Hi becca! Hope you’re doing so so good, my fav Hotch fic writer <3
I was thinking about a spare key to Aaron getting to know reader more seriously as in her meeting Jack and Jack deciding she’s either going to be his dad’s girlfriend or his girlfriend. Maybe fluff with a bit of fun? I adore the idea of Jack keeping Aaron away from her because she’s his and not his dad’s. Thank you very much! I love your yap posts
Hi anon! THANK YOUUU!!!! I'm doing great so far. My semester just started back up today.
The first time Hotch decided he was ready to let you meet Jack, it was supposed to be a low-key Saturday afternoon at the park close to their apartment. Hotch had been nervous about it for weeks as he mulled over the idea day after day after day. He couldn’t hide you from his son forever. Jack was a smart kid and would figure out soon enough that his dad wasn’t on cases every time he disappeared for the night, and he got to have a sleepover at Jessica’s or a friend’s house.
Hotch was more nervous than you'd ever heard him be when you called while he was away on cases—where the team was running out of time—as he mentioned the idea of meeting his son. Of course, only if you wanted to.
Jessica was already at the park with Jack, waiting for the two of you to arrive so you could tag her out. Hotch kept adjusting his watch, glancing at you in the passenger seat like he was checking for visible anxiety on your face, but if anything, you were jittery with excitement.
"You sure you're ready?" he asked for the third time as he pulled into the parking lot right outside the park.
You reached over the middle console and squeezed his arm gently. "Baby, I've been dating you for six months now. I've met your team. I've survived Rossi's weird cooking classes, where you’re not even allowed to drink the wine. I think I can handle a seven-year-old boy, who was raised by a man I love very much and I know to be a great role model."
He gave you the smallest smile as he calmed down a little bit from your words. "Jack's... different. He’s lost so much already, and I can’t bear for him to lose anything or anyone else. I need to know that you’re in it and can handle his opinions on everything, because he’s got a lot."
You laughed. "Well, so do I. We'll get along fine."
Jack was playing on the playground when you arrived, swinging higher than seemed physically possible for someone his size. For a moment, you were sure he would do a 360 swing around the swingset, reaching the ultimate goal of any recess ever.
Hotch called out for him, and Jack hopped off the swing mid-swing as it slowed down a bit. He flew through the air and landed like a tiny superhero on the gravel before sprinting over to where his dad was standing.
"Dad!" Jack barreled into Hotch’s legs, but froze when he noticed you standing there beside him, fingers intertwined as you held his dad’s hand.
Jack’s eyes went wide, flicking between you and his dad like he was solving a riddle too advanced for him.
"Hey, buddy," Hotch said gently, smiling down at his son as he wrapped his free arm around his back. "This is my friend Y/N. Remember I told you about her?"
Jack stared up at you for a very long and serious second. It was almost like you were being interrogated by a mute police officer.
Jack grinned once he had checked you out, missing both front teeth and boundless energy channeled in one little boy's body. "Hi! I'm Jack. You're very pretty." His eyes widened as he greeted you.
You crouched down to meet him at his level, smiling. "Thanks, Jack. You're pretty cool yourself. The way you jumped off the swings was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. I like your Spider-Man shirt by the way."
That was all it took for Jack to fall in love.
Within ten minutes, Jack had decided you belonged to him entirely. Not his dad, him.
It started innocently enough, as most things do when you’re around young children. You were pushing him on the swings, per his request, while Hotch sat on the bench, pretending not to watch with the fondest expression you'd ever seen spread across the man’s face. Hotch had offered to push his son, but Jack had insisted it be you to do it.
He kept calling your name every time the swing went up.
"Y/N! Y/N! Higher!"
You obliged, laughing as he kicked his legs, trying to propel the swing even higher alongside your pushes on his back every time momentum made him return to where you were standing.
Then he started asking questions.
"Do you like dogs?" — "Yes."
"Do you like ice cream?" — "Absolutely."
"Do you like my dad?"
You glanced over at Hotch, who was suddenly very interested in his phone and trying to act as if he hadn’t heard what his son had just asked. "Yeah," you said softly. "I like him a lot. A lot, a lot."
Jack nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. "Good. But you're gonna be my girlfriend."
You blinked, taken aback by his boldness. "Oh? Is that so?"
"Yeah," he said, like it was the most obvious statement ever made. "Dad already has a girlfriend... you. But I don't have one yet. So you can be mine instead."
Hotch choked on a laugh across the playground, trying to figure out how exactly that was going to work. But he was sure his son had an ace up his sleeve regarding the logistics.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. "Jack, honey, I think your dad might want to keep me as his girlfriend. He’s very greedy."
Jack frowned, considering his options. Then put his heels to the ground as the swing reached its lowest point. He slid off the swing once completely stopped and marched over to Hotch, hands on his hips like a tiny prosecutor.
"Dad, you have to share."
Hotch’s eyebrows shot up, pretending to be offended, playing along with whatever game you had just put Jack up to. "Excuse me?"
"You have Y/N. I want Y/N. You gotta share her. It’s not fair that you get her all to yourself!"
