
The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.
“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.
You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.
Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.
“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”
“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”
“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.
He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.
Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.
“Sex?” he sneers.
“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”
“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”
“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.
“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”
Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.
You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”
Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”
“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.
“It’s…what?”
You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.
Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.
That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.
Unless you give in.
Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.
You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.
There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.
Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.
There’s only one answer. You have to escape.
Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.
Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.
It only takes a second to form a plan.
Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.
But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.
Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.
“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”
“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.
You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.
You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?
You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.
Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.
“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”
“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.
“Trust me, Malfoy.”
That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.
“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”
Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.
“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”
“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.
Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.
He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”
“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”
“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”
You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”
He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”
His eyes narrow. “Your point?”
“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”
Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”
His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.
Stupid fucking pollen.
You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”
A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.
“Fine,” he agrees.
That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.
It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.
A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.
It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.
And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…
No other reason. Right?
You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.
You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—
Your lips meet his.
Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.
He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.
At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.
Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.
You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.
Merlin, he’s gorgeous.
His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.
You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.
It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.
His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.
You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.
“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”
And you’re back to square one.
“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”
“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”
Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.
Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.
But none of it did a thing.
Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.
You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.
Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.
Bastard.
His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.
No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.
Shit.
Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—
“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.
“I’m not thinking anything—”
“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”
Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.
“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”
Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.
“Is that right?”
His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.
Not that you would ever tell him, of course.
“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours. “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”
You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”
He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”
Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.
It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because you do.
Badly.
You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.
Snap out of it.
“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.
Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”
But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.
You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”
“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”
You try to stay quiet. You really do.
But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.
Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.
Not that you’ve been watching.
“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”
Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”
“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.
“No.”
“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”
You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.
“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”
You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.
You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.
The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.
You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.
He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.
His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.
Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.
After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.
The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.
You need water. No—not water.
You need him.
It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.
“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.
Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.
“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.
You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”
“Well, think harder.”
You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”
His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.
In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.
When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…
Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.
Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.
You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.
But that feels impossible.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.
Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—
“Nineteen.”
Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.
You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.
“Tell me,” he says firmly.
You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.
“W-what?” you rasp.
“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”
Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.
You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.
Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.
But he must see it.
Because, he just says, “Fuck.”
His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.
Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.
But right now—he’s not walking.
He’s crawling.
Towards you.
“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.
Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.
The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.
Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.
In fact, it is.
Frightening.
“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.
He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.
“Say it again.”
You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.
Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—
It scares you how much.
But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.
“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”
“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in. “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”
The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.
The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.
But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.
Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.
You frown. “Dra—what?”
He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall. “Don’t come closer.”
A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.
Breed.
Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.
“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”
Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?
Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—
You can’t even finish that thought.
You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.
“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?
This situation is probably his worst nightmare.
Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.
Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.
You can only imagine what you look like.
Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.
“Then don’t,” you murmur.
Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.
He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”
He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.
Carefully, you settle into his lap.
He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure.
You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.
“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”
“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”
“What? So smart?”
“You wish.”
The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.
You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning.
You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.
“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.
Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.
You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.
You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.
This is your rival.
For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.
And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.
His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing.
The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.
You nod frantically, clenching around him.
In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.
He’s not fairing much better.
He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.
Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.
You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.
Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.
“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”
You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.
“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”
That does it.
Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.
Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”
“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”
“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”
He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.
The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.
Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.
You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.
“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”
He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.
“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.
You don’t let him finish.
You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you. But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.
So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.
“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”
He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”
You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak.
Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED]
Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack)
Word Count: 6.6k
Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD
masterlist
The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.
That was probably your second thought.
Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.
Still.
Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:
He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.
Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.
Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.
At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.
You don’t know how he does it.
It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.
(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)
But instead, you just hum.
And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:
“Can you keep doing this forever?”
Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.
And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.
And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.
Not on purpose.
(Probably?)
(…Definitely.)
Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.
Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)
Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.
(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)
(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)
Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.
It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.
Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-
“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)
“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”
“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.
It doesn’t.
What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-
“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-
“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-
“Sweetheart”.
All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.
The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.
(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)
“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.
Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.
(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)
“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.
All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.
Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-
“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”
And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.
If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.
It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.
So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:
“Could you go lower?”
“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.
Now you’re face-to-face with him.
Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.
Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:
Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)
Still, since profiling is such a complex job –
(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)
so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-
So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.
(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)
(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)
(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)
And apparently, he does.
Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:
“Again?!”
Ah. Yes. Again.
Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.
So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:
Close. The. Curtains.
(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)
But it’s fine. It’s fine.
You fixed it.
You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.
Just the essentials.
Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.
You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)
…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.
You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)
Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.
Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.
Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.
They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.
Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.
And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”
Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.
“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)
“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”
He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.
Fond - yes.
Amused - definetely.
Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.
Veeeery humbling experience.
And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.
“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”
Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.
Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)
You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.
Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.
You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.
Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)
Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.
One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)
Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.
Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).
It’s… a moment.
You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;
It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.
And still, he manages to outdo himself.
Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.
“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”
(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)
“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.
You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”
Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.
He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.
Mouth open. Tongue flat.
You start cursing everything.
Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.
Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.
Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.
Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.
He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.
Then again. And again.
Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.
Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.
(Thank God.)
“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.
You were so fucking wrong.
His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.
It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.
“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.
He fucks you with it.
Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.
You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.
The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-
“Aaron- Aaron, please-”
Not your best work. Not ideal.
You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.
But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.
(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)
You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.
(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)
He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.
And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.
The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…
…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.
Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).
(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)
So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.
That first stretch.
That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”
(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)
You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.
“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”
He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.
And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.
(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)
“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.
(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)
(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)
(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)
(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)
(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)
(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)
“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.
Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.
He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”
Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.
White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.
(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)
“Do you feel it?” he asks.
You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.
Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-
“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”
Wrong answer, apparently.
Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.
(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)
“Lift your hips,” he instructs.
“What-”
“Just do it.”
You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.
(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)
He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.
“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.
“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.
He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.
Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.
You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.
A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.
So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.
(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)
You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.
“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”
You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.
Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”
(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)
“Trying,” you pant.
“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.
He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.
Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.
“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”
“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”
He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”
It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."
Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.
But you never find it. You never find him.
And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)
So instead, you settle. Again.
You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.
And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)
He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.
That’s the reason.
(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)
(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”
“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”
“Here where?”
“Shut up.”
Another slap.
Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)
“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”
You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.
“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)
He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.
“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.
You’re not really in the conditions to answer.
Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-
“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”
And oh… you feel it.
The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”
His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.
And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.
The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-
It almost slips out.
That thing.
The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.
“F-fuck, Aaron-”
“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat
You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.
Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.
He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.
He doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.
His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.
Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.
"You're okay,"
"Got you,"
"So good, baby..."
Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.
Your chest hurts.
Because he means it.
He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.
“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”
He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.
You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”
You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.
“Please don’t call anyone.”
These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.
But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?
The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.
You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.
You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.
Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.
“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”
Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.
Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.
“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”
He shakes his head - fond. Touched.
Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.
He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.
You watch in awe.
Reverence.
…Horniness.
So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.
“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.
Occasionally hums.
If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.
Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.
He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.
Which is immediately suspicious.
You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.
Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.
Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.
Not even the question. He’s already answered it.
He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.
Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)
(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)
And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.
He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.
“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
hi sweet baby angels!!! look who finally wrote a new piece and isnt relying on queueueueueuing chapters she wrote seven million years ago!!!!! based on this ask. enjoy.
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WC: 7.6k
Summary: They can look all they like, but only you carry the proof of what he is to you and what you are to him.
Warnings: 18+, rough sex (p in v), fingering, targcest, multiple orgasms, creampies, breeding, multiple positions, dirty talk, bratty reader (lmk if i missed anything!)
Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader
The hall glows with firelight and heat, the smell of roasted meats clinging to silk and skin as laughter swells beneath the Red Keep’s high rafters. You sit lower at the feasting table, far enough from the center that no one expects you to speak, close enough that you can see him. Daemon. Draped in dark velvet, silver hair loose over his shoulders, a wine cup cradled in one hand like it was made for him. He looks bored, or maybe pleased, or maybe both. You can never quite tell with him when he smiles like that.
He is not alone. The court never lets him be. Ladies linger around him like wasps drawn to ripe fruit, sharp-eyed and silk-wrapped, fluttering fans and lashes with feigned restraint. One of them, a girl from House Velaryon with pale skin and storm-colored eyes, reaches out and lays her hand on his forearm as she speaks. It is not a casual touch. Her fingers slide, her thumb grazes the inside of his wrist. She leans in as she laughs, just a little too close.
He lets her.
He does not touch her back, not quite, but he also does not stop her. His expression does not shift, his body does not tense. He just tilts his head slightly, wine catching the light as he takes another sip, and listens. You see the way the girl watches his mouth as he drinks. You see the way her gaze slips down to his neck and lingers there. It makes something ugly twist low in your belly.
You have not touched your wine. You have not said a word in several minutes. The man beside you, some knight’s son with a lion-stitched doublet and soft, forgettable features, has been trying to speak with you since the second course. You barely hear him. He asks if you liked the music. You do not answer. He tries again, offering a gentle smile and a question about dancing. You turn your head slightly and say no, quiet but cold. He does not ask a third time.
All your attention is fixed on Daemon.
He knows. Of course he knows. He has not looked at you, not even once, but he can feel your gaze like a tether pulled tight. You know he can. That smile of his has curved sharper. He lifts his cup just slightly, as if in silent toast, and laughs at something the Velaryon girl says, even though you doubt he was listening. His whole body is a performance, and tonight you are not in the front row. You are not even part of the act.
You hate it.
You hate the way she looks at him. You hate that she is allowed to. You hate that she touches him in front of everyone and no one says a word. You hate that she might think she could keep him, even for a moment, even for a night. You are not his wife. You have no claim. You are not even promised. You cannot stop her. You cannot reach across the table and slap her hand away. You cannot stand and declare what he is to you, what you are to him, because no such thing has ever been said aloud.
Still, your body remembers the shape of his hands. Your skin still bears the bruises he left. You remember the way his breath felt against your throat when he called you sweet girl, when he told you to stay still, when he said yours like it meant something. But none of that matters here. Not in front of the court. Not in front of her.
She leans in closer again. Her hair brushes his shoulder. Her laugh rises like bells. Daemon lifts his goblet once more, sips slow, then finally moves his gaze.
He looks at you. Only for a moment. No more than a breath. But it is enough.
His eyes meet yours across the chaos and gold of the feasting hall. He does not blink. He does not look away. And then he smiles. Not for her. Not for the room. For you.
You do not smile back.
You hold his gaze a moment longer than you should, until it burns. Then you rise. Quietly. Deliberately. The scrape of your chair is barely heard beneath the swell of music and wine-soaked laughter, but it cuts through you clean.
You leave before the final toast is raised. Before the singers begin their third round. Before she can lean in again and whisper something sweet and simpering into his ear.
You do not storm out. You do not make a scene. You walk with your chin high and your silence sharp, knowing it will follow you more loudly than any words would have.
Your chambers are too warm when you enter. The fire crackles too loudly. The wine on the table sits untouched.
You do not pace, but you feel like you might. Your skin itches with something too close to rage, too close to want. It sits behind your ribs and twists, slow and tight, until you can’t bear to sit still.
You feel him before you hear him. The door does not creak, but it opens. He does not knock. Of course he doesn’t.
Daemon steps inside like the room belongs to him. Like you do.
“You left early,” he says.
“You noticed,” you reply.
“I notice when someone stares at me for half the feast,” he says, voice smooth. “And then vanishes before the sweets.”
You turn to face him. “I suppose I lost my appetite.”
He smiles. “A shame. The roasted pears were delightful. But not quite as sweet as the Velaryon girl’s lips.”
Your face does not change. “You kissed her?”
“No,” he says. “But she wanted me to.”
“And you were tempted.”
“I am always tempted,” he says, stepping further into the room. “That is what makes it fun.”
You lift your chin. “Fun.”
He shrugs. “You must know by now how I enjoy being watched.”
“I saw you,” you say. “I saw the way she looked at you.”
“I let her.”
“You let her put her hand on you.”
“She has hands. What was I meant to do, hack them off at the wrist?”
“You could have said no.”
“I never say no to harmless attention,” he says, smiling. “It keeps the court guessing.”
“It keeps the court thinking you are theirs to take.”
He takes a step closer. “Let them think what they will. They are wrong.”
“Are they?” you ask, sharp. “You did not look particularly unavailable tonight.”
“And yet here I am,” he says, spreading his hands slightly, “in your chambers, not hers.”
You cross your arms. “That proves little.”
He cocks his head. “Does it?”
“You belong to no one,” you say.
He doesn’t argue. “True enough.”
“You are not mine.”
“No,” he says again. “But gods, how you want me to be.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “You are full of yourself.”
“I have good reason to be.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
“You think I should have made a show of rejecting her?” he asks. “That I ought to have stood in the middle of the hall and shouted that my cock is already spoken for?”
“Is it?” you say, soft yet cold.
He steps close enough for his voice to drop. “You would know.”
You tilt your head. “Would I?”
He smiles. “Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”
You step around him, slow, measured, the air between you too warm now, too thick. “You act as though you enjoy the idea of women fighting over you.”
“I enjoy being wanted.”
“And you enjoyed being wanted by her.”
He looks at you for a moment. “I enjoyed knowing you were watching.”
You stop.
He watches the way you still.
“I could have let another man walk me back tonight,” you say.
“You did not.”
“No. But I could have.”
He smiles, faint and dangerous. “And I could have taken her to bed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because she’s not you.”
There it is. Said simply, said plainly, with that flash of teeth just beneath the charm. He doesn’t soften when he says it. He doesn’t look ashamed. He offers it like a challenge.
You stare at him, chest rising.
“You let them think they have a chance,” you say, quieter now.
“I let them look,” he replies. “That’s all they get. A glimpse. A taste of something they’ll never touch. That is the game, little cousin. Let them ache for it.”
“And what of me?” you ask.
His expression changes just slightly. “What of you?”
“If I want more than a game,” you say, voice like ice beneath flame. “If I am not content with glimpses and riddles. What then?”
He takes a step toward you, close enough that you feel his breath against your cheek when he speaks. “Then you are not like them.”
You do not flinch. “But you want me to feel like I am.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “I want you to feel the difference.”
You look up at him. “Then make it.”
He studies you.
“I have no claim,” you say. “No ring. No promise. Nothing but your word and the marks you leave behind.”
He lifts his hand to your jaw, gentle, dangerous, not quite touching. “That should be enough.”
“It isn’t.”
There is no space left between you. You feel his restraint like the crackle before lightning. You want him to snap. You want him to beg. You want him to yield—but you don’t want him weak.
“You test me,” he says.
“And you let me.”
He smiles, slow and wolfish. “Because I want to see how far you’ll go.”
“And what happens when I go too far?”
His lips hover near your throat. “Then I will drag you down with me.”
The silence that follows hums like a live wire. Nothing breaks it. Not the wind, not the fire, not the pounding of your heart. You don’t flinch. You don’t breathe. You wait.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less dangerous.
“If I am yours,” he says, “say it.”
You meet his gaze, steady. “If you are mine, act like it.”
He watches you for a beat longer. A breath. Two.
Then he moves.
His mouth finds yours before the words are cold in the air. No warning, no restraint. Just heat, hard and immediate. His hand knots in your hair and drags, angling your mouth to his, and he kisses you like you’ve both already lost. Like this was always going to happen. His teeth graze your lip, catch, pull. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.
You press into him, chest to chest, hips already shifting like your body wants something before your mind can catch up. You kiss him like you mean to punish him for every smirk, every flirtation, every woman who looked too long. He kisses you like he’s daring you to try.
His hands drop to your waist. He lifts you without asking.
You feel the edge of the table dig into the backs of your thighs as he sets you down atop it, dragging you forward until your hips meet the wood. The same table where you sometimes take meals. Where letters wait unopened. Where you sit like a lady when others are watching.
Not now.
His body crowds yours, knees parting your legs as he leans in, mouth brushing your throat, breath hot.
"Mine," he says against your skin, the word like fire.
Your hands find his shoulders, digging into the velvet of his doublet, feeling the solid muscle beneath. You want to rip it away, to see him bare and wanting, to mark him as he's marked you.
"Prove it," you challenge, voice barely steady.
His laugh is dark, dangerous. "So demanding." His teeth graze your pulse point. "So greedy."
One hand slides up your thigh, bunching the silk of your gown, finding the heat between your legs. You're already wet for him—have been since you watched him across the hall, since you imagined tearing him away from her. His fingers press against you through the thin fabric of your smallclothes, and you can't help the sound that escapes you.
"There," he murmurs against your throat, fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles. "That's what I wanted to hear."
You bite back another moan, head falling back as he works you with practiced ease. The silk of your gown pools around your hips, and his free hand traces the line of your collarbone, down to the laces of your bodice.
"She could never make sounds like that," he says, voice rough with want. "Could never arch like you do. Could never—"
"Stop talking about her," you gasp, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
His fingers still. "Jealous?"
You meet his gaze, breathless but defiant. "Possessive."
The shift in his gaze is subtle, but you see it: a spark of something molten behind the glinting violet, some chemical recognition of your challenge that makes his breath hitch and his jaw tense. His lips curve, not in mockery this time but in anticipation, as if your defiance is the final ingredient he’s been waiting for.
“Good,” he says, and the word is roughened by want—almost hoarse as it breaks against your mouth.
He crushes you back into the table with his body and kisses you fiercely, teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongue sliding in with a claim so absolute it erases the memory of anything softer. The taste of him is as intoxicating as the wine left untouched on your table; smoke and salt and something sweeter beneath, a promise of indulgence laced with threat. He kisses you like he means to possess you from the inside out.
His hands move without mercy. One closes tight around the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you as he devours your mouth. The other slips beneath the generous folds of your gown—an impatient sweep up bare thigh, knuckles grazing sensitive skin until he finds your smallclothes and drags them aside. You feel cool air against fevered flesh just before his fingers make contact: two at once, slick with intent, pushing inside you so abruptly that you gasp against his lips.
He swallows the sound whole, then pulls back just enough to let you see how much it pleases him.
“So wet already,” Daemon murmurs, voice gone almost guttural with hunger. His thumb circles lazily over that aching bundle of nerves—just brush after cruel brush—while his fingers press deeper within, stretching and curling until your body trembles around him. “Were you thinking about this while you watched me across the room? While she touched my arm? While she batted her lashes and hoped I’d take her to my bed instead?”
You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a whimper—the humiliation sharp as pleasure when he smirks down at you.
“Mm,” he says. “Just as I thought.”
He works your body with an expert’s patience: slow thrusts punctuated by sudden twists of his hand that jolt pleasure up your spine. Each time he brings you close to release, he slows again—deliberately stalling, denying what’s already within reach. You realize too late that this is a different kind of game: not the one played for courtly advantage or public display, but one meant solely for this room and this hour and both your undoings.
Your hips buck against him—helpless now—and heat floods your cheeks as you realize how shamelessly you’re moving for him. Every time he retreats just enough to make you ache for more, every teasing circle of his thumb or shallow dip of his fingers makes you crave it more desperately.
He bends low until his lips are at your ear.
“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers—a demand hidden behind velvet softness. “Say what you wanted while you watched me.”
You can barely form words; your pride wars with need and loses every round. Still, when he crooks two fingers just right within you—pulling a shudder from somewhere deep and secret—you stifle a cry behind bitten lips.
He does not tolerate silence for long.
"Answer me," he commands, stilling his movements.
"Yes," you gasp, desperate. "Yes, I was thinking of this," you admit, voice catching as his fingers resume their torment. "I was thinking of how only I know what you sound like when you're inside me."
His smile is all teeth, all triumph. "And what sound is that?"
You reach between your bodies, finding the hard length of him straining against his breeches. He hisses when you palm him, squeezing just firmly enough to make his rhythm falter.
"Show me again," you challenge. "I seem to have forgotten."
In one fluid motion, he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, tasting you with deliberate slowness. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks them clean, and the sight makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs tremble.
“Stand up,” he says, and his voice is not a request—it’s the leash or the whip, it’s the ring of steel on stone. You obey before you’ve even processed that you’re moving, legs trembling beneath you, skin burning with shame or anticipation. He shifts your body, handling you like he owns every inch: guiding your hips so they nudge the edge of the table, palms flat to its surface, head bent. For a heartbeat, he just stands behind you—close enough that you feel his heat but not touching. You become aware in that pause just how badly you want him, how hollowed out and untethered he’s made you with nothing but words and steady pressure.
Then the air changes; he moves in. His chest presses to your back with an intimacy that feels almost tender—almost. The illusion of gentleness lasts only long enough for him to seize hold of your wrist and pin it beside your head against the wood. He leans in until his breath ghosts over your ear, hot and deliberate, and lets his other hand slide up beneath your hair to encircle your throat—not choking, just holding. Just reminding.
You hear rather than see him undo the laces at his waist. There’s a moment when nothing happens except the double thunder of both your pulses.
“I want you to remember this,” Daemon says, voice pitched for your ear alone. “When you sit with your ladies tomorrow, gossiping over sweetmeats. When you stroll through the godswood with them and pretend not to look at me from beneath your lashes.” His hand abandons your throat and travels down the length of your back, slow as syrup, until it slides under your skirts and traces along your inner thigh. “I want you to feel this between your legs all day. I want every step to remind you who did this to you.”
He gathers up your gown in one practiced motion—no pretense left—and bunches it above your waist. The air on skin should be cooling but instead it stings, as if every nerve has risen up in revolt. You can hear him breathe in when he looks at you: a soft inhale through clenched teeth. He presses into you then—hot flesh against wetness—and positions himself at your entrance but does not push forward yet.
“Say it,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear.
You bite down hard on defiance, it tastes metallic on your tongue. “Say what?” Your answer is another challenge—a glint of rebellion even now.
His fingers tangle tight in your hair and haul back gently—just enough for pain to mingle with pleasure and send a jolt down your spine. “Say who owns you.”
The question hangs in the air like ash after fire. You can hear voices from deeper in the keep—a man laughing drunkenly two floors below, bells tolling midnight—but here there is only the question and his body pressed against yours.
You let yourself breathe once before answering. “Yours,” you say, barely more than a whisper.
“Louder,” Daemon commands.
You swallow pride and gasp, “I’m yours.”
He rewards honesty with violence—a single thrust that buries him inside you so deep that stars explode behind your eyes and all sense of poetry deserts you in favor of white-hot sensation. The sound torn from you is less than human.
The world shrinks down to hips slamming into yours, his cock splitting you open again and again until nothing exists except those points of connection—his hand cinched around yours on the table’s edge, his teeth scraping behind your ear when he bites down hard enough to mark skin for days. One arm comes around to flatten across your sternum, he holds both hands prisoner now so all you can do is brace yourself against each punishing stroke.
You lose count of how many times he pulls out nearly all the way before sheathing himself again with a violence that seems meant as punishment or reward—or maybe just necessity. The table protests under each impact, somewhere in another life you'd be worried about splinters or bruises or whether anyone will hear but here all that matters is keeping pace with him as he drives into you harder each time.
He does not stop talking throughout—not once—but now his words are reduced to grunts and groans mixed with filthy encouragements.
“Good girl…that’s it…take all of me…” Each command lodges itself deeper until finally every ounce of dignity crumbles into need.
You come apart once, convulsing around him so intensely even Daemon grunts in surprise, but he does not let go or slow down, if anything he fucks through it harder while holding tight so none of those shudders escape without being felt by both parties. When wave after wave hits until tears dampen the wood beneath where your cheek is pressed flat, he softens fractionally—his hand stroking soothing circles over where his other pins yours down—but then resumes pace as if determined to wring out every last drop from what remains.
There is something breaking loose inside him, too. By now each thrust comes paired with a half-choked curse or plea, voice more ragged than before, less certain even as body moves relentlessly forward.
He growls low in his throat when climax approaches—you can feel him swelling inside just before release—and for one last instant everything sharpens into unbearable clarity.
The taste of sweat running salty from his jaw onto yours. The burn where nails gouge crescent moons into wood. The way neither one will ever be forgiven for what comes next.
His release comes in violent pulses, hot and pulsing deep inside you. He makes no attempt to withdraw, pinning you harder against the table as he empties himself with a growl that vibrates through your joined bodies. His hips stutter, then press flush against you, holding there as if to seal what he's done. To mark you from within.
You feel him throb inside you, feel the wetness of his seed as it fills you. His breathing is ragged against your neck, his weight nearly crushing as he drapes over you, spent but unwilling to separate.
For several heartbeats, neither of you speaks. The only sound is shared breathing and the distant echoes of the feast continuing without you.
When he finally pulls away, you feel the loss of him like a physical ache. His seed runs warm down your thighs, and you remain bent over the table, trembling, unable to trust your legs to hold you upright. The silk of your gown falls back into place, but it feels foreign now—like a costume you've forgotten how to wear.
Behind you, you hear him adjusting his clothing, the soft rustle of fabric and leather. When you finally turn, he's watching you with an expression you can't read. His hair is disheveled, his doublet wrinkled, but he looks entirely too composed for what just transpired.
"Look at you," he says, voice softer now but no less intense. "Thoroughly ruined."
You straighten slowly, wincing at the pleasant ache between your legs, at the wetness still cooling on your thighs. You should feel shame. You should feel used. Instead, you feel claimed in a way that satisfies something primal inside you.
"Is that what you wanted?" you ask, smoothing your gown with hands that still tremble slightly. "To ruin me?"
His smile is slow, almost tender. "I wanted to remind you."
"Of what?" You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away.
"That she may touch my arm, but you..." He steps closer, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "You have parts of me no one else will ever know."
The gentleness is almost more unsettling than his roughness. You lean into his touch despite yourself, your body still singing with the aftershocks of what he's done to you.
"And tomorrow?" you ask. "When the court gathers again? When other ladies bat their lashes and reach for you?"
His thumb traces along your cheekbone. "Tomorrow you'll sit at that table knowing my seed is still inside you. Knowing these bruises came from my mouth." His voice drops to a whisper. "Knowing that while they dream of having me, you already do."
The arrogance should infuriate you. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat through your core. You can feel him there still—the stretch, the fullness, the evidence of his claim slowly seeping from your body.
"You're insufferable," you tell him, but there's no venom in it.
“Nyke āōhon,” he says.
I am yours.
Not teasing. Not smug. Just truth, laid bare between your breaths.
The words settle like ash on your skin, weightless and hot. Your pulse stirs again, though you are already wrecked. You study his face—how the usual sharpness has faded from his eyes, how the heat still coils beneath it, steady and sure.
"You say that now," you murmur. "But what happens when another lady reaches for you tomorrow night?"
He doesn’t look away. "She won’t."
"And if she does?"
"Then she'll lose her hand."
You blink once.
He says it like a fact. Like a weather report. Like something he's already decided.
There is no jest in his voice. No grin. Just quiet certainty, as if the notion of any other woman touching him is not only offensive but punishable. Permanently.
You should find it absurd. You don’t.
Not when your body still aches from how he claimed you. Not when his seed is still inside you, warm and thick and unmistakably his. Not when the bruises blooming along your hips match the span of his hands. Evidence, all of it. Proof you don’t need to ask for.
His hand rests on your hip, fingers slow, possessive.
“Let them look,” he says. “Let them wonder. You’ll already know.”
You don’t answer him.
Not with words.
Instead, your fingers trail down to where his hand rests on your hip. You curl yours around his wrist and pull it away—not roughly, just firmly. A silent correction.
His eyes flick up. Curious. Intrigued. He doesn’t resist.
You rise from the table, slowly, your skirts settling uneven around your legs, the fabric rumpled and half-undone from what he already did to you. Your body aches in places only he knows, but you stand tall anyway.
You take two steps back, crossing the chamber without looking at him. You don’t need to. You can feel his eyes on you like a second skin.
You stop at the edge of the couch. Pause. Let the quiet thicken.
Then you look back over your shoulder.
“Well?” you say. “Will you sit, or must I make you?”
His mouth twitches. That flicker of a smile. He crosses the room without a word and lets you push him back into the cushions, one palm on his chest.
You climb onto his lap before he can settle. Hike your skirts up. Settle your weight on him slow, deliberate, like you’re daring him to move.
He exhales through his nose, sharp and amused.
“Is this a game to you?” he murmurs.
You lean in until your mouth brushes his ear.
“No,” you whisper. “This is a reminder.”
Then you rock your hips against his, and whatever clever thing he was about to say dies on his tongue.
He hardens beneath you almost instantly, his body responding even as his breath catches. You feel him through the fabric of his breeches—thick and wanting already, as if what happened moments ago was merely an appetizer.
"Again?" His voice is rougher now, strained. "So soon?"
You don't answer with words. Instead you grind down against him, slow and deliberate, letting him feel the heat of you through the layers between. His hands come up to grip your waist, fingers digging into silk and flesh.
"Greedy little thing," he breathes, but there's admiration in it. Hunger.
You can feel his seed still slick between your thighs as you move against him, the evidence of his earlier claim making each roll of your hips smoother, more provocative. The knowledge that you're marked by him, filled by him, sends fresh heat spiraling through your belly.
"You like knowing you've marked me," you say, hands sliding up his chest to rest against his throat. "That I'll carry part of you inside me for days."
His pupils dilate at your words, at the press of your fingers against his pulse. "Yes," he admits without shame.
You lean closer, lips brushing his jaw. "Then you'll understand why I need to mark you too."
Before he can respond, you bite down on the tender skin just below his ear—not gently, not teasingly, but with enough force to leave an impression. He jerks beneath you, a sharp intake of breath, and you feel him grow harder still.
"The court will see that," he says, but there's no protest in his voice. If anything, he sounds pleased.
"Good." You pull back to meet his gaze. "Let them wonder who gave it to you."
His hands flex against your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above bone. "You think I'll let you brand me so easily?" There's challenge in his tone, but his body betrays him—the rigid length beneath you pulses with each heartbeat.