You were dying back near the swing set, trying not to laugh, to let on how hilarious you found the whole ordeal. Hotch rubbed his face with one hand, clearly not prepared for this particular negotiation tactic, but to be fair, he had been subjected to a lawyer-like presentation or two when Hotch, on very rare occasions, had taken on the prosecution of an unsub, when he felt it benefited the case.
"Jack," he said carefully, trying not to upset his son, "Y/N is my girlfriend. That means she's special to me, the way Haley was special to me when we were married."
Jack's face fell for half a second, then brightened again, clearly not understanding what his dad was telling him, or being stubborn until he got what he wanted. "Okay. Then I'm gonna be her boyfriend. And you can be... her other boyfriend. But I'm the main one."
You lost it. You had to turn away and pretend to tie your shoe so they wouldn't see you cracking up.
Hotch sighed, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Buddy, relationships don't really work like that."
"Why not?" Jack challenged. "You always say sharing is caring."
Hotch opened his mouth, but quickly closed it again and then looked at you for help. He had taught his son too well. Victim of his own parenting. You just shrugged and grinned at him.
He wasn’t going to win this.
Later, at the ice cream stand, Jack insisted on sitting between you and Hotch on the bench. When Hotch tried to put his arm around your shoulders, Jack immediately scooted closer to you and draped his little arm across your lap like a human seatbelt.
"Dad, no touching," Jack said. "She's mine today." Completely smitten by you, despite only knowing you for a couple of hours.
Hotch stared at his son, then at you, utterly defeated. "This is mutiny."
You leaned over Jack's head and whispered, "Don't worry, I'll still kiss you goodnight."
Jack heard and whipped around. "No kissing! Kissing is for boyfriends!"
Hotch groaned in defeat, dropping his head into his hands, playing along for the sake of his son. He knew you were only fuelling his son’s fire for the sake of staying on Jack’s good side right now. "I regret everything."
But when Jack finally finished his ice cream and ran off to chase pigeons, leaving you and Hotch alone for two glorious minutes, Hotch pulled you closer, pressing you to his chest, and kissed you.
"Thank you," he murmured against your lips. "For being so good with him."
You smiled at him. "He's adorable. And apparently very territorial of strangers."
"Yeah. I think I've been replaced." Hotch chuckled.
"Y/N! Come push me again! Dad can wait his turn!" Jack yelled from across the grass as he ran toward the playground and grabbed the chain of one of the swings.
You laughed, pressing one more quick kiss to Hotch’s cheek before getting up and jogging over.
Hotch just watched, shaking his head with the most helplessly in-love expression.
Later that night, after Jack had finally crashed on the couch mid-movie, curled up against your side ( of course), Hotch carried him to bed. Once he came back, he sat beside you and pulled you into his lap, finally getting you to himself.
"So," he said quietly, "how do you feel about being fought over by two Hotchner men?"
You grinned, looping your arms around his neck. "Honestly? As long as your brother doesn’t show up and fight over me, too. I kind of love it."
He pressed small, tender kisses to your mouth in between grinning at your answer, then rested his forehead against yours. "Good. Because Jack's already planning your next playdate. Apparently, I'm not invited. And don’t worry about Sean, he only comes around when he needs something."
You laughed into his shoulder. "Tell Jack I'll save him a dance at the wedding if you ever decide to put a ring on it."
Hotch pulled back. "Careful. He'll hold you to that."
summary: you’re finally about to sleep with your boyfriend spencer, but for some reason, he can’t seem to stop talking. you shut him up the best way you know how.
genre: fluff, smut-adjacent word count: 0.6k
tags/warnings: glasses!reid, giggly makeout in bed, yapper!spencer, undressing each other, (implied?) dry humping lol, spencer is kinda giving inexperienced vibes, fade-to-black smut, no use of y/n. 18+ MDNI
prompt: here
main event post ༄ whisper week masterlist
You don’t mean to laugh into Spencer’s mouth, but his glasses fog when he exhales and suddenly, you just can’t help it.
“Sorry,” he says, already breathless, pushing them up his nose with the inside of his wrist. “It’s just—there’s a temperature differential and the humidity, it—”
“Spencer.” You tug him back down to you by his tie. “Just kiss me.”
He does, eager and sweet, all soft lips and careful hands. The edge of his frames taps your cheekbone and you grin against him. He pulls back a millimeter.
“Should I—um, glasses off or… I mean, I can see you better when wearing them, which is frankly a very compelling argument for keeping them on, but they’re kind of in the way and at risk of smudging and also—”
“Spence,” you interrupt again sweetly. You slide the glasses off, fold them neatly, and set them on his nightstand. “Problem solved.”
He blinks, wide and adoring. “You’re very blurry,” he confesses. “But somehow still unbelievably attractive.”
“You’re impossible,” you giggle.
His thigh slips between yours and you make a sound you weren’t planning on at the added friction. He goes very still, eyes darting to yours.
“Okay?” he asks. “We can stop or slow down or pause and talk about literally anything, like the physiological and neurological reasons for why you just—”
“Don’t you dare stop,” you interrupt breathlessly as you roll your hips up to meet his. The contact makes his brain temporarily short circuit.
“Oh,” he whimpers. “That’s—uh—so that sound was probably caused by dopamine and norepinephrine and also you, obviously you, and—” He kisses you in the middle of his sentence, like he can’t help it. You fist your fingers in his shirt and pull him closer until you’re chest to chest.