"I think you already have," you murmur, tracing the mark blooming red against his throat. "I think you want everyone to see it."
He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the violet of his irises nearly swallowed by black. "Perhaps I do."
You work at the laces of his breeches, fingers nimble despite the tremor of desire running through them. He lifts his hips slightly to help you, a silent acquiescence that makes your power over him feel both fragile and absolute.
When you free him, he's already fully hard again, the head glistening with evidence of his arousal.
His breath stutters when you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once from base to tip with deliberate slowness. The sound he makes is half growl, half plea—a crack in that carefully maintained composure that makes satisfaction bloom warm in your chest.
"Look at me," you command softly.
His eyes snap to yours, violet fire and desperate hunger. You hold his gaze as you position yourself above him, feeling him hot and hard against your entrance. The wetness between your thighs—his seed mixed with your own arousal—makes the first brush of contact electric.
You sink down onto him slowly, taking him inch by torturous inch until you're fully seated in his lap. The stretch burns sweetly, your body still tender from before, but the feeling of being filled by him again makes you moan despite yourself.
"Seven hells," he breathes, head falling back against the cushions. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't try to control your pace. Not yet.
You begin to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles that make him twitch inside you. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, but you keep your rhythm measured, controlled.
You begin to move, rising up until only the tip of him remains inside before sinking back down with agonizing slowness. Each motion draws fresh sounds from him—quiet gasps and bitten-off curses that make your own arousal spike higher. The power is intoxicating, watching the Rogue Prince reduced to trembling need beneath you.
His breathing grows ragged as you continue your torturous pace, lifting yourself almost completely off him before sinking back down with maddening slowness. You can see the effort it takes him not to thrust up into you, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.
His jaw clenches as you take your time, hands fisting in the silk of your skirts where they pool around his waist. You can see the effort it costs him to remain still, to let you dictate the rhythm when every line of his body screams for more.
"Patient, aren't you?" you murmur, trailing your fingertips down his chest. "I never thought I'd see the day."
His laugh is strained, breathless. "Don't mistake restraint for patience, sweet girl."
You lean forward, letting your lips hover just above his. "And what should I mistake it for?"
"Strategy," he says, voice rough. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your gown. "I'm letting you have your moment."
You raise an eyebrow, rocking your hips just enough to make his breath catch. "My moment?"
His smile is sharp-edged even as pleasure makes his voice thick. "You think you're in control because you're on top. Because I'm letting you set the pace." His thumbs trace higher, finding your nipples through the silk and circling them with maddening lightness. "But we both know who taught you to move like this."
The touch sends heat spiraling through you, but you don't let it break your rhythm. If anything, you slow further, until each rise and fall of your hips becomes an exercise in torture for you both.
"Perhaps," you breathe, "but you're still the one begging."
"Am I begging?" His hands slide to cup your breasts fully now, kneading the soft flesh as his hips finally jerk upward—just once, just enough to bury himself deeper and make you gasp. "Or am I simply enjoying the view?"
His thumb brushes across your nipple again, more firmly this time, and the sensation shoots straight to your core. You can't help the small sound that escapes you, the way your inner muscles clench around him in response. His smile widens, knowing.
"There," he murmurs, "that's what I wanted."
You lean down until your lips brush his ear. "And what about what I want?"
"Tell me," he breathes, his hands sliding to your hips again, fingers digging into flesh.
Instead of dignifying his question with a response, you anchor both palms flat against the solid muscle of his chest and bear down. You ride him in earnest now—none of the earlier coyness or measured pace, nothing calculated in your thrusts save raw hunger. Each downward stroke impales you on his cock, driving him impossibly deeper, until every inch of you is stretched and claimed and rendered wholly, ruthlessly his. The sensation is ferocious. It wrings sharp little cries from your lips that you cannot stifle, a symphony of surrender and defiance all at once.
The sound as your hips meet is obscene. Wet, rhythmic, an endless collision punctuated by the slap of flesh and the rasp of your breath. Somewhere below you the velvet cushions squawk and creak in protest beneath the violence of your movements, somewhere above you is only the hot blur of your own need and the violet fire of his gaze. He stares up at you as if he wants to memorize every twitch and tremor, as if your pleasure is the only thing in the world that matters—even as his own self-control unravels by degrees beneath your hands.
Then that control snaps altogether.
With a guttural sound, Daemon surges upward without warning. He wraps one arm around your waist, hard and unyielding as a steel band, crushing your body flush against his. The other hand slides into your hair at the nape and fists it tight, yanking your head back to bare the column of your neck. Before you can so much as gasp, his mouth is on your throat, hot and seeking.
“Mine,” he rasps against skin gone feverish beneath his tongue. Then he bites—not playfully but with primal intent—at the place where neck meets shoulder. It’s a sharp burst of pain that vaults straight into pleasure, he worries at it with teeth and tongue until you feel blood surely just beneath the surface, until tears spring to your eyes and you have to clutch at his shoulders to hold yourself together.
You dig your fingernails through his doublet with such force that you’re surprised not to draw blood yourself. The pressure only goads him onward. Beneath you, Daemon takes command of both rhythm and tempo. He thrusts up into you with brutal precision, using every ounce of strength in those infamous rider’s hips to drive himself deeper still. The new angle makes something inside you catch fire—each movement slamming into that sweet spot inside, making lights flare at the edges of your vision.
You try to keep up with him but it’s hopeless. There’s no pacing this, only helpless submission to sensation so intense it borders on agony. You want to slow down but he won’t let you—he holds you right where he wants you and fucks into you relentlessly until pleasure becomes something desperate and frightening.
He marks you everywhere he can reach—the curve of jaw, hollow of throat, even along collarbone where bruises will flower purple-black by morning—but always returns to that first spot behind your ear. He tongues it between words when he pauses for breath, occasionally he licks at the sweat pooling there as though tasting proof of conquest.
There is no space for pretense or courtly games here now—not when ecstasy burns through both of you like wildfire.
He slows briefly just long enough to slide a hand between your legs again, thumb slicking over where you're joined. Sensation detonates outward from each rough circle until you're gasping nonsense words into his hair—beseeching or cursing him or simply wailing because it’s too much—but still he doesn’t relent.
You never thought yourself capable of begging until now.
"You think you can take control from me?" His voice is a rasp against your ear, his breath hot and damp. "You think I don't see what you're doing?"
Your answer is a moan as he hits that perfect spot again, your body clenching around him involuntarily. His laugh is dark, triumphant.
"There it is," he murmurs.
He shifts beneath you, adjusting your position without breaking his rhythm. The new angle sends sparks shooting up your spine, makes your thighs tremble with the effort to maintain even the illusion of control.
One hand leaves your hip to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with the precise pressure he knows will undo you. The dual assault—his cock driving deep inside while his fingers work their magic—makes your control slip further.
"Daemon," you gasp, the name torn from your throat.
"Say it again," he commands, voice tight with his own building pleasure. "Let me hear you."
"Daemon," you repeat, louder this time, not caring who might hear beyond these walls. His name becomes a chant, a prayer, falling from your lips with each thrust.
The tension coils tighter in your core, your movements growing erratic as you chase your release. He feels it coming—the way your inner walls flutter around him, the catch in your breathing—and doubles his efforts, fingers working faster against your swollen flesh.
"Come for me," he growls, the words vibrating against your skin. "Let me feel you break around me."
It's not the command that sends you over the edge but the raw need in his voice—the way he sounds as desperate for your pleasure as you are. Your release crashes through you with such force that your vision blurs at the edges, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. You cry out his name one final time, loud enough that it echoes off the stone walls, a sound that would scandalize the entire court if they heard.
Daemon holds you through it, his rhythm faltering only slightly as your inner walls clench and pulse around him. When you slump against him, trembling and spent, he cradles the back of your head with unexpected tenderness, his lips brushing your temple.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for once there's no calculation in the word—just awe, rough and honest against your skin.
But he's not finished. Even as aftershocks still ripple through you, you feel him growing impossibly harder inside your oversensitive flesh. His hands grip your hips again, lifting and positioning you despite your boneless state.
"Not yet," he breathes, and begins to move again—slower now but no less intense, each thrust deliberate and deep. "I'm not done with you."
You whimper at the overstimulation, your body still singing from your release, but you don't pull away. Instead you let him use you, let him chase his own pleasure while you tremble in his arms. The sensation borders on too much, pleasure and pain blurring together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
His breathing grows ragged against your neck, his movements more urgent. You can feel him swelling inside you as his own release approaches. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks that will mirror the ones already blooming across your skin.
"Look at me," he demands, voice strained with the effort of holding back. When you lift your head, your eyes are glazed with pleasure and exhaustion, but you meet his gaze.
The raw possession in his words sends an unexpected pulse of heat through your oversensitive body. You're still trembling from your own climax, but something deep inside you responds to the hunger in his eyes, the way he watches you like you're the only thing that exists.
His thrusts become erratic, desperate. You feel him pulse inside you once, twice, then his release tears through him with a violence that makes his whole body go rigid beneath you. He pulls you down hard against him as he empties himself, his seed flooding you with liquid heat. A guttural sound escapes his throat—half growl, half prayer—as he holds you motionless, letting every pulse of his release fill you completely once more.
You feel the warmth of him spreading inside you, mixing with what remains from before, marking you in the most primal way possible. His grip on your hips is bruising, desperate, as if he's afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.
When the last tremors fade, you both remain still, breathing hard against each other's skin. The fire has burned lower while you were lost in each other, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Your body feels liquid, boneless, thoroughly claimed in ways that go far deeper than flesh.
"The feast," you murmur eventually, though neither of you makes any move to separate. "They'll notice we're gone."
His laugh rumbles through his chest where you're pressed against him. "Let them notice." His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, possessive even in gentleness. "Let them wonder what kept the Rogue Prince from their tedious company."
You shift slightly in his lap, feeling him still buried deep inside you, and he hisses at the sensation. The movement sends a fresh trickle of his seed down your thighs, a reminder of how thoroughly he's claimed you tonight.
"They'll talk," you say, though you make no effort to move away from him.
"They always talk." His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the tender skin he marked earlier. "The question is whether you care what they say."
You consider this, studying his face in the flickering firelight. His hair is disheveled, silver strands clinging to his damp forehead, and there's a smugness in his expression that should irritate you. Instead, it makes something warm curl in your chest—satisfaction at being the one to unravel his usual composure.
"I stopped caring what they say the moment you first touched me," you admit quietly.
Something shifts in his gaze at your confession—a flicker of surprise, perhaps, or recognition. His thumb continues its gentle stroking along your nape, and for a moment the silence between you feels different. Less charged with conflict, more weighted with understanding.
"Good," he says finally. "Because after tonight, there will be no hiding what you are to me."
You raise an eyebrow. "And what am I to you?"
He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re still asking. Like he’s already told you—flesh to flesh, word to word, again and again until the whole room reeks of it.
His hand curls at your neck, thumb brushing just behind your ear. Slower now. Steadier.
"You’re mine," he says.
The words are simple. Unearned, if they came from anyone else. But they don't. They come from him.
And gods, after tonight, you feel it. In your throat. In your bones. Between your thighs. In the mess you’ll carry with you to the bath tomorrow, and in the way you already dread having to share a room with anyone who dares look at him like they don’t already know.
You breathe in deep and let it out against his shoulder.
His hand stays at your nape. Your body aches in the best way a body can ache. His legs are half spread beneath yours, and he hasn’t moved to pull away. You think he won’t for a while.
has anyone noticed that after the porn ban of 2018 tumblr was essentially killed from the mainstream and everyone flocked to other social media sites like twitter and meta. then those sites got enshittified to where twitter became Nazi Central and meta sites had an entire meme around getting “zucced” aka mark zuckerberg himself would ban you for saying a no-no word like fuck. and then the mainstream shifted to tiktok where infamous toddlerspeak sentences like “he got unalived by a pew pew” were born because if you once again say a no-no word like kill or gun or any other word that isn’t corporate i mean kid friendly then the algorithm will bury your post into the ground. and somehow we’ve come full circle and tumblr is now the most bearable social media site because although we can’t have female presenting nipples we can at least talk to each other like adults. has anyone noticed that at all or is it just me and the flaming skull
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak.
Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED]
Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack)
Word Count: 6.6k
Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD
masterlist
The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.
That was probably your second thought.
Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.
Still.
Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:
He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.
Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.
Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.
At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.
You don’t know how he does it.
It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.
(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)
But instead, you just hum.
And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:
“Can you keep doing this forever?”
Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.
And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.
And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.
Not on purpose.
(Probably?)
(…Definitely.)
Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.
Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)
Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.
(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)
(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)
Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.
It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.
Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-
“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)
“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”
“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.
It doesn’t.
What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-
“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-
“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-
“Sweetheart”.
All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.
The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.
(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)
“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.
Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.
(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)
“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.
All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.
Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-
“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”
And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.
If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.
It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.
So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:
“Could you go lower?”
“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.
Now you’re face-to-face with him.
Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.
Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:
Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)
Still, since profiling is such a complex job –
(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)
so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-
So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.
(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)
(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)
(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)
And apparently, he does.
Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:
“Again?!”
Ah. Yes. Again.
Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.
So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:
Close. The. Curtains.
(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)
But it’s fine. It’s fine.
You fixed it.
You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.
Just the essentials.
Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.
You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)
…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.
You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)
Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.
Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.
Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.
They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.
Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.
And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”
Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.
“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)
“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”
He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.
Fond - yes.
Amused - definetely.
Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.
Veeeery humbling experience.
And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.
“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”
Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.
Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)
You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.
Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.
You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.
Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)
Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.
One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)
Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.
Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).
It’s… a moment.
You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;
It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.
And still, he manages to outdo himself.
Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.
“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”
(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)
“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.
You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”
Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.
He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.
Mouth open. Tongue flat.
You start cursing everything.
Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.
Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.
Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.
Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.
He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.
Then again. And again.
Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.
Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.
(Thank God.)
“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.
You were so fucking wrong.
His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.
It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.
“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.
He fucks you with it.
Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.
You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.
The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-
“Aaron- Aaron, please-”
Not your best work. Not ideal.
You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.
But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.
(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)
You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.
(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)
He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.
And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.
The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…
…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.
Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).
(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)
So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.
That first stretch.
That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”
(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)
You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.
“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”
He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.
And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.
(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)
“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.
(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)
(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)
(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)
(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)
(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)
(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)
“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.
Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.
He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”
Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.
White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.
(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)
“Do you feel it?” he asks.
You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.
Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-
“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”
Wrong answer, apparently.
Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.
(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)
“Lift your hips,” he instructs.
“What-”
“Just do it.”
You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.
(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)
He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.
“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.
“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.
He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.
Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.
You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.
A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.
So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.
(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)
You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.
“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”
You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.
Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”
(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)
“Trying,” you pant.
“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.
He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.
Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.
“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”
“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”
He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”
It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."
Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.
But you never find it. You never find him.
And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)
So instead, you settle. Again.
You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.
And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)
He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.
That’s the reason.
(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)
(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”
“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”
“Here where?”
“Shut up.”