He breaks away to look at you, cheeks pink, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful. Just so…” He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I can’t find a better word than that to describe you with right now. I think you might’ve broken my brain.”
“That word works just fine,” you giggle, tugging the last few buttons of his shirt open. He helps clumsily, and then your top joins his somewhere by the end of the bed. He skims his hands over your stomach like he’s memorizing every inch, slowly, a little stunned.
“I can’t believe this is—I mean, I can believe it, because we’re both here and it’s empirically happening, but also there’s this sense of unreality and I know I’m talking too much but my brain just keeps—”
You kiss him to shut him up. He smiles into it, laughing a little, hips rocking helplessly against you. You bite his lower lip lightly and he makes a sound you want to bottle up and save for a rainy day.
“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, right?” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
“Promise, but I don’t want you to stop.” Your thumb traces the edge of his jaw. “Keep going.”
“Okay,” he whispers. He finds your hand and laces your fingers together, squeezes once, and then you’re moving again — kisses and heat and the soft, breathless kind of giggling that only happens when it’s brand-new and you both know exactly what comes next. Your pants come off, then his, then you’re skin to skin and pushing a lock of hair behind his ear.
He noses at your cheek before bracing himself up on his elbows and looking down at you. “For the record,” he murmurs, “I’m going to find my words again later, and they’ll all be about you.”
“Later,” you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him back down to your lips. “Talk later. Kiss now.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
this ficlet was written for my whisper week 1k celebration event! follow along from September 7-13 for more 🫶🏼
Hii I was wondering if you can do a Spencer Reid x reader one shot where reader gets in a argument with one of the bau members (you can choose which) and so reader storms off but as she does she says “Spencer let’s go” and then he gets up and follows her! I hope that made sense I love you!!
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ IN WHICH spencer is the epitome of a puppy boyfriend
you were absolutely fuming.
standing in the middle of the bullpen, for everyone to see, with your arms crossed defiantly as you talked back to your unit chief. not a very smart decision, you thought, because after years working at the bureau within the BAU, you knew one thing.
do not mess with aaron hotchner.
over time, hotch had become more than just your supervisor. you’d grown fond of his cold puns and rare smiles, that only you knew how to get out of him. words would probably not be enough to describe the relationship you two shared. but he was protective of you, his young protegee with a viper tongue and an outstanding ability to make anyone around feel small - except him, of course.
and you, well… you respected him, with his stoic behaviour and self destructive tendencies when it came to work.
but right now, none of that mattered. your brain was practically boiling and it showed, in the way your knuckles tightened around your profiler badge, and a shade of crimson tinted your face.
usually, spencer liked that color. not that red was his favourite, really, but because when your cheeks blushed, it was his work. the first time you’d kissed, a soft, stolen brush of your lips against his in the file room, the burgundy shirt you wore almost matched the color of your cheeks.
and he loved that.
however, he loathed the situation you were putting yourself into right now. like the feeling of nails on a chalkboard, your voice, usually so sweet and honey-like, made him wince.
“i cannot believe you would let me go in there without a warning !” you shouted, throwing your hands up in the air in frustration, as if you weren’t making fool out of yourself already. “we’re a team. okay ? a team. what kind of unit chief lets their agent do that ?”
hotch didn’t move, didn’t blink. practically unimpressed, his dark eyes looked at you in a way that made you feel small. you felt yourself visibly shrinking back into the little girl whose biggest fear was disappointment, and hated every second of it.
but that didn’t stop you from keeping the show going.
you couldn’t stop the words from coming out. like knives that had been sharpened for years, it felt good to finally attack and use them. but when silence met you in return, you were quick to change your mind.
hotch wasn’t going to crumble down like you did, he was better than that. he’d probably just raise a brow and ask “are you done ?” in a dismissive tone, and you couldn’t handle that. it would be too embarrassing.
so, you turned around and found your boyfriend’s gaze, like an anchor in your surging sea of anger. spencer was an extension of you, your other half. and you couldn’t drag him down like this. embarrassing yourself was enough.
“spencer,“ you called out, your voice still coming out a bit too loud from the outburst. “let’s go”
he perked up, automatically turning around you and trying to ignore the fact that all eyes were on him now.
right then, he was up and following you as you pushed the door of the bullpen open. you shut it a little too forcefully behind the two of you, a last statement that would hopefully hit hotch in some sort of way.
“hey, love,” spencer exhaled, out of breath as he ran after you.
you didn’t say anything, too overwhelmed to get anything out at this point. the empty hallways of the building were cold, and you slowed down to allow him to catch up with you.
with a warm, comforting hand against the small of your back, he walked along in silence. because no matter what happened, spencer would follow you.
summary: when your coworkers discover the ring on your finger, they are immediately driven to ssa hotchner's office to ask him who your husband is.
wc: 0.9k+
A hand on your forehead, deep in thought. Eyebrows furrowed, trying to make out something you had written down in a rush two days ago. Your co-workers, jaws dropped and eyes wide. A ring on your left hand, with the biggest diamond they had every seen. You hadn’t noticed your mistake yet, and they unanimously decided to give you one last moment of peace before chaos would ensue.
Sighing, you brought both your hands down to grip the corners of the paper you were trying to read from, but your attention was attracted to the light catching on your diamond ring. You smiled fondly at the ring on your finger before your eyes widened. Inhaling deeply, you let go of the document in front of you, trying to delicately slide the ring off your finger. Before you could slip it into a safe pocket of your purse, a voice was heard across from you.
“Subtle.”
Your head snapped up at the sound of Derek’s voice. “Good thing no one saw you take that ring off, am I right?” Emily added, dragging her chair closer to Derek. “That would be a disaster.” Added Spencer, leaning on the back of Derek’s chair. You swallowed thickly, at a complete loss for words, your fist gently closing around the beautiful ring. “I… Please don’t tell anyone.” You found yourself begging, but Derek only grinned. “Don’t tell anyone what?”
You froze.
There was no possibility you could ever lie to the person that voice belonged to, so you supposed if you said nothing, you’d be safe. Penelope Garcia walked in front of your desk, looking at you with arms crossed over her chest. You cleared your throat nervously, blinking slowly at the blonde. “I-uh.”
“Put it on, show it to her.”
“Put what on?”
You opened your palm, letting Penelope see the jewellery in your hand. “You’re engaged!?” You opened your mouth, not wanting to betray them any further, but it seemed that your face had revealed enough. “Married?” Spencer whispered, his mouth agape, shocked that you’d hidden a committed relationship for the course of an engagement too.
“Let’s go ask Hotch who it is!” Decided Penelope, prompting Emily and Derek to stand up in unison. “Wait, why Hotch?” “He’s the supervisory special agent. They usually know those details about their agents.” Explained Spencer. “Oh.” Emily and Derek both shot you the same look, squinting their eyes at you suspiciously. “Right, let’s go ask!” You announced, pushing yourself off your chair as you slid your ring back on.
You watched as Penelope, Derek and Spencer walked ahead of you, but Emily stayed back, her hand curling around your wrist. “Hotch?” She whispered. You blankly stared at her, guilt painting your face. “Let’s go ask Hotch.” You repeated.
You pushed past the agents lingering in Hotch’s doorway, moving to sit on the leather couch in his office. Derek and Spencer’s heads moved to watch in astonishment as you slumped on your boss’ sofa, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. “You know, I’m really starting to believe my suspicion is correct.” Noted Derek, before turning back to SSA Hotchner. “What suspicion?” Questioned Penelope.
“What are the five of you doing in here?” Hotch sighed, and you turned your gaze to stare at your lap, distracting yourself from everyone’s stares. “We want to know who y/n’s husband is.” Penelope declared, pointing at you. Hotch slowly turned his attention to you, and you swallowed thickly, shrugging your shoulders. “I forgot to take my ring off this morning.”
As though Hotch forgot he hadn’t been discovered yet, a fond smile made its way onto his face, causing your eyes to widen. “It is him.” Whispered Spencer with horror. “Him like Hotch?” Penelope looked around frantically, watching as you cringed softly, eyes still locked on your boss, sharing a look too intimate for him to only be your boss.
Your husband.
“Hotch is him!?” She shrieked, attracting the attention of JJ, who had been looking for the team, trying to call them up to the conference room. “Hey, what’s going on?” She asked softly, poking her head into the office. “These two traitors are married.” JJ laughed softly, but when no one broke character, she began looking around in confusion. “Wait, seriously?”
“Yes, agent l/n and I are married. Or, agent Hotchner, should I say?" At the squeals that came from your coworkers at the confirmation, he playfully rolled his eyes. "We have been before Prentiss joined this team. Have been in a relationship since before Reid joined. We got engaged somewhere in between.” Penelope screamed at your husband’s confession, her jaw dropping to the floor. “It seems silly to slip up now.” You mumbled, spinning the ring around on your finger. JJ gasped again, moving past her coworkers to get a closer look at the ring on your finger.
“This must have cost a fortune.” She spoke in a gossipy tone, smiling wildly when she looked up at you. “Well, it was less of a fortune back then than it would be now. Inflation. Now everyone get out of my office.”
“Oh! We have a case, by the way.” Your coworkers dispersed into the hallway outside and Hotch travelled across the room, shutting his door closed for a moment alone with you. “I’m sorry, I forgot.” You apologised, bringing up your hands up to rest on Aaron’s abdomen. He tilted his head to the side with a smile, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy you get to wear it now.” “I forgot to take it off after dinner.” You reiterated.
“Well, if I remember correctly, we were quite busy after dinner last night.” You felt your cheeks go hot, and reached over to open the door of Hotch’s office. “Sweetheart?” You looked back at your husband, eyebrows raised expectantly.
genre : office romance, cute and flirty banter, raging about your job, s2 Hotch (no haley for obvious reasons), i pretend to know things about tech, too many references to Jersey Shore
summary : A history of your relationship with Hotch through computer bugs. Or alternatively, Aaron Hotchner v. Technology. Computer print "Hello world!".
notes : in celebration of me finally graduating yayyy!!!
word count : 3.2k
Did you know that we started referring to computer errors as 'bugs' after computer pioneer Rear Admiral Grace Hopper found a literal insect (a moth) causing the Harvard Mark II computer to malfunction in 1947 ?