Another slap.
Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)
“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”
You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.
“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)
He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.
“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.
You’re not really in the conditions to answer.
Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-
“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”
And oh… you feel it.
The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”
His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.
And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.
The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-
It almost slips out.
That thing.
The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.
“F-fuck, Aaron-”
“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat
You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.
Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.
He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.
He doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.
His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.
Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.
"You're okay,"
"Got you,"
"So good, baby..."
Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.
Your chest hurts.
Because he means it.
He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.
“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”
He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.
You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”
You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.
“Please don’t call anyone.”
These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.
But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?
The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.
You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.
You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.
Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.
“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”
Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.
Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.
“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”
He shakes his head - fond. Touched.
Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.
He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.
You watch in awe.
Reverence.
…Horniness.
So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.
“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.
Occasionally hums.
If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.
Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.
He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.
Which is immediately suspicious.
You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.
Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.
Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.
Not even the question. He’s already answered it.
He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.
Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)
(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)
And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.
He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.
“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”
summary: Merlin knows that he didn't even have to lift a finger because Y/N Black would always choose Severus Snape in a heartbeat
words: 11.3k
────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─
Severus Snape sat in the stands, his black eyes fixed on the emerald blur darting across the sky. Y/N Black, his best friend, was captaining the Slytherin Quidditch team for the second year in a row, and as their Seeker, she was ruthless—fast, strategic, and relentless.
He knew her well enough to see past the composed mask she always wore. The way she clenched the handle of her broom just a little tighter and the sharpness in her turns. She wanted to win and she wanted it badly.
Sirius Black, her older brother and his tormentor, was in the Gryffindor stands, shouting her name in a mix of taunts and encouragement.
The contrast between them was stark.
While Sirius played for Gryffindor’s team with reckless, cocky confidence, Y/N’s approach was different. She was focused, calculating, and played to win rather than to show off.
Snape wasn’t usually one for Quidditch, but he had never missed a match she played in. He would never admit it, but watching her chase the Snitch, defying gravity with a smirk on her lips, was one of the few things that made Hogwarts bearable.
A flash of gold appeared near the Gryffindor goalposts, and without hesitation, Y/N shot forward, her broom slicing through the air. Snape leaned forward instinctively, heart pounding despite himself.
“Come on, Black,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the fabric of his robes as she closed in on the Snitch.
The Gryffindor Seeker, a wiry seventh-year, was just a few feet behind her, pushing his broom to its limit. But Y/N was faster. Snape had seen her fly countless times, had even watched her practice in secret when she thought no one was looking.
He knew her style. She didn’t lunge blindly for the Snitch. She was patient, calculated.
And then, just when it seemed like the Gryffindor Seeker might overtake her, she swerved at the last second, forcing him to adjust. That split-second hesitation was all she needed.
With a sharp dive, she stretched out her gloved hand, her fingers closing around the Snitch.
The stadium erupted into noise, but Snape barely heard any of it. His eyes were locked on Y/N as she straightened up, wind whipping through her hair, her triumphant smirk unmistakable even from a distance. She held the Snitch high as the Slytherin stands exploded in cheers.
Across the pitch, Sirius Black groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Bloody hell, Y/N! You’re supposed to be a Gryffindor at heart!” he yelled, though there was a grudging sort of pride in his voice.
Y/N turned her broom sharply toward the Gryffindor stands and, without missing a beat, flipped her older brother off.
Severus let out a rare chuckle, shaking his head.
That was Y/N Black. She was unapologetic, sharp-tongued, and effortlessly brilliant.
He found himself smirking as she landed, her teammates swarming her in celebration.
Part of him wanted to go down there, to congratulate her before the rest of Slytherin stole her attention. But instead, he simply watched from his spot in the stands, arms crossed, as she basked in her victory. She didn’t need his words to know he was proud. She would just know.
As Y/N landed, her teammates swarmed her, shouting, clapping her on the back, and ruffling her hair. She barely acknowledged them, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd instead.
Then, without a word, she pushed past them.
“Oi, where’s she going?” one of the Chasers muttered.
“She’s probably off to rub it in her brother’s face,” another laughed.
But they were wrong.
Y/N wasn’t heading for Sirius. She wasn’t even acknowledging the rest of Slytherin’s celebration.
She was walking straight toward the stands, straight toward him.
Severus Snape sat frozen for a moment, his arms still crossed, before hurriedly schooling his expression back into indifference. His heartbeat, however, betrayed him.
Y/N reached him, standing just in front of where he sat, her broom still clutched in one hand, the Snitch resting in the other. She tilted her head at him, her smirk sharp and teasing.
“You gonna congratulate me, or are you too busy sulking about whatever it is that you sulk about?” she taunted, breathless from the match.
Snape rolled his eyes. “As if I care about Quidditch.”
Y/N scoffed. “Oh, please. I saw you watching me.”
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You always do.”
Severus’s grip on his robes tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You fly like an idiot. One wrong move, and you could’ve broken your neck.”
“Ah, so you were worried,” she teased, grinning.
“Hardly,” he muttered, but there was no venom behind it.
Y/N studied him for a moment before extending her hand, the one holding the Snitch. His brow furrowed in confusion as she placed it in his palm.
“A souvenir,” she said, shrugging. “For sitting through an entire match just for me.”
Severus stared at the Snitch in his hand, then back at her. His fingers curled around the cool metal, and for once, he didn’t have a sharp remark ready.
Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Come on, Snape. Walk with me before the team kidnaps me for some over-the-top victory party.”
And just like that, she turned, expecting him to follow.
With a sigh, one that was far too fond for his liking, Severus tucked the Snitch into his pocket and stood, trailing after her.
As they walked away from the roaring Slytherin crowd, Severus fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his robes. The Snitch sat in his pocket, its tiny wings twitching now and then, but he ignored it.
Y/N strode forward with that effortless confidence of hers, broom over one shoulder, head held high like she owned the castle. And in some ways, she did.
She was a Black, a Slytherin, a bloody brilliant Seeker. Everyone either admired her, feared her, or wanted to be her.
And yet, here she was. Choosing to spend her post-victory moment with him.
They reached a quieter corridor, the distant cheers fading behind them. Y/N finally exhaled, tilting her head back against the cool stone wall. “Merlin, I thought that match would never end.”
“You made quick work of it,” Severus muttered, leaning beside her. “Wasn’t even a challenge, was it?”
She smirked, eyes glinting. “Not even close.” Then, nudging him with her elbow, she added, “You enjoyed it, admit it.”
He scoffed. “I tolerated it.”
Y/N rolled her eyes but let it slide. Instead, she turned to him fully, studying him with an unreadable expression.
“You know,” she mused, “you’re the only one I actually wanted to talk to after that match.”
Severus swallowed, caught off guard. “Why?”
“Because you don’t treat me like I’m some bloody trophy,” she said simply.
“Everyone else is off celebrating me—but you just… I don’t know.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “You see me. Not just the captain, or the Seeker, or ‘Sirius Black’s little sister.’ Just me.”
Severus felt his throat go dry. He looked away, unsure what to say to that.
Y/N didn’t push him for an answer. Instead, she grinned, leaning closer. “So, since you’re such a dedicated fan now, you coming to my next match?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I must.”
She laughed. It was bright, unapologetic, and it was the kind of laugh that made even his cold, guarded heart warm just a little.
“You must.”
Y/N pushed open the door to an empty classroom, stepping inside like she owned the place. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the stone walls, the only sound the faint echo of the ongoing celebration down in the dungeons.
Severus followed, closing the door behind them. “Skipping the victory party entirely, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Y/N tossed her broom onto an abandoned desk and hopped up onto another, swinging her legs.
“Please. If I stay any longer, they’ll shove Firewhisky down my throat and make me listen to Mulciber’s tragic attempts at flirting.” She smirked. “I’d rather be here.”
Severus leaned against the opposite desk, arms crossed. “With me?”
“With you.” Her voice was softer now, less teasing.
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked down, pulling the Snitch from his pocket and watching it twitch in his palm.
Y/N’s eyes flicked to it. “Like it?”
Severus huffed. “You forced it on me.”
She tilted her head. “But you haven’t given it back.”
He hesitated, fingers tightening around the Snitch. The truth was, he liked having it. A reminder that, out of everyone in that bloody Quidditch pitch, she had chosen him to share her moment with.
Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with his silence. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Rolling his eyes, Severus flicked his wand at the candles, dimming them slightly. The atmosphere shifted into a quieter and more intimate setting. The usual playful edge between them softened, replaced with something unspoken but heavy in the air.
She watched him carefully, then sighed, leaning back on her hands.
“You know, for someone who ‘doesn’t care about Quidditch,’ you sure looked invested today.”
Severus exhaled sharply.
“I wasn’t invested—”
“You were leaning forward in the stands.”
“I was watching.”
“You muttered something under your breath when I went for the Snitch.”
“That doesn’t—”
“You were worried about me.” Her voice was light, teasing, but there was something searching in her gaze.
Severus clenched his jaw. “…You could have broken your neck.”
Y/N’s smirk faltered just slightly. “But I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
She studied him for a long moment, then hopped down from the desk, stepping closer.
“Sev.” Her voice was softer now, almost careful. “You do care.”
He swallowed hard. It was infuriating, the way she could see right through him.
“…You’re so annoying,” he muttered.
She grinned. “And you love it.”
Severus refused to dignify that with a response, but he didn’t move away when she plucked the Snitch from his hand, rolling it between her fingers before throwing it back at him. Severus put it back in his pocket.
Silence settled between them, warm and heavy.
After a moment, Y/N smirked. “So, since we’re skipping the party, what do you suggest we do?”
Severus glanced at her, at the flickering candlelight dancing in her eyes.
“…Stay here,” he said finally. “Talk. Until they give up looking for you.”
Y/N hummed in approval. “Sounds perfect.”
And so they stayed.
Severus sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed as he fixed Y/N with a sharp look. “Have you even read the new Advanced Potions textbook yet?”
Y/N, who had settled comfortably into the chair beside him, legs draped lazily over one armrest, snorted.
“No, Severus, I thought I’d just wing it on my N.E.W.T.s.”
He sighed dramatically, pulling the book from his bag and flipping through the pages with an irritated sort of reverence. “Then you haven’t noticed the absurd number of errors in it.”
Y/N quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Errors? In the Slughorn-approved textbook?”
Severus scoffed. “Slughorn wouldn’t notice an error if it exploded in his face. Which, frankly, some of these might.”
He jabbed at a particular page with his finger. “Here. Draught of Living Death. Ridiculous instructions. If you follow them as written, the potion will be unstable and potentially lethal.”
Y/N leaned forward, peering at the text. “It says to stir counterclockwise seven times.”
“Exactly.” He flipped a few more pages aggressively. “And this one—Babbling Beverage? Why in Merlin’s name would they suggest stewing the rat spleens first? That ruins the consistency completely.”
Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”
Severus paused, caught off guard. His fingers, which had been poised to flip to yet another grievous offense, hesitated over the pages.
“…It’s logical,” he said finally, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Precise. Potions do what they’re supposed to if you follow the right process.”
Y/N studied him, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, she reached out and plucked the book from his hands.
“Oi—”
“Relax, Sev,” she drawled, skimming through the pages. “If you hate this version so much, why don’t you just rewrite it yourself?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You already know what’s wrong with it. Fix it. Make notes, change the instructions, do whatever you do with your creepy little personal experiments.” She smirked.
“Merlin knows you’d probably make a better textbook than this rubbish.”
Severus stared at her, lips parting slightly in surprise.
“…You might actually be onto something,” he admitted.
Y/N laughed, tossing the book back at him. “A rare moment of brilliance, I know.”
He rolled his eyes but tucked the idea away, running his fingers over the cover thoughtfully.
Maybe she was right.
Y/N smirked as she watched Severus flip furiously through the pages of the textbook, muttering to himself.
“This is completely wrong,” he grumbled, tapping the page with the tip of his wand. “They’re telling students to add crushed asphodel before the infusion of wormwood. That completely alters the reaction time. If anything, it weakens the potion instead of enhancing it.”
Y/N continued to rest her chin in her palm, watching him with amusement. “And what would you do instead, Professor Snape?”
Severus shot her a glare, but his irritation was undercut by the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’d start with finely ground asphodel. Not crushed, because consistency matters. Then, let it steep after the wormwood infusion. That way, the properties mix properly instead of counteracting each other like whatever idiot wrote this thinks they should.”
Y/N whistled. “You really do think this book is a personal insult, don’t you?”
“It is an insult,” he snapped, flipping to another page.
“This is supposed to be advanced potion-making, not first-year-level incompetence. Look at this. Elixir to Induce Euphoria. The instructions say to stir clockwise the entire time. That’s idiotic. You need to alternate clockwise and counterclockwise to balance the infusion properly, or it’ll be too volatile.”
Y/N couldn’t help but grin.
There was something fascinating about the way he spoke when he got like this. It was sharp, passionate, as if the entire world should care about potion-making as much as he did.
“I have to say, this is the most passionate I’ve ever seen you about anything that isn’t glaring at my brother.”
Severus sighed dramatically. “If I didn’t have to waste my time dealing with him, I could actually focus on things that matter.”
Y/N chuckled. “So potions matter to you, then?”
He hesitated. “…Obviously.”
She tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully. “Then why don’t you make your own notes? Your own version of the textbook? You know more than half the idiots who’ll be using this, anyway.”
Severus was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the cover. Then, slowly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a battered old notebook, its pages filled with scribbles, corrections, and improvements in his precise, slanted handwriting.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already started, haven’t you?”
Severus cleared his throat, flipping through the notebook as if he hadn’t just been caught red-handed. “I just thought it would be useful to have the right information written down. For myself.”
Y/N smirked. “And for anyone smart enough to steal your book.”
He scoffed. “As if I’d let anyone get their hands on it.”
She grinned. “You’re a genius, Sev. You know that, right?”
He faltered for just a second, gripping the book a little tighter. “…Hardly.”
But Y/N just shook her head, leaning back. “Well, I think so.”
Severus didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either.
Instead, he went right back to ranting about the next mistake in the textbook. This time, something about a disastrous bezoar dosage and Y/N just listened, secretly enjoying every second of it.
Severus was mid-rant about improper bezoar usage when he noticed Y/N staring at him, a slow grin tugging at her lips. Her head still rested on her palm, her elbow propped lazily on the desk, eyes bright with amusement.
He faltered. “What?”
Y/N’s grin widened. “Nothing. Just enjoying the show.”
His brows furrowed. “I’m not performing.”
“You are,” she teased, tapping her fingers against her cheek.
“A very passionate, very angry performance about the dangers of incompetent potion-making. Quite riveting, actually.”
Severus rolled his eyes, closing the textbook with a sharp thud.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, ranting to me instead of to your cauldron in the dungeons,” she pointed out.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the desk. “Because you actually listen.”
Y/N’s expression softened slightly. “Of course, I do.”
A beat of silence passed between them. Severus shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, not used to being looked at like that. Like he was worth listening to.
“…You’re staring,” he muttered.