By now you practically qualify as an entomologist. In the past 3 days, your help has been requested a total of 87 times. Problems ranging from "the Central Processing Unit is letting out smoke" to "I forgot my email password, again".
Agent Eckert from the FBI Academy has started calling you 'The Exterminator'. You almost told him that you're considering a career change to pest control and that your first order of business would be to deal with him. Almost. (Un)Fortunately, years of experience in customer service and dealing with people who should be in a retirement home but aren't, have programmed you to instead say "Good one" with the best 'I'm not about to put in my two weeks' smile you can muster.
But if he keeps calling to ask how to add images in Microsoft Word, you might as well say it. What is he going to do ? Ask to speak to your supervisor ? Please. Your supervisor doesn't know what's going on and doesn't care to.
As far as IT support requests go, the BAU is the least infuriating unit. Current score board :
Dr Reid : 4 requests total. Mostly printer related. The only guy under the age of 50 who still insists on working with paper files. He's nice though. He's the one who told you about the bug story.
Emily Prentiss : 2 requests. One time for software incompatibility issues. Another time because the network wouldn't allow her to google 'Is goth fashion making a comeback ?'
Derek Morgan : 1 request. He only called you because Penelope Garcia wasn't there.
Jennifer Jareau : 2 requests. System overload, both times, from the ungodly amount of files she gets sent.
Jason Gideon : 5 requests. For a senior citizen, he's actually doing pretty good. Although the last time he called you, at exactly 8:21 PM for a log-in issue, he said "I can't believe they have you working this late," sounding all surprised. This obviously irked you. Why do you think I'm still here ? For the fun of it ? It's because of you, Gideon. I have to stand here so you can grumble about computers instead of going back home. Plus he still doesn't remember your name.
Aaron Hotchner : 9 requests. All legitimate to be fair. Maybe his fingers are so thick that he has trouble correctly typing out things on his keyboard. But you suspect that he asks for your help even when he can troubleshoot the issue himself.
Your supervisor wouldn't let you take the day off. Apparently, you're supposed to find someone to cover for you. Isn't that supposed to be his job ? You know, actually supervise ?
So now, as a form of petty retaliation, you're doing the strict minimum amount of work necessary.
"Have you tried turning it on and off?" and "Maybe try clearing your cache?" when you feel like switching things up.
When Hotch calls you 30 minutes before the end of your work day, you don't find it in you to blow him off. He's nice to look at, smells nice and has a nice desk chair he lets you sit on. His problem is simple enough — he deleted a file by accident — so it shouldn't take that much time.
This makes it your 10th trip to his office. On your way there, you fill the most ridiculous mug you can find (it's hot pink, it says 'JERSEY SHORE' on the front and 'GTL' which stands for Gym Tan Laundry on the back. you’re the one who brought it into the office) with plain black coffee.
You knock twice before coming in. Hotch is sitting at his desk. His suit jacket hangs at the back of his chair. The sunlight coming through his office window makes his eyes look like honey. Brown and warm and sweet.
His tie is loosened, well loosened as he much as he can allow himself while still at work (which is not that much). But it's enough to let you study his neck. The skin is a bit red, it almost looks flushed. Probably from how tight his tie was sitting. And probably from how shamelessly you're staring at him.
He stands up and makes his way towards you. You hand him the hot pink coffee mug.
"For you."
He frowns slightly. He obviously looks very… confused by it. You can't tell if it's the color or the fact that it's Jersey Shore merch that's throwing him off.
"What's the special occasion ?" he wonders.
"It's officially your 10th request," you reply as you make your way to his desk. He follows you. "After this one, I'm going to have to starting charging, Hotchner."
He chuckles lightly.
When you sit down, his suit jacket brushes against your back. It's like he's hugging you by proxy. He leans against the desk, next to you. You can smell his perfume. Almonds, fresh linen, citrus. He's wearing his summer scent. It's nice.
"So, what file did you "accidentally" delete ? Nothing scandalous I hope," you ask him.
He glances down at the mug in his hand. He's trying to figure out what 'GTL' means. You don't tell him. You'll let him discover the joys of Nicole 'Snooki' Polizzi by himself.
"It's a performance evaluation draft," he finally answers. He takes a sip of his coffee and then puts the mug down on his desk. It looks hilariously out of place next to his shiny Unit Chief plaque and the fancy pen stand. "And for the record, it was an accident."
A performance evaluation draft ? This couldn't wait until tomorrow ?
"Of course", you reply. You spin the chair towards him. Your elbow lightly hits his thigh. The material of his pants is really soft. "Just like when you accidentally used Comic Sans on that one report," you remind him jokingly.
He looks at you. He's doing the signature 'dead pan, scary and stern, do not mess with me' Hotch stare. You can tell that it's because he's embarrassed (and he should be. the report looked ridiculous) and is trying to gain back some semblance of dignity.
"That was a formatting error," he justifies. He sounds both amused and exasperated at the same time.
You turn back towards the desktop. You let your fingers lightly glide along the keyboard. To be fair, the system the FBI uses is a real nightmare. To describe it as 'ancient' would be generous.
"Sure. And you somehow didn't notice the error until you already sent the report?"
"Are you this unprofessional with all the agents you help ?" he counters.
You grin, letting your fingers pause their typing.
"No. Just you."
That earns you another chuckle. He looks pretty when he smiles. His eyes crinkle softly, his lips stretch slightly. You want to poke his dimple.
"Good," he says. "Some of them might try to get you fired."
You let out a sigh. Half from fatigue and half from hopefulness.
"I wish. If that's the way to free me from email password purgatory. Who do you think is my best bet ? Eckert from the training academy looks like he can whip up a mean complaint."
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shake his head. He's still leaning against the desk, his arms are crossed against his chest. His biceps look very enticing, even through the dress shirt. Crazy that he's whoring himself out like this just for a performance evaluation draft.
He exhales through his nose. Almost despite him. Like he's trying his best not to encourage you.
"Don't let Eckert get you fired," he says.
You finally recover the file. You can officially clock out in 9 minutes.
"That would be… inconvenient", he admits softly.
You know that's not exactly what he means to say. Still, this is Hotch. He's not going to outright say that he'd miss you. But you can tell.
"You're just saying that 'cause the other techs aren't as fun." You smile at him.
You finally come back to your desk after your government compensated break (sure it was longer than the general consensus on what 'a short break' counts as. first of all, you don't care. second of all, there's nothing that says that you have to agree with the consensus. third of all, you really don't care).
You find Hotch waiting for you there. He looks ridiculous sitting in your chair. He's all bent and twisted, like a contortionist. The sitting arrangements for IT support techs and Unit Chiefs aren't exactly on the same level…
There's your hot pink Jersey Shore mug and a pastry (blueberry muffin, safe but ultimately boring choice) sitting in front of him.
"You brought bribes, and you're here in person… Should I be worried ? You didn't "accidentally" blow up a computer did you ?" you greet him.
He gets up from your chair and glares at it. Like it was actively insulting his spine. In comparison to his chair, it probably was.
"I wouldn't rule it out," he replies dryly. "There's a network issue in my office. The internet keeps dropping."
You sigh dramatically, and drop your jacket on your chair.
You take a sip of the coffee. It's a lot better than the office one. Does he bring his own?
"Lead the way captain."
When you get to his office, the router seems to be working just fine. You narrow your eyes at him.
"The signal flickers in and out," he anticipates.
It sounds more like an excuse than an explanation.
You sit down at his desk. Or more accurately, you reclaim it. Like it's yours to take. He doesn't seem to mind how comfortable you make yourself in his office.
You give the monitor a quick glance, open the terminal to run a few commands, check the network diagnostics.
Green.
Suspiciously green.
"Wow, would you take a look at that. Not only is everything working, your office has the fastest internet speed out of the entire building."
He's peering at the screen over your shoulder. His left arm is bracing against the desk. His chest is basically touching your back. It's like he's engulfing you. He feels warm, so warm. You're not even touching. You glance up at him. His face is so close to yours, you can count every frown line, every mole. You can see that his lips are slightly dry. He wets them just as you lift your eyes back up to his.
He leans back.
"Not bad right ?" he asks in an almost smug tone. Like the fact that his internet is fast is all his doing. Like you called him the fastest or maybe he interpreted it as 'the biggest'.
"What exactly are you bragging about ? The fact that your network isn't bugging ?" you fire back. You can't have him getting too cocky all of a sudden.
He shrugs. He looks entirely unbothered by the fact that you're calling him out.
"Reliable connection is a rare thing," he says.
You squint at him. "Was that supposed to be a tech joke ?"
"Would it work better as a dinner invitation ?"
That shuts you up for once.
You don't even have to think about it. Yes, yes, yes.
"Only if I get to pick the place," you say.
He gives you a smile. It looks boy-ish, almost shy. He nods gently.
"And you can't wear a suit," you continue. You like the suits, they look real nice, but you're hoping for someone more… slutty ?
"And you have to do four shots of SoCo lime with me. Meatball style. Without throwing up."
He blinks. He looks vaguely alarmed. "I'm sorry… what ?"
The Bureau's latest failed technological venture is the 'Virtual Case File'. This system is somehow even worse than the previous one. And that's saying something, seeing as its predecessor dates back to the literal 80s. Not only are the bugs worse, the intended features that were supposed to justify a $100 million investment of tax payer money don't even work.
You're already 5 agents deep in troubleshooting hell (and it's not even lunch yet) by the time you make it to Aaron's office.
You only knock once before coming in. He cut his hair shorter the other day. Well, more like you cut his hair, and you made it shorter than planned. It still looks nice, he just doesn't have the little bangs anymore.
He's wearing the gray suit today. With the red tie. Just for you. Because he knows you think he looks ravishing in it. And, because he knows it's your favorite suit to take off of him. Whore.
"Please say that this is one of your fake requests to see me and that you don't actually need help," you complain.
You're tired and irritated and running dangerously low on fucks to give.
For once you're the one frowning.
"Hi sweetheart," he says gently. He's smiling, soft and warm and stupidly sweet. He takes your hand in his (warm, always warm) and leads you to his (your) chair. He leans down, brushes some of your hair back and fixes the collar of your shirt with so much care it's making you want to kiss him.
So you do. Because you can.