“Observing,” she corrected.
He scoffed. “And what, exactly, are you observing?”
She tilted her head, studying him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle. “Just that you get this look when you talk about potions.”
He narrowed his eyes. “A look?”
“Mhm,” she hummed, lips curling. “Like the rest of the world disappears, and it’s just you and whatever ridiculous mistake you’re trying to fix.”
Severus hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. He’d never thought about it before. But the way she said it made his chest feel strangely tight.
Y/N smirked at his silence. “It’s kind of nice, you know. Seeing you actually care about something.”
He huffed, looking away. “You make it sound as if I don’t care about anything.”
“Well,” she mused, “besides potions, glaring at Gryffindors, and being thoroughly unimpressed with everyone else…”
She tapped her chin. “No, can’t say I’ve seen you care about much else.”
He shot her a flat look. “Hilarious.”
She grinned. “I try.”
Another pause. The candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the old classroom.
Then, Y/N’s voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “I like when you talk about potions.”
Severus glanced at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone.
Y/N shrugged, still watching him. “It’s nice hearing you talk about something that makes you happy.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came. Because no one had ever said that to him before.
After a moment, he cleared his throat, looking back down at his notebook.
“…It’s not happiness,” he muttered. “It’s just—logic.”
Y/N just smiled knowingly. “If you say so, Sev.”
And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.
Severus sat back against the desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the cover of his notebook.
After a moment, he sighed and said, almost begrudgingly, “You played well today.”
Y/N blinked, then grinned. “Was that a compliment from Severus Snape? Merlin, I must be dreaming.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I definitely will,” she teased, leaning back in her chair. “Go on, say it again. Just so I know I didn’t hallucinate it.”
Severus huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not repeating myself.”
“Pity,” she sighed dramatically. “Would’ve been nice to have it burned into my memory forever.”
He shook his head, but his gaze lingered on her, something softer in his usually sharp eyes.
“You were impressive,” he admitted after a moment. “Even Slughorn wouldn’t stop talking about how Slytherin finally has a proper Seeker.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Slughorn, huh? What about you? Were you impressed?”
Severus scoffed. “I’m always impressed by competency. And considering the rest of the team is mediocre at best, it’s fortunate you know what you’re doing.”
Y/N laughed. “High praise, coming from you.”
He glanced away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It was… entertaining. Watching you completely humiliate Gryffindor.”
Y/N smirked. “So that’s what you enjoyed.”
“Obviously.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, I am the best.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “Now you’re pushing it.”
Y/N only grinned, nudging his knee with her foot. “Admit it, Sev. You liked watching me play.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I admit it, will you finally stop pestering me?”
“Maybe,” she teased.
Severus exhaled, looking at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “…You were good.”
Y/N’s grin widened. “Knew it.”
He shook his head again, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t quite hide the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
Severus pulled his hand from his robe pocket, the small golden Snitch resting in his palm. The tiny wings fluttered weakly against his fingers, as if reluctant to leave his grasp.
“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, holding it out to Y/N.
She looked at it, then at him, and instead of taking it, she just smirked and leaned back in her chair. “Keep it.”
Severus frowned. “What?”
“Keep it,” she repeated, her voice softer this time. “So you’ll always remember me.”
His fingers curled slightly around the Snitch as he processed her words, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “…Why would I need something to remember you by?”
Y/N grinned. “Because, Sev, someday I’ll be famous. Hogwarts’ best Seeker, a legend in the making. And when that happens, you’ll want to say you knew me first.”
He scoffed, but there was no real bite to it.
Severus looked down at the Snitch in his palm, the tiny wings brushing against his skin. He could have argued. He could have insisted she take it back. But instead, he closed his fingers around it and slipped it back into his pocket, letting the weight of it settle against him.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it.”
Y/N smiled. “Good.”
And for the first time that night, Severus didn’t have a single complaint.
The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter, but Severus barely paid it any mind. He sat at the Slytherin table, absently picking at his breakfast, still adjusting to the idea of carrying a Snitch in his pocket. Her Snitch.
And then, like clockwork, Y/N slid into the seat beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Morning, Sev.”
He huffed, not looking up from his plate. “You’re awfully cheerful.”
“I did win a match yesterday,” she reminded him smugly, grabbing a piece of toast. “And, you know, got a very rare compliment from a certain grumpy Potions prodigy.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to regret it.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” She smirked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Did you sleep well? You and your new prized possession, I mean.”
He stiffened slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “It’s just a Snitch.”
“My Snitch,” she corrected, taking a bite of her toast. “Did you put it somewhere safe?”
Severus exhaled through his nose, reaching into his pocket and subtly showing her the small golden sphere resting in his palm before tucking it away again. “Satisfied?”
Y/N grinned. “Very.”
He shook his head, turning his attention back to his breakfast, but he didn’t push her away when she leaned comfortably against him.
Narcissa Black sat gracefully across from them, her sharp blue eyes scanning Y/N with mild curiosity as she stirred her tea.
“You weren’t at the victory party last night.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, one laced with subtle judgment.
Y/N smirked, casually buttering her toast. “Oh, you noticed?”
“Of course, I noticed,” Narcissa replied, arching a perfectly shaped brow.
“You were the star of the match, and yet, no celebratory gloating? No basking in the glory of your own success?”
She tilted her head slightly. “Very unlike you, cousin.”
Severus huffed quietly, hiding his amusement behind his goblet of pumpkin juice.
Y/N shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Narcissa’s eyes flickered between the two of them before landing back on Y/N. “You did disappear rather quickly after the match…”
Y/N smirked. “What can I say? Had better company.” She nudged Severus with her knee under the table, earning an unimpressed glance from him.
Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, her lips curving slightly.
“I see.” She rested her chin on her hand, watching Y/N with something between amusement and suspicion.
“So, instead of celebrating with your adoring fans, you spent your evening somewhere, locked away with Severus.”
Y/N gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand on her chest. “Oh, forgive me, dear cousin, for prioritizing meaningful conversation over drunken debauchery.”
Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Please, you love the attention.”
“True,” Y/N admitted easily. “But I love annoying Sev more.”
Severus scoffed, not looking up from his plate. “How fortunate for me.”
Narcissa observed the two of them for a moment, then smirked. “Well, I do hope he made it worth your while.”
Y/N’s grin was immediate. “Oh, he did.”
Severus stiffened, glaring at her. “Don’t say it like that.”
Narcissa chuckled, sipping her tea. “Interesting choice of company, Y/N.”
Y/N just leaned back, perfectly unbothered. “Best choice, actually.”
Severus didn’t say anything but under the table, his fingers curled around the Snitch in his pocket.
“Anyways…Sirius came looking for you yesterday. Something about introducing you to his best mate, Potter. I think he fancies you,” Narcissa said, her tone light, but her gaze sharp as she watched Y/N’s reaction.
Y/N snorted, tearing off another bite of toast.
“James Potter? Fancies me? Please, Cissy, don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m serious,” Narcissa pressed, twirling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers.
“Sirius wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept saying how he thinks you and Potter would ‘get on brilliantly.’”
Severus, who had been silent up until now, suddenly gripped his fork a little too tightly. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, staring at his plate as if it personally offended him.
Y/N sighed dramatically.
“And yet, somehow, I doubt James Potter would be terribly interested in me, given the way he practically worships Evans.”
Narcissa waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, well, maybe he’s expanding his options. You are the Black everyone actually likes, after all.”
Severus scoffed, finally breaking his silence. “Potter is an arrogant, brainless git. You’d sooner find a Kneazle getting along with a Manticore than have an intelligent conversation with him.”
Y/N smirked at his tone. “Aw, Sev, that almost sounded jealous.”
His scowl deepened. “I don’t get jealous.”
Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Right. And yet, you look like you’re about to hex your plate into oblivion.”
Severus set his fork down with deliberate care, clearly restraining himself. “I simply find it unbelievable that anyone would subject themselves to Potter’s presence willingly.”
Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her elbow.
“Don’t worry, Sev. If I ever lose all sense of self-respect and go anywhere near James Potter, you’ll be the first to know.”
His expression didn’t soften, but the tight grip on his robes loosened ever so slightly.
“See that you don’t,” he muttered.
Narcissa just smiled behind her teacup, watching them both with interest.
“As if Potter has a chance…” Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Did he really think I’d choose him over Severus? He’s literally a bully, just like that Gryffindor of a brother of mine.”
Severus, who had been gripping his goblet a little too tightly, stilled at her words. His dark eyes flickered to her face, searching for any sign that she was joking. But she wasn’t. She had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Narcissa, however, only hummed, looking thoroughly entertained. “Oh? So you are choosing Severus, then?”
Y/N smirked.
“Obviously.”
She leaned into Severus slightly, her shoulder pressing against his. “Why would I waste my time with a Potter when I already have the best company?”
Severus swallowed hard, his face carefully blank but his fingers twitched slightly against the table. He knew better than to read into her words, but for the first time that morning, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.
Narcissa’s smirk widened. “Interesting,” she mused, tilting her head.
“You’re lucky, Severus.”
Severus huffed, finally recovering enough to roll his eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “It is.”
And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.
Narcissa took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk never wavering.
“Well, that settles it, then. I suppose I’ll have to break the tragic news to Potter—he never stood a chance.”
Y/N chuckled. “Oh, please do. And be sure to tell Sirius that I’d rather hex myself than date his insufferable best mate.”
Severus let out a quiet breath, his fingers still curled around his goblet.
“Speaking of your Gryffindor brother,” Narcissa continued, setting her cup down with a soft clink, “he was in quite the mood when I saw him last night. Apparently, he’s rather upset that you’re still spending all your time with Severus instead of ‘better company.’”
Y/N rolled her eyes, stealing a piece of fruit from Severus’ plate.
“Right, because his definition of ‘better company’ consists of Potter and Lupin and that other friend of theirs. No, thanks.”
Severus sneered at the mention of them, his grip on his goblet tightening again. “Black should concern himself with his own miserable existence and stay out of yours.”
Y/N smirked, popping the fruit into her mouth. “Agreed.”
She turned to Severus, nudging him with her knee. “But if he ever tries to drag me to the Gryffindor common room, do me a favor and curse me unconscious, yeah?”
Severus gave her a flat look. “I’d do it regardless.”
Y/N laughed, completely unbothered, while Narcissa shook her head in amusement. “You two are ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Y/N said, resting her head on Severus’ shoulder, “you’re still sitting with us.”
Narcissa merely smirked, watching the way Severus stiffened at the sudden contact, his ears just barely tinged red. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Once Narcissa had finished her tea and had her fun at their expense, she stood gracefully, smoothing out her robes. “Well, I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is.” She shot Y/N a knowing look before glancing at Severus with the same amused expression. “Try not to let her get you into too much trouble, Severus.”
Severus merely scowled, but Y/N grinned. “No promises.”
With a quiet chuckle, Narcissa turned and left the Great Hall, her blonde hair swaying as she went.
The moment she was out of earshot, Severus finally spoke, his voice quieter than before.
“You didn’t have to say that.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”
Severus shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over his pocket where the Snitch still rested.
“That you’d choose me over Potter,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t believe it.
Y/N rolled her eyes, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “But I would.”
He frowned, clearly skeptical. “It’s not a competition.”
“Well, if it were, you’d win.”
Severus looked at her then, really looked at her, as if trying to find the punchline in her words.
But there wasn’t one.
Y/N was being completely serious.
“…Why?” he asked after a beat.
Y/N tilted her head, her gaze softening just a fraction.
“Because I actually like spending time with you, Sev.” She nudged his knee under the table, smirking. “And because you’re my favorite.”
Severus swallowed, looking away as a faint redness dusted his pale cheeks. He wasn’t used to being anyone’s favorite.
“…Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no venom in his voice.
Y/N grinned. “That’s me.”
And for the first time that morning, Severus let himself relax, the weight of the Snitch in his pocket grounding him as he sat beside the only person who had ever truly chosen him.
After finishing breakfast, Y/N and Severus stood from the Slytherin table, grabbing their books and making their way toward the dungeons for Potions class.
Severus walked beside her, his usual scowl in place, but Y/N could tell he wasn’t actually annoyed. If anything, he seemed more thoughtful than usual, his fingers idly drumming against the spine of his Potions textbook.
Y/N bumped her shoulder against his. “What’s with the brooding? Thinking of new ways to make Potter’s life miserable?”
Severus scoffed. “I don’t need to think of new ways. He’s miserable enough just existing.”
Y/N laughed. “That’s fair.”
They arrived at the dimly lit Potions classroom, where students were already filing in. Slughorn, ever the enthusiastic professor, was scribbling today’s instructions on the blackboard.
Y/N and Severus slid into their usual seats at the back, setting their books down.
“Another partnered assignment today,” Y/N observed, glancing at the board. “Think Slughorn will have the audacity to separate us?”
Severus smirked slightly, his dark eyes flickering toward the front of the room. “He wouldn’t dare.”
And, as if proving his point, when Slughorn finally addressed the class, he didn’t even bother reassigning partners.
“Excellent, excellent! You may stay with your current partners,” Slughorn announced. “Today, we’ll be brewing a Draught of Peace! A rather delicate potion. One mistake and it won’t work at all.”
Severus rolled his eyes as Slughorn droned on about the potion’s properties. Y/N, meanwhile, leaned toward him, grinning. “Bet I’ll finish mine before you.”
Severus raised an eyebrow. “You can’t even cut ingredients properly.”
“That’s slander.”
“That’s fact.”
Y/N huffed but still smirked as she flipped open her textbook.
“Fine, Professor Snape, you do all the chopping, and I’ll handle the brewing.”
Severus sighed as if this was the greatest burden in the world, but he didn’t argue. He never did when it came to her.
And so, as the rest of the class struggled, Y/N and Severus worked seamlessly, the usual banter filling the space between them as they brewed yet another flawless potion—together.
As usual, working with Severus was effortless. While other students fumbled with their ingredients, misread instructions, or hesitated over their cauldrons, Y/N and Severus moved like a well-oiled machine.
Severus meticulously chopped the ingredients, his precise, practiced movements ensuring uniform slices. Y/N, despite her usual teasing, took the brewing process seriously, stirring at the exact pace and adding the ingredients only when Severus nodded in approval.
“Steady,” he murmured as she carefully poured in the powdered moonstone.
Y/N smirked. “You act like I’m about to botch the whole thing.”
“Because you would,” he replied dryly.
Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Rude.”
Severus merely shook his head, a rare, almost amused look flickering across his features. “Just keep stirring.”
They continued working, the soft bubbling of their potion filling the space between them. Around them, students groaned in frustration as some had cauldrons emitting faint purple smoke, while others had turned a worrying shade of green.
Slughorn made his way around the room, peering into cauldrons and offering words of encouragement (or, in some cases, looks of deep disappointment). When he reached their station, he beamed.
“Ah, exquisite work, as always!” he declared, clapping his hands together. “Perfect color, perfect consistency. Well done, well done!”
Severus merely inclined his head, while Y/N grinned. “Naturally.”
Slughorn chuckled. “I daresay, the two of you make quite the brilliant team. Perhaps I should have you brewing for me.”
Severus scoffed, but his lips twitched slightly. “I am brilliant. You’re just lucky you sit next to me.”
Slughorn let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you remind me of myself in my youth, Severus! Such confidence, such talent! If you ever have any interest in pursuing Potions beyond Hogwarts, I would be more than happy to offer guidance.”
Severus gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”
Slughorn turned to Y/N. “And you, Miss Black. Remarkable work as well! Though I must say, I’m quite surprised you didn’t celebrate your Quidditch victory last night.”
Y/N shrugged, glancing at Severus briefly. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Slughorn raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, well. More dedicated to your studies, I see! Excellent priorities, my dear.”
He gave them both a final pleased nod before moving on to the next station.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Y/N turned to Severus. “See? Brilliant team.”
Severus exhaled, shaking his head as he began cleaning up their workspace. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late.”
And for the rest of the class, while their classmates struggled, Y/N and Severus sat back, their potion already perfected—just as always.
Severus sat with his quill resting idly between his fingers, his gaze flickering between his parchment and Y/N as she leaned over to copy his notes.
She didn’t even bother asking anymore. She just slid his notebook closer, turned her own to a blank page, and began copying down his meticulous handwriting with lazy, fluid strokes.
Severus should have been irritated. Should have snapped at her to take her own notes, to pay attention instead of relying on him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he watched as she absentmindedly chewed the end of her quill, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. A few strands of her dark hair fell forward, brushing against the parchment, and every so often, she tapped her fingers against the desk in an offbeat rhythm.
She had done this a hundred times before. Stealing his notes, ignoring her own half-written ones, leaning just a little too close without realizing it. But for some reason, today, Severus couldn’t look away.
“Sev,” Y/N suddenly said, not looking up, still writing.
He blinked, straightening slightly. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
His grip on his quill tightened. “No, I’m not.”
Y/N smirked, finally glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “You are.”
Severus scoffed, shifting in his seat, his expression settling back into its usual scowl. “You’re copying my notes. I’m simply making sure you don’t ruin them with your atrocious handwriting.”
Y/N gasped in mock offense, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.
“Atrocious? Excuse me, I happen to have flawless handwriting.”
Severus snatched his notebook back, flipping it shut.
“It’s a disgrace.”
Y/N laughed, resting her chin on her palm as she gazed at him, entirely unbothered. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep taking notes for me forever.”
Severus rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched slightly. It was just enough for Y/N to catch.
─ ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ──────────
The Slytherin common room was quiet that night, the usual chatter of students fading as most had either gone to bed or were off doing Merlin-knows-what in the castle. The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit space, casting long shadows across the stone walls.
Severus and Y/N sat side by side on the emerald-green sofa closest to the fireplace, books open on their laps.
Well, Severus was reading. Y/N was halfheartedly flipping through her textbook, occasionally tapping her fingers against the spine, clearly bored.
After a few minutes of silence, she let out a dramatic sigh, tilting her head to look at him.
“Sev.”
He didn’t look up from his book. “What?”
“I’m bored.”
Severus exhaled sharply, still not looking at her.
“Then go to bed.”
Y/N ignored that completely and shifted to rest her head against his shoulder.
“Nah. This is fine.”
Severus stiffened for half a second before forcing himself to relax. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, leaning against him like it was the most natural thing in the world, but it always caught him off guard.
“You’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes still on his book.
“I’m existing,” she corrected, smirking against his shoulder.
“Exactly.”
Y/N chuckled, and the sound was warm, familiar. She didn’t move away, though, and after a moment, Severus found himself leaning into it.
They sat like that for a while, the only sounds being the flickering of the fire and the occasional turn of a page.
“I’m stealing your notes again tomorrow.”
Severus sighed, closing his book. “Of course you are.”
And when she smiled, drowsy and content, Severus simply shook his head.
The common room grew quieter as the fire burned lower, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Severus had long since stopped reading, though his book remained open in his lap.
Y/N had gone still beside him, her head slipping from his shoulder. He glanced down just in time to see her shift, curling up slightly as her head now resting against his lap.
Severus tensed.
His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid as if moving even an inch would somehow wake her. But Y/N didn’t stir. She simply exhaled softly, her face peaceful, her arms tucked beneath her head as she settled deeper against him.
For a long moment, Severus just stared.
Her hair spilled over his robes, the firelight casting a warm glow on her features.
She looked… comfortable. Completely at ease.
He should wake her up. Tell her to go to bed.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he swallowed hard and carefully set his book aside. His fingers twitched as if debating whether or not to move, to touch her, but he quickly clenched them into fists, keeping them at his sides.
Merlin, she was infuriating.
Did she even realize what she did to him? How she invaded his space so easily, so effortlessly, like she belonged there?
Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to lean back against the sofa. He couldn’t (wouldn’t) wake her.
Not when she looked like that.
So, instead, he sat there, unmoving, his heartbeat entirely too loud in his ears. And as the fire crackled beside him, Severus Snape did something he never allowed himself to do.
He let himself enjoy the moment.
Severus hesitated. His fingers hovered just above Y/N’s hair, as if touching her would shatter the quiet, fragile peace of the moment.
But she was there, asleep on his lap, her breathing slow and even. The firelight cast soft golden hues across her skin, making her seem almost unreal like something delicate and untouchable.
Severus exhaled, then, before he could think better of it, finally let his fingers brush against her hair.
It was soft. Softer than he expected. His movements were tentative at first, barely there, but when she didn’t stir but simply nestled deeper against him, he let himself continue.
He didn’t know why he did it. He had never been one for tenderness, never the type to comfort or soothe. But with Y/N, it felt natural.
His fingers threaded through her hair again, and his breath caught when she shifted slightly, a faint hum escaping her lips.
Severus stilled, his heart hammering against his ribs. But Y/N only sighed in her sleep, her body relaxing further against him.
His hand lingered for just a moment longer before he withdrew it, resting it tensely on the armrest.
This was dangerous.
She was dangerous.
Because if she kept doing this, kept looking at him like that, touching him like it meant something, falling asleep on him like he was someone safe, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he didn’t want her.
And that terrified him more than anything.
────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─
The wind was crisp as Y/N and Severus made their way down the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, the chatter of students filling the air.
It had been a few weeks since that night in the common room—since Y/N had unknowingly ruined Severus with her presence, her warmth, the feeling of her hair slipping through his fingers.
And now, here they were, walking side by side, the snow crunching beneath their feet as Y/N tugged on his sleeve.
“Come on, Sev,” she said, linking her arm through his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You walk so slowly.”
Severus stiffened at the contact, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second.
She was touching him again.
And not just touching but rather clinging. As if she belonged there. As if she didn’t even have to think about it.
Y/N didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, though. She simply grinned, leaning slightly into his side as they made their way toward Honeydukes.
“I don’t know why you even agreed to come,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. “You hate sweets.”
“I don’t hate them,” Severus muttered, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, pretending that the warmth of her arm against his wasn’t distracting him.
“I just don’t see the point in wasting my money on sugar when I could buy something useful.”
Because Y/N was still holding onto him, and Merlin help him, he liked it.
The second they stepped inside Honeydukes, Y/N all but dragged Severus through the shop, pointing at various sweets with an excited grin.
“Oh, you have to try these,” she said, grabbing a handful of Chocolate Frogs.
“And these—” She tossed a few Sugar Quills into her basket.
“Oh! And definitely these.”
Severus sighed, crossing his arms as she piled more and more sweets into her basket.
“You do realize I never asked for any of this.”
Y/N grinned, completely unfazed. “That’s the best part. You don’t have to ask. I just know what you need.”
Severus scoffed. “And what exactly do I need?”
“Sugar.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “I—”
Before he could finish, Y/N grabbed a small chocolate and unwrapped it. Then, before he could protest, she held it up to his lips.
“Open,” she ordered.
Severus stared at her, unimpressed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.” She wiggled the chocolate in front of his face. “Come on, Sev. Humor me.”
Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
And yet…
He begrudgingly parted his lips just enough for her to pop the chocolate into his mouth.
Y/N beamed.
“See? Not so bad, right?” she teased, watching him closely.
Severus chewed, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “It’s fine.”
Y/N gasped. “Fine? This is premium chocolate, Severus. Premium.”
Severus just shook his head, swallowing the chocolate. “Idiot.”
Severus sighed, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. But when Y/N lifted the next treat to his lips, he didn’t resist.
By the time they left Honeydukes, Y/N had practically stuffed half a dozen different sweets into Severus’ mouth. Each time grinning triumphantly whenever he reluctantly accepted them.
Now, as they strolled back through Hogsmeade, Y/N happily munching on a Sugar Quill, Severus still tasted the remnants of chocolate and caramel on his tongue.
“I don’t know why you’re acting like you hated it,” Y/N teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “You ate everything I gave you.”
Severus shot her a flat look.
“You shoved it in my mouth. What was I supposed to do? Spit it out?”
Y/N smirked. “You could’ve said no.”
Severus scoffed. “Like you’d listen.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the cold winter air crisp against their skin.
Then, suddenly, Y/N stopped in front of a small tea shop, peering through the frosted windows. “Oh, let’s go in here for a bit. It’s freezing.”
Severus followed her gaze, immediately recognizing the shop. Madam Puddifoot’s.
His face twisted in disgust. “Absolutely not.”
Y/N turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because,” Severus muttered, glaring at the couples visible through the window, “this is practically a breeding ground for lovesick imbeciles.”
Y/N burst out laughing. “You would say that.”
Severus crossed his arms. “I refuse to set foot in there.”
Y/N, still grinning, hummed thoughtfully. “Alright. How about The Three Broomsticks instead?”
Severus hesitated, eyeing her warily. “And what’s the catch?”
Y/N linked her arm through his again, smirking. “No catch. Just butterbeer. And maybe, maybe, I’ll stop feeding you sweets for the day.”
Severus exhaled through his nose, pretending to be completely unaffected by the way she clung to him so easily.
“…Fine.”
Y/N beamed. “Good choice, Sev.”
And just like that, she pulled him along once more, her arm still wrapped around his.
The Three Broomsticks was warm and bustling with students escaping the cold. As soon as they stepped inside, Y/N led Severus toward a small table near the corner, away from the loudest groups.
She let go of his arm (much to his dismay, though he’d never admit it) and slid into her seat.
“I’ll order for us,” she declared before he could argue, already making her way to the counter.
Severus sighed, rubbing his temples. He should’ve known letting her drag him here would mean losing every battle.
A few minutes later, Y/N returned with two steaming mugs of butterbeer, setting one in front of him.
“There,” she said proudly, sliding into her seat. “A drink and a break from my relentless generosity. You should be thanking me.”
Severus rolled his eyes but accepted the mug anyway. “I didn’t ask for your generosity in the first place.”
Y/N smirked. “Quit your whining, Snape.”
Severus huffed but took a sip of his butterbeer. It was warm, sweet, and undeniably comforting, not that he’d ever say that out loud.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the tavern settling over them. Every now and then, Severus found himself watching her like how her fingers curled around her mug, how she tapped her nails idly against the wood, how her lips pursed slightly as she took a sip.
It was maddening.
She was maddening.
Y/N suddenly looked up, catching him mid-stare.
Severus immediately looked away, clearing his throat.
“What?” he muttered.
Y/N tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You were staring.”
Severus scoffed. “I was not.”
“Liar.” She grinned, leaning forward slightly. “See something you like, Sev?”
Severus choked on his butterbeer.
Y/N burst into laughter, her eyes shining with amusement as he coughed into his sleeve.
Severus opened his mouth but before he could, a familiar voice interrupted them.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Y/N turned in her seat, her smile vanishing as she spotted the person standing beside their table.
Sirius Black.
And behind him—Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew.
Severus clenched his jaw, already bracing himself.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, little sister,” Sirius drawled, his lips curled in amusement. “And with him, no less.”
Potter elbowed him. “Guess she has questionable taste.”
Severus scowled, but before he could snap back, Y/N spoke first.
“If you came all this way just to be annoying, then congratulations, you’ve succeeded,” she said flatly, leaning back in her chair.
Sirius chuckled. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You could be sitting with anyone—and yet, here you are, stuck with old Snivellus.”
Severus’ fists clenched under the table, his face carefully blank.
Y/N, however, just laughed.
“You’re so predictable, Sirius,” she said, shaking her head.
“You think I care what you lot think?” She gestured between them lazily.
“If I wanted to sit with idiots, I’d let you all join us. But I’d rather not lose brain cells, thanks.”
Sirius raised his brows, clearly surprised by her sharpness.
Lupin sighed, giving her a wary look. “Y/N, you really don’t—”
“I do,” she interrupted, her tone unwavering. “Now, if you don’t mind, we were in the middle of something.”
Sirius scoffed, but Potter pulled at his sleeve. “Leave it, mate. Let her sit with her pet snake if she wants.”
Y/N’s eyes flashed dangerously. “At least he’s not an arrogant, self-obsessed git,” she shot back.
Potter’s smug expression faltered.
Sirius let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t realize you hated us that much.”
Y/N crossed her arms. “I don’t. But I hate this. The way you always think you can tell me what to do. Who to be around.”
“Sirius… I’m not you,” she murmured. “I never was.”
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned to leave, pausing only once. “Don’t come crying to me when he betrays you.”
With that, he walked away, the others trailing behind him.
A heavy silence hung in the air.
Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “Merlin.”
Severus, who had been deadly quiet through the entire exchange, finally spoke.
“…Why did you do that?”
Y/N looked at him, confused. “Do what?”
“Defend me,” he muttered, his voice oddly unreadable. “Against them.”
Y/N frowned. “Severus, I’d defend you against anyone.”
The words were so simple, so obvious to her. But to him…
Severus stared at her, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.
And then, slowly he reached for his mug again, taking a long sip of butterbeer to cover the unbearable warmth spreading through his chest.
“…You’re an idiot,” he muttered.
Y/N grinned. “Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”
Severus scoffed, rolling his eyes.
But he didn’t argue.
Severus watched as Y/N slumped back in her chair, exhaling a tired sigh.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Y/N twirled the handle of her butterbeer mug between her fingers, her gaze distant.
“I was just thinking…” She hesitated, then let out a humorless chuckle. “I wonder how long I have before my father pushes me to some pureblood boy.”
Severus stiffened.
Her words settled between them, heavy and unspoken.
It wasn’t surprising, really. It was expected for someone like Y/N, from a prestigious family like the Blacks. Arranged marriages, strategic unions, keeping the bloodline pure.
But no lie, the thought of Y/N being forced into a life she didn’t want, with someone she didn’t choose made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
He swallowed, his voice carefully neutral. “…Do you have anyone in mind?”
Y/N scoffed. “As if it’ll matter. It’s not like I’ll get a choice.”
She tapped her nails against the table, sighing again. “I’m sure my father already has someone lined up. Probably some arrogant pureblood twat who thinks he owns the world.”
Severus’ grip on his mug tightened. Of course he does.