Just once. One little peck. We're still at work.
Alright, no, another one.
And a third one. For luck.
You can feel him smile through the kiss. Or maybe you're the one smiling.
"Better?" he asks sweetly.
You poke his dimple with your finger.
You nod.
You pull away just the tiniest bit. Your hand's on the nape of his neck, playing with the short hairs there.
"So, what exactly can I do for you, Agent Hotchner ?" you ask with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
He gives you a little chuckle. Sometimes when he laughs it almost sounds like he's giggling. But again, we're still at work…
"I actually do need your help this time," he says almost sheepishly.
You groan. "Of course you do. You're like a damsel in distress."
Still, your thumb brushes his cheek and you give him one last peck.
"It's the new system isn't it?"
"It completely freezes when I try to upload attachments," he explains.
"Have you tried throwing your computer out the window ?" you offer. "That usually works."
"I figured I'd call you before escalating to that."
You turn towards the computer. You're already pulling up the terminal and checking the system logs. He's watching you work, almost lovestruck. You can feel his eyes tenderly following your every movement. It makes you feel warm.
"What would I do without you?" he asks. His finger lightly caresses your ear.
"I don't know. Probably Comic Sans again ?"
He lets out a half-annoyed half-fond groan.
You laugh. Pleased with your joke, with how annoyed you can make him and still have him be sweet to you. You're a lot less grumpy than you were when you came in.
You almost don't believe it when the report comes through. You double-check the logs. Then the email header. Then the simulated domain redirect path. Then the logs again.
Nope. There's no two ways about it. Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, your Aaron, clicked on a phishing link.
You sit back in your chair (still no lumbar support), stunned.
You feel slightly disappointed at first. But then an idea forms in your head and you start grinning.
When you walk into his office, he's in the middle of reviewing a case file. He looks up, about to tell off whoever it is that dared to just barge into his office, but softens when he sees it's you. Except he then actually sees you, sees the smug smile and unholy glee that are clear as day on your face.
"Why are you acting weird towards me?" (this somewhat softens the blow of having your boyfriend fall for a phishing link. he's in so deep that he's quoting Snooki. the other day, he called one of the police officers he was working with 'a grenade'. it's not exactly right but it’s still disgustingly sweet that he tries. for you.)
You put down the report on his desk. "You failed."
He frowns. He picks it up. There's a very faint teeth mark on the top knuckle of his index finger (don't ask).
Slowly, his expression shifts from confused fondness to quiet horror. You perch yourself on his desk.
"Aaron, honey. It said "autovrify" in the URL. And you still entered your password. Twice."
He exhales, clearly mortified. You're doing your best not to start laughing.
He resorts to doing 'the Hotchner glare' again. You know the one. It hasn’t worked before and it's not about to now.
"I have to send you to retraining," you start, as sweetly as you can. "Mandatory. Two hours."
He groans and leans back in his chair. Throws his head back. Closes his eyes. This position looks vaguely familiar…
"Please tell me this doesn't go in my permanent file."
You pause. You can't hold back the smile that's making its way onto your face. Of course he would be worried about that. "I'm not at liberty to say."
He glares. You blow him a kiss.
"Also," you continue, all innocence, "since I have your password. By the way 'RingoSavoyTruffle1965', seriously ?"
You shoot him a look. He shrugs his shoulders.
"I did a quick sweep. Purely for cybersecurity purposes of course."
His eyes narrow instantly. His thumb starts rubbing his finger. He's nervous. He doesn't look that different outwardly but you know him.
"And what did you find ?" he asks, trying to seem unbothered.
"Oh, you know" you say casually. "The usual. Tax reports, newspaper subscriptions, grocery lists. And—"
You run your finger lightly along his chest. Your nail scratches against the fabric of his tie.
"—a very interesting folder labeled 'personal reference material'."
He sits up. And grabs your hand to stop its descent.
"You opened that ?"
You laugh and you squeeze the hand that he's holding. You use it to drag his chair closer to where you're sitting on his desk.
With your free hand, you brush back some of the strands at the front of his head that got messed up. It's getting long again. Not that you're complaining.
"How could I not?" You laugh. "You labeled things like it was evidence. With subfolders and—"
oneshot: sneaking around and sleeping with bucky was easy. keeping quiet while you do it? not so much.
pairing: thunderbolts! bucky barnes x reader
tags: (18+) 3k words. SMUT without plot. shower sex (kinda). raw penetration. creampie. being fucked as bucky's dogtags slam against ur face holy shit. minors, dni.
You're pretty sure that showering with Bucky Barnes qualifies as an objectively terrible idea—one that even your most chaotic decisions would respectfully step aside for.
Because this? This is not a rational choice. Not when your hand is currently gliding over his insanely unfair chest, slick with soap and hot water, steam curling around you both like a heavy, illicit fog. Not when the Bluetooth speaker on the bathroom sink is still playing R&B like the two of you aren't committing a federal offense under the team compound's roof. And definitely not when your palm wraps around him, fingers squeezing, slow and deliberate, and Bucky's head thunks back against the tile with a groan that does dangerous things to your already-frayed nervous system.