“You don’t have to do it,” he said quietly.
Y/N gave him a knowing look. “You know that’s not how it works, Sev.”
He clenched his jaw. Of course it isn’t.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, with a wry smile, Y/N nudged his foot under the table.
“Unless you want to marry me, Snape.”
Severus nearly choked on air.
Y/N burst out laughing at his reaction, but there was something in her expression like she was only half joking.
Severus forced himself to breathe.
“You really need to stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” she teased. “Does it make you nervous?”
Severus huffed. “It’s infuriating.”
Y/N grinned. “Good.”
But as she took another sip of her butterbeer, Severus noticed how her fingers curled slightly tighter around the mug. How her smile, bright and teasing as always, didn’t quite reach her eyes.
And he hated that.
Hated that she felt trapped.
Hated that, no matter what she wanted, the world would still try to dictate her fate.
Without thinking, he muttered, “I’d rather it be me than one of them.”
Y/N stilled.
Slowly, she set her mug down, her eyes meeting his.
“What did you just say?”
Severus hesitated. He hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t even realized he’d said it aloud.
But now that he had…He didn’t take it back.
Y/N blinked at him, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no laughter.
Severus exhaled sharply and looked away.
“Forget it.”
Y/N, however, did not forget it.
Instead, she just kept staring at him, something unreadable in her gaze.
Something dangerously close to hope.
Severus’ breath caught in his throat.
He turned to look at her, but Y/N was already staring at him with her eyes unwavering.
“No,” she said, voice quiet but firm.
“Tell me, Severus. Because I swear… if I heard whatever it is that I think I heard, then…”
She swallowed, her fingers curling against the table.
“I’d give it all up.”
Severus’ heart stopped.
For a moment, all he could hear was the low hum of The Three Broomsticks around them—the chatter of students, the clinking of glasses, the distant sound of rain beginning to drizzle outside.
But right now, none of it mattered.
Not when she was looking at him like that.
Like he was something worth choosing.
Severus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak.
“Y/N… don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” she challenged, leaning closer.
“Because it’s impossible? Because you think I wouldn’t do it?” Her voice softened, gaze searching his.
“Because you don’t want me to?”
Severus clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.
Of course he wanted her to.
But she was a Black. She had a future already planned—one that had nothing to do with him.
But then, she was here.
Offering, choosing him, despite it all.
“Y/N… if you say something like that, you can’t take it back.”
Y/N gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to.”
Severus hated how much that affected him.
Because the truth was—if things were different, if the world wasn’t what it was…
He’d choose her, too.
Slowly, cautiously, he reached across the table, his fingers barely brushing against hers.
“Y/N…” His voice was quiet, unsteady.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
But she only turned her hand over, letting her fingers lace through his.
“Sev,” she murmured, “I do.”
Severus stared at their intertwined fingers, his breath unsteady.
She wasn’t letting go.
Did she understand what she was saying? What she was offering?
Giving up her family’s expectations—for him? Throwing away a life of power, wealth, and status because of a quiet, half-spoken confession he hadn’t even meant to say?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
His grip tightened slightly around her hand, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’d really do that?”
Y/N exhaled, something relieved in her expression.
“I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Severus felt something in his chest ache.
“I don’t want you to regret it,” he murmured.
“I won’t,” she said immediately. “But you have to tell me, Sev… if I gave it all up—my family’s expectations, the stupid arranged marriage—if I walked away from all of it…”
She hesitated, then asked, softer, “Would you want me?”
Severus inhaled sharply.
The answer was yes. Of course it was yes.
But admitting it and saying it aloud would make it real.
And if he let himself have this, let himself believe that someone like her could choose someone like him…
“I—” His voice faltered, thick with something he couldn’t name. “Y/N, this isn’t fair to you.”
Y/N let out a soft, exasperated laugh. “Severus, I’m the one making this choice. And I’d choose you. Every time.”
Severus felt his world tilt.
Every time.
He looked at her then and for the first time in his life, he let himself want.
Slowly, hesitantly, he raised their joined hands, pressing his lips lightly against the back of hers.
It was the smallest, softest thing.
But Y/N inhaled sharply, eyes widening because she knew. She knew what it meant.
Severus pulled away just slightly, his lips barely brushing against her skin as he whispered, “Then I’d choose you, too.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
He held her gaze, his fingers still curled gently around hers, his lips still tingling from where they had touched her skin.
Y/N swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Say it again.”
Severus exhaled shakily. He didn’t need to ask what she meant.
“I’d choose you,” he murmured.
Her grip on his hand tightened, like she was trying to ground herself. And then, without thinking, Y/N surged forward, wrapping her arms around him.
Severus stiffened but only for a second. Because as soon as he processed what was happening, he melted into it.
His arms hesitated before slowly wrapping around her, his hand coming up to rest on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.
She smelled like fresh strawberry milk and ink and something inherently her, something warm and safe and entirely forbidden.
“I meant it, Sev,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I don’t care about any of it. I just—” She pulled back slightly, her hands gripping the front of his robes.
“I want you.”
“Y/N…”
She shook her head.
“No, don’t try to push me away again. You want me too, I know you do. So tell me, Severus Snape—do you want me enough to fight for this?”
He would burn the entire world if it meant keeping her.
His grip on her waist tightened as he exhaled, slow and deliberate.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I’ll fight for it.”
Y/N’s lips parted slightly, eyes searching his. “You mean it?”
Instead of answering, Severus did the one thing he’d never allowed himself to do.
He leaned in, slowly and carefully, giving her a chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
And when their lips finally met, it was soft and tentative, like the two of them were still learning how to have this, how to believe in it.
But then Y/N sighed against his mouth, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer and suddenly, there was nothing hesitant about it.
Severus kissed her like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life and didn’t know if he’d ever get it again.
Because maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe the world would take this from him.
But not today. And maybe not ever.
Today, she was his. Tomorrow, she’ll be his.
Severus tightened his grip on her waist, searching her face as if trying to make sense of her words.
“You know you’ll get disowned for being with a half-blood,” he muttered.
But Y/N only laughed. A soft, amused sound, like the thought of it didn’t bother her in the slightest.
“At least my mother would have the pleasure of blasting my face off that stupid family tree,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She’s been dying to do it for years, anyway.”
Severus frowned. “Y/N—”
“No, Sev.” She reached up, brushing a strand of his dark hair away from his face.
“I mean it. My family doesn’t control me. Not my mother, not my father, not Sirius—no one.” Her voice softened as she cupped his cheek.
“I choose you.”
Severus inhaled sharply.
He had spent his whole life being a second choice. An afterthought. Someone people tolerated but never chose.
But Y/N… she wasn’t hesitating.
“Do you know what you’re saying?” he whispered, barely trusting his voice.
Y/N smiled. Smirked, actually. “I do.”
She leaned closer, eyes flickering between his lips and his gaze.
“Now, are you going to keep questioning my life choices, or are you going to kiss me again?”
Severus let out something between a sigh and a laugh before giving in.
He kissed her.
And this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Because, for once in his life, someone had chosen him.
As if she hadn’t just turned his world upside down, Y/N pulled away, settled comfortably beside him, and asked,
“So, tell me about that new potion you were working on.”
Severus blinked. “What?”
She smirked. “You were ranting about it last week, remember? Something about stabilizing the Wolfsbane formula? I was listening, you know.”
Severus stared at her, still reeling from everything that had just happened. The kiss, the way she had chosen him so effortlessly. And now, she was acting like it was just another normal afternoon between them.
But that was Y/N Black. She had always been like this. Unshaken. Unbothered. Acting like she hadn’t just kissed him like she meant it.
And Merlin help him, but Severus loved that about her.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
Y/N just grinned.
Severus rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Fine. If you must know…” He turned slightly, getting into his usual lecture mode. “The problem with the Wolfsbane Potion is its volatility when stored improperly. The key is stabilizing the aconite concentration without diminishing its effects—”
And just like always, Y/N listened.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in quiet interest, and let him speak.
And for the first time in his life, Severus felt like someone truly wanted to hear what he had to say.
They had been deep in conversation—Severus explaining the intricacies of potion stabilization, his voice passionate, his hands gesturing slightly as he spoke.
And then, out of nowhere, he said—
“And did you know, for the longest time, I have had my eyes on you and you don’t even realize that I’m so in love with you.”
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.
She turned to him, eyes wide, searching his face for any hint that he was joking. But Severus was dead serious.
His dark eyes held hers, unwavering, like he had needed to say it. Like it had been clawing at him for years. And for once, he didn’t look like he regretted speaking.
Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again, completely caught off guard.
“You—” She let out a breathless laugh.
“You just say things like that in the middle of a potions discussion?”
Severus smirked slightly, but his voice was softer when he said, “I suppose I do.”
Y/N shook her head in disbelief, a grin tugging at her lips. “Sev—”
“I mean it.” His fingers twitched where they rested against the table.
“I have for a long time.”
Y/N’s chest ached.
Slowly, she reached over, threading her fingers through his.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m so in love with you, too.”
Something in Severus’ expression softened.
He squeezed her hand.
“Good,” he murmured.
Severus furrowed his brows as Y/N suddenly pulled away, tilting her head at him with a knowing smirk.
“Where’s my Snitch, Sev?” she asked.
Severus hesitated for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his robes, fingers brushing against the small, familiar golden ball. He had carried it with him every day since she gave it to him, unwilling to part with something so hers.
Wordlessly, he handed it back.
Y/N took it with a quiet hum, running her fingers over the cool metal before pressing it open with ease.
Severus watched as the delicate wings fluttered, revealing a small folded note inside. His stomach tightened—he had never opened it before. He hadn’t even realized there was something inside.
Y/N didn’t say anything. She simply pulled out the note, unfolded it, and turned it around for him to see.
Severus’ breath hitched.
There, in her familiar handwriting, were three simple words:
“I choose you, Severus Snape.”
His heart stopped.
And then it raced.
His lips parted slightly as he stared at her, eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation.
But she only smiled, pressing the Snitch back into his palm.
“Keep it for me, won’t you?” she murmured.
Severus swallowed hard, fingers curling tightly around the Snitch, holding onto it like a lifeline.
He had never been given something so precious before.
PLEASEEEE MORE POSSESSIVE JELOUS DRACO🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️YOUR BAD SANTA FIC WAS LITERALLY EVEYTHING. POSSESSIVE MEN GOT ME WEAK
thank you for the request!! hope this is satisfactory 🫶🏻
Flutterby Baby | D.M.
feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader
SUMMARY: Draco finds out another student sabotaged your Herbology project.
CW: MDNI 18+, smut, draco’s pov, established relationship, possessive!draco, bullying, hurt/comfort, men suck, sort of rough fingering & piv, affectionate degradation if you squint (he refers to her as a plant), blood/fighting
masterlist
Draco watched as you pushed your pasta around your plate, staring absently at the whirls of sauce on the porcelain. You’d been quiet the entire meal, only speaking when directly spoken to by your group of friends, and even then, it was half-hearted, brief answers.
Both were unusual for his talkative, carb-loving girl.
He placed a light hand on your thigh, leaning closer to you. The warmth of your skin, the sweetness of your perfume, beckoned him even closer, but he ignored his impulses. “Everything alright, darling?” He asked, low enough that your friends couldn’t hear.
“Yes, just not very hungry,” you said in your pretty little voice, placing your hand over his and pecking his cheek.
He didn’t buy it. “I can track down some takeaway and we can eat in my dorm, if you’d like,” he offered, wondering if the commotion in the Great Hall was a bit too much for you.
You shook your head, another stunning development. You never turned down takeaway. “I’m fine, baby. Thank you, though.”
“Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll make one of these sod’s fetch it for you,” he teased, hoping to get a smile out of you. He didn’t.
Draco sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning back to the conversation he was in the middle of with Theo and Pansy. He continued to watch you in his periphery as you started to play with his fingers, twirling his signet ring around and around. As much as he enjoyed the mindless contact, the delicate brush of your skin, he knew this was a nervous habit of yours.
He had half-a-thought to excuse you both, but he knew that would only draw more attention to your melancholy state, which would likely make you feel even worse. He could pick your brain later. Right now, he needed to make sure you were fed.
Casually, he picked up his fork, twirling a bit of his own pasta around the tines. Without breaking away from his conversation, he held the fork up to you, hoping you’d take a bite without really thinking about it. It was a small ritual the two of you developed during lengthy family dinners, something you often did automatically if he offered food to you. He felt you shift forward, your mouth wrap around the small bite, and you ate it.
He squeezed your thigh, a flare of affection making his heart pound. Good girl, he thought, but refrained from saying aloud.
The rest of dinner continued like that, Draco keeping your friends talking and distracted while he fed you small bites of his own dinner, your fingers twined with his in your lap. When he held up a bite and you gave small shake of your head, he knew it was because you were actually full, and he set his fork down, satisfied. For now.
That night in the common room, you were curled up in your chair by the fire, a book open in your lap while everyone pretended to study around you. He watched your eyes, your hands curled around the cover, and you were motionless. No pages turned, no lines devoured.
His worry deepened. Blaise seemed to notice as well, and gave him a curious look, dark brow raised. And of course, Theo caught the exchange, but turned back to his work, pretending he didn’t.
A prickle of suspicion climbed Draco’s neck. Typically, Theo was the first one to make a fuss over someone being in a sour mood due to his inability to tolerate negative emotions, but this time, he stayed silent.
Very odd, indeed.
But he could worry about Theo later. Draco lifted himself from the couch and walked over to you, dropping onto the floor in front of your chair. He tilted his head back, resting it against your shins. You reached down, dragging your fingers through his hair while you continued “reading” your book. He let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and tried to think of a way to draw you out of your head.
Lips pressed against his forehead, your perfume wafting over him, and he hummed in appreciation, reaching up to cradle your face. You leaned your cheek into his palm, and he titled his head back a little further to connect your lips in a soft kiss.
Your lips moved against his, brief and tender, and some of his tension unwound. It didn’t seem that you were upset with him, which was a relief. But, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what exactly was troubling you.
“I’m going to go to bed,” you murmured in his ear, and he blinked in surprise, checking his watch.
It wasn’t even nine o’clock.
“So early, love? Are you feeling alright?” He turned to face you, rising to his knees. The group noticed, but he was too concerned to care. He placed the back of his hand on your forehead, your cheek, your neck, but you waved him away.
“I’m fine, D. Just tired,” you said, averting your eyes from his and rising from your chair.
“Baby—”
You leaned down and kissed him again, cutting off his protest. “I love you, I’ll see you in the morning,” you said, pecking his cheek one more time before walking towards the girls dormitory and ascending the stairs.
Draco slumped back to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“What did you do to her?” Pansy accused after a moment of tense silence.
“Nothing,” he snapped, though it was mostly toothless.
“She was acting strangely at dinner too,” Blaise noted. “She didn’t even have dessert.”
“Yeah, and she loves those chocolate things—what are they called?” Theo chimed in.
“Cauldron cakes,” Draco answered, glaring at them, irked that they were paying that close of attention to you. That was his job.
“Are you going to follow her?” Blaise asked, glancing at the stairs.
“No, he should give her some space,” Pansy said, giving him a pointed look.
“I’m perfectly capable of managing my girlfriend’s needs. Thank you,” he bit, and they fell quiet. He would leave you be, for now, but if you were still in a funk tomorrow evening, he’d be forced to intervene.
You were decidedly still unlike yourself come the following morning, and when he saw you during your shared Potion’s class. He continued to monitor the situation, trying to be patient like you often asked him to be, but that went out the window when you returned from your Herbology class with Theo in tears.
As soon as Draco saw your red and puffy eyes, he was on his feet. You ran straight into his chest, burying your wet face in his robes and digging your chilled hands into his back, trembling as your tears returned in earnest.
“Darling, what’s happened? What’s going on?” He cooed, wrapping his arms around your shaking torso, petting your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, just held him tighter as you cried.
Theo tried to slip around the two of you, but Draco pinned him with a glare.
“What happened?” Draco hissed at him.
“Her Flutterby bush is dying,” Theo whispered, and you started to cry harder.
Shit. You’d slaved half the semester over this Flutterby bush in Herbology, it was your pride and joy, and you often stayed after hours with Professor Sprout to tend to it and the rest of the greenhouse. You had the greenest thumb Draco had ever encountered, and that plant was your baby. There was no way it would just suddenly die.
Draco raised a brow, and Theo made a ‘tell you later’ face. He nodded his head to dismiss his friend and turned his attention back to you, his poor, sensitive girl.
“Baby, it’s going to be alright. I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s going on—”
You shook you head. “It doesn’t make sense,” you sniffled, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It was perfectly fine. There’s no bugs or blights, I don’t understand.” You lifted your face, cheeks streaked with tears and lashes spikey, your eyes rimmed with red. The state of you made his heart ache.
“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs and pressing a kiss to your nose. “If anyone can save it, you can. You’re brilliant, love.” He used his sleeve to wipe your eyes and your nose before bundling you into his side. “Come on, relax for a bit with Pansy. That’ll help you think a little more clearly, yeah?”
You nodded, letting him deposit you on the couch beside your friend, who immediately abandoned what she was doing to fuss over you.
He kissed the top of your head, satisfied that you were well looked after for the time being. “I love you, I’ll be right back, okay?” He murmured, and you nodded again.
Theo was waiting for him in the hall. “Okay, so don’t get mad,” he said, holding his hands up.
Draco’s anger instantly flared. “Don’t give me a reason to get mad then.”
“She told me not to tell you because she knew you’d get all—” Theo gestured vaguely at Draco. “All…this.”
“Out with it, Nott,” he growled, fully prepared to punch his best friends nose through the back of his skull. What could you possibly want to keep from him?
“We think someone poisoned her plant,” Theo said, grimacing.
Draco froze, rage flaring so suddenly it darkened his vision. “What?” he snarled.
“We can’t say for sure yet,” Theo said hurriedly, trying to get ahead of the oncoming storm. “But there’s this one guy—”
“Who?”
“Reinhardt? Renfield? Something like that, I don’t know, he’s a Gryffindor. But he—Draco, where are you going?”
Draco was already halfway down the hall, formulating a plan in his mind about how to find this guy, and how to make him wish he’d never been born.
Theo grabbed his shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea than storming the Gryffindor common room,” he said, and Draco paused.
“Go on.”
Draco loitered outside the Greenhouse, hidden by some trees, a stupid plastic ear in his hand. Theo had the other tucked into his robes, and Draco could hear Sprout beginning her lecture through their connection.
Draco sighed. This was ridiculous, he should just waltz in there and figure out exactly who this—
“Hey, y/n,” he heard someone mutter, an unfamiliar male voice, and he immediately held up the ear to listen. “Flutterby’s not lookin’ so good. Maybe I could help clear away some of the dead stuff?”
Draco's ears started ringing so loudly, he almost missed your response.
“I'm killing it just fine on my own, Renley, I don't need any assistance from you.”
He heard Theo snicker in the background, and Draco smiled. Atta girl.
“My mandrakes are thriving, thank you,” Renley replied, his voice tight with indignation. “It's a real shame about yours, though. Probably would have gotten you top marks.”
You didn't respond, and Draco gripped a tree branch to stop himself from charging through the glass to get this audacious fucker.
“Fuck off, Renford,” Theo warned, the feed clouded by his robes rustling.
“It's Renley,” the prick corrected, his voice a little louder, and Draco could practically hear Theo roll his eyes. “So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? Oh, this fucker was a dead man walking. “I'm willing to stay after and help you out. I'm good with poisons—”
“Poison’s?” You asked, a snarky lilt to your voice, and Draco loosed a relieved exhale despite the implication. For the first time in days, you sounded like yourself. “Who said anything about poison?”
“Oh, I—uh—”
“Reindeer, how did you know her plant was poisoned?” Theo prodded, his smirk audible.
“I don't! It's obv—it’s probably not p-poison!” Renley stammered.
“What's this about poison?” Sprout interrupted at the same moment Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle emerged from the treeline.
“Check fucking mate,” Draco mouthed, grinning.
“Professor Sprout, I do believe Renley here just confessed to poisoning y/n’s beloved Flutterby bush,” Theo said.
“Is this true, dearie?” Sprout asked you.
“Yes ma’am, it explains the strange phenomena we noted, as well as the sudden nature of the ailment. Renley’s been taunting me for days, and finally his mouth got ahead of his brain,” you said, poised as a Queen, and Draco was so proud of you it hurt.
Sprout gasped. “Mr. Renley! To Dumbledore's office this instant!”
“Crabbe, Goyle, grab him,” Draco ordered, stuffing the ear into his robes.
The two of them lumbered over the door, staying out of sight until the culprit stepped out into the sunlight, and Goyle grabbed Renley by the shoulders and started to drag him back around the Greenhouse.
“Hey! What the fuck—” his words pinched to a strangled whine when he saw Draco and Blaise waiting a few feet away, arms folded over their chests, completely hidden from the rest of campus.
Goyle shoved him to the ground at Draco's feet, and the coward was already sniveling.
Draco crouched down, nose to nose with the fucker that made his girl miserable, and smiled. “Was it worth it, Renley?” Draco asked, his voice low.
“Look, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—”
Draco didn't give him a chance to finish his paltry excuse and cocked his fist back, slamming his knuckles square in the side of his jaw. The bone crunched under his fist, sending Renley flying sideways in a spray of spit and blood, and Draco rose, clenching and unclenching his aching hand.
Normally, he'd step back and let the others get their hands dirty, but you were his girl. And if anyone was going to defend your honor, it would be him.
“No, no please!” Renley begged when Goyle hauled him back up. Draco punched him again, dead on the nose, then the temple, then the sternum. Goyle let Renley fall, groveling and weeping as blood ran down his face, his eyes already half-swollen shut.
Draco grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head up so he could whisper in his ear. “You're lucky it wasn't poison,” he snarled, and dropped Renley’s head into the dirt. “Leave him on the front steps of the castle,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately pulled the boy up and started dragging him back towards the castle.
Blaise chuckled. “That was fucking brutal, mate.”
Draco looked down at his bruised and bloody knuckles, the pain bright and deliciously satisfying, his signet ring splattered with red. “Like I said, he's lucky I didn't decide to poison him.”
The chatter of students filled the air, and he looked up to see the Greenhouse emptying. Theo headed straight for them, glancing at Draco's knuckles and the blood in the grass before breaking out in a wild grin.
“Sorry I missed it,” Theo laughed.
“Where is she?” Draco asked.
“Staying behind to administer the antidote. Sprout is leaving her to ensure Renley is dealt with accordingly.”
“Well, she certainly won't be disappointed,” Blaise snickered.
“So she’s alone?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. He was hoping to clean himself up before seeing you, but wasn't sure he could resist the temptation. Not with his blood still running hot and your smart little voice echoing in his mind.
“Yep.” Theo smirked. “See ya’ back in the common room.” He and Blaise turned and started heading back to the castle, leaving Draco alone.
He rounded the greenhouse, knocking with his sore knuckles so he didn't startle you.
“Draco? What are you—saints, your hands!” You cried, rushing over to open the door for him. You grabbed for his hands, face pinched with worry.
“I'm fine, love,” he cooed, letting you fuss. The air in the greenhouse was thick and warm, coaxing him in like a embrace. It smelled fresh and lush, sweet soil and green leaves, like you.
Merlin, he couldn't think straight with you looking at him like that.
“Who did—” you paused, eyes narrowing. “Renley?”
He smirked. “Maybe.”
“Draco!” You huffed, dropping his hands. “I had it under control!”
“I know you did! You were amazing! I just...accelerated the consequences.”
You glared at him, but he could see you softening by the second.
“Baby, I'm fine. And he'll be fine in like, four to five business days.”
“Draco!” You shouted, but you were smiling. He fucking loved what you called his name in that exasperated but undeniably affectionate voice. “You don't have to get involved all the time. I'm perfectly capable of fighting my own battles, and Professor Sprout was working with me to solve it and—”
Draco reached out, pinching your cheeks with one hand, pursing your pouting lips and dragging you closer to him. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat. No one fucks with you so long as I'm breathing, is that clear?”
You nodded, eyes round and sweet like honey.
He released your face, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and craning your head upwards. “Can I kiss you now? Or would you like to keep telling me off?”
You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a playful, smiley kiss. “Anything for my hero.”
“Anything?” Draco purred, walking you back into the long work table. You gasped, arching against his chest, and he caught the sound with another kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you.
Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his tie to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it.
And he could feel how much you loved it, your hips pressing against his as your hands wandered his chest, unable to pick a resting place.
He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he spun you around. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself, your perfect ass pressing back against his rapidly hardening cock.
“Draco,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him.
He tsked, sliding up your skirt, admiring the way his ruined knuckles looked against the soft flesh. “Do you want me to be gentle with you, darling?” He already knew what your answer would be, especially after a few stressful days, but he felt inclined to double check.
You shook your head side to side, pressing your ass back into his hands. “No.”
He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “That's my girl. You want me to scare away all those bad thoughts? Turn your brain off for a bit?” He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties.
You nodded, nails scratching along the wood when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle.
“Words, love,” he said, pausing his movement.
“Yes, baby. Please,” you whined, and his cock gave a painful lurch against his thigh.
“Colloportus,” he murmured, flicking his wand to lock the Greenhouse door. “Don't move,” he ordered, then walked over to the sink, washing the blood from his hands and muttering a quiet episkey to fix most of the damage on his skin. Some cuts remained, and his hands were still sore and slightly bruised, but it wasn't nearly as bad.
Satisfied, he turned his attention back to you, where you remained perfectly still, nibbling at your lower lip. In quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fall around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest against the table.
“There we go,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs.
You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly.
“Better, darling? Nothing to worry about besides being my good girl.” He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, his signet ring kissing your entrance before he curled his finger up. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out, only to graciously stretch for him when he added a second.
“Fuck, D,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand. “You said you wouldn't be gentle “
He smirked, enraptured with the way your pretty little cunt yielded for his battered hand. “Just so pretty,” he hummed, leaning down to whisper in your ear, pressing you harder against the table. “Can't help but worship you a little.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but he slammed his fingers inside of you, drilling into your channel with sloppy, punishing strokes. You cried out, feet sliding around on the floor, but he had you pinned and at his mercy.
“This better, brat?” He growled, nipping at your ear when you keened for him, unable to formulate a response. “Oh, how that fucker wishes he could see you now,” he drawled, straightening while his fingers fucked into you. “What'd he call you? Sweetheart?” He chuckled. “Sweet doesn't begin to cover it.”
“How did you—”
He slipped his fingers out to work your clit, the bud swelling under his touch as your orgasm built, and your words twisted into a moan. He tried to stay focused, keep you on the edge until he was sheathed inside of you, but couldn't bring himself to stop just yet.
“Are you sweet, baby?” He asked, swatting your ass cheek, enjoying the way your flesh rippled.
“Only for you,” you gasped, starting to tremble as that knot wound tighter and tighter.
“That's right,” he praised, undoing his trousers and taking his cock in his hand. He was insanely hard, the head a deep pink, pearly precum beading from the slit. He pumped himself twice to relieve some of the ache, then notched himself at your entrance, not pausing his assault on your clit for a moment. “All fucking mine,” he growled at the same moment he thrust inside of you, burying himself to the hilt.
You cried out, muscles contracting hard around him, and he groaned low in his throat. You were so fucking tight, gooey and supple when you weren't squeezing the life out of him. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your ass cheek in his free hand to keep you spread for him as he pounded into you.
He felt your orgasm hit the second before you did, your cunt clamping down on him a heartbeat before you screamed, your whole body locking up before going completely limp. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook, how much you begged. Your tears left damp spots on the wood, your knees trying to buckle inwards, but he planted his feet on the inside of yours, forcing you to stay upright.
“Good fucking girl,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back. “Doing so well for me, sweet thing.” He was panting, the heat of the greenhouse coupled with the exterior making sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. His knuckles burned from the salt, hands ached from being used long past when they should have been bandaged, but he didn't give a single fuck.
“Draco, shit—fuck me so good.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis.
“Give me one more, baby. I know you can. Then I'll water my favorite plant.”
Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled. You were such a little freak, his little freak, and he loved you all the more it.
“You like being my pretty little houseplant? All mine to take care of?” Fuck, he was close, rambling in an attempt to distract himself and spend just a little longer in the delicious heat of your body.
“Yes, yes—fuck!” You were coming again, your whole body convusling as it ripped through you, and he was done for. He came with a yell, hips stuttering against your ass as he pumped rope after rope of release into your spasming cunt.
“Bloody hell, baby,” he moaned, bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, poor thing, were left drooling and trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “Did so good, love. So fucking perfect,” he murmured, throat tight with affection.
“Squishin’ me,” you giggled, squirming beneath him, and he straightened, nearly toppling over himself at the weak feeling in his knees.
“Sorry, darling,” he chuckled, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on trembling arms. He moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.
“Mm, how did you know he called me sweetheart?” You asked, peeking over your shoulder at him while he grabbed his wand to clean you both up.
“I have my methods,” he replied, righting your clothes and helping you stand up, relishing in the lingering tremble in your limbs.
“Were you spying on me, Draco Malfoy?” You teased, tugging him down by the tie so you were face to face.
He smirked. “Perhaps.”
“What a horrible invasion of privacy,” you snickered, giving him a playful peck.
“You want to punish me for it?” He nipped at your lower lip and you grinned, pushing lightly on his chest.
“Enough you, I have to administer the antidote before my plant gets any sicker.”
“Good thing I already cured mine,” he teased, and you swatted him before slipping out of his arms.
“You're insufferable.”
“And you're adorable.”
You grabbed some items from the shelves and a watering can, then paused, turning to look at him, a deadly serious look on your face. “Can we get takeaway after this?”
He snorted, his heart doing a giddy little flip. “Of course we can.”