This is the staff quarters' shower. You're the manager. He's... him. Super soldier. Congressional headache. Thunderbolt-in-chief. And yet, here you are—naked, wet, and trying not to combust as his hips buck into your hand like your touch is the only thing tethering him to Earth.
"Jesus, baby…" he grits out, voice low and rough like he hasn't slept in a week and now you're the one ruining him. The thrill of it, the secrecy, the proximity, the fact that Yelena could burst in at any second, makes your pulse skip. You bite down on a groan, nipping the skin just below his ear like it might save you from collapsing entirely.
"Gotta be quiet, Barnes," you murmur, because someone has to be responsible here and it sure as hell isn't going to be him. "Wouldn't want the team to know their super soldier is being... what's the word? Inappropriate?"
He grins. Not a normal grin. Not a polite, sure-thanks-for-the-briefing grin. A devastating one, teeth and mischief and Brooklyn drawl thick as honey. "Sweetheart, you're the one makin' it real hard to stay quiet," he says, all gravel and ruin. His vibranium hand, cool and unyielding, cups your jaw, while the other slides down your ass with a reverence that makes you feel like some kind of miracle. The contrast makes your brain short-circuit: cold metal, warm calluses, his mouth, crashing into yours like a man starved. His tongue strokes against yours in a way that sends electricity straight to your core, and you moan into him—idiot.
"Focus," he murmurs between kisses, smug and panting. "You gettin' distracted? Or just thinkin' about how mad Val's gonna be when she finds out her golden girl's been sneakin' into my shower?"
You pull back just enough to glare. Or, well. You try. It's hard to be intimidating with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and your hand wrapped around his cock. "You're one to talk," you hiss, tightening your grip. His breath catches. "What's wrong, Barnes? Losing focus already?"
His eyes go dark. Dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that."
The vibranium hand moves, trailing down your waist with practiced precision, pausing at your hip like he's waiting for your pulse to spike—which it does, traitorous and loud. When his fingers graze the inside of your thigh, you gasp, instinctively pressing into his touch. But he doesn't give you what you want. Not yet. He pulls back just enough to leave you panting and twitchy and feral with need.
"What's that?" he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing. "Beggin' already? Thought you were the one runnin' this show."
You could lie. You could sass. You could pretend like your whole body isn't vibrating with want. But you do none of those things.
Instead, you stroke him harder, your thumb gliding over the tip, and grin when he curses under his breath and grips your thigh like it might save him. "Can you keep up, Barnes?" you whisper. "Or are you gonna blow our cover before I do?"
And the way he groans—low and wrecked, eyes fluttering shut like he needs you is answer enough.
His chuckle is low and dark and somehow smug in a way that tells you you're absolutely, completely fucked. And not even in the way you want yet.
His fingers finally move, sliding between your thighs with a kind of devastating precision that makes your brain empty out like someone pulled the fire alarm in your skull. He starts slow, almost lazy, circling just barely enough to make you twitch, to make you squirm and gasp and try (fail) to stay composed. You can feel the smirk forming against your mouth before he speaks.
"Careful, baby," he murmurs, voice rough against your lips as he nips at your bottom one, the sharp sting making your whole body flinch. "Keep makin' those noises, and we're gonna have to explain this to the whole damn team."
Which. Fair. You are absolutely making those noises. Whimpering, gasping, lips parted in helpless want. Your cheeks are hot. Your skin is prickling. Your legs are actively shaking under the weight of how good he's making you feel with just his fingers. And sure, fine, you could stop. Regain the upper hand. But instead, you tighten your grip around him, stroking him harder, just to see what it does to him.
It wrecks him.
His breath hitches. His jaw flexes. His vibranium hand clenches around your hip hard enough that you know you'll be wearing finger-shaped bruises in the morning—and you welcome them. "Keep that up," he growls, voice breaking, "and I'm not gonna last."
"Good," you whisper, lips brushing his ear, smug despite the way your knees are jelly and your entire body is vibrating. "That's the plan."
His fingers sink deeper with a precision that is absolutely illegal. They curl, just right, hitting that one spot like he's spent years studying you under a microscope. You choke out a gasp, head tipping back against the tile, and that's all he needs—his mouth starts moving again, down your jaw, trailing fire against your pulse.
It's not fair, the way he kisses you like you're something soft and precious while his fingers are literally ruining you. The contrast is obscene. And perfect.
He's relentless. Slow. Measured. Like he's conducting an experiment with your body as the thesis. His fingers work you with such a steady, intentional rhythm that you're panting, teetering, right there, almost falling, and yet not quite. The risk of someone walking by, of hearing your gasps echo against the steam-slick tile, makes every touch burn brighter, sharper, needier.
"Bucky," you manage, voice breaking into a whimper as your nails dig into his shoulder. "Don't... don't tease—"
He hums against your throat. Literally hums. The vibration makes you shudder, full-body, like you're a wire pulled too tight. "But it's so fun watchin' you fall apart," he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw as his fingers slow to a torturous pace. "You should see yourself. All flushed and desperate and gorgeous, sneakin' around with me like we're not gonna get caught."
You're about to fire back (or beg, honestly, you're not above that anymore), when he drops to his knees.
And your brain? Gone. Dead. Vaporized.
Bucky Barnes. On. His. Knees.
Water slides down his shoulders, his hair sticking to his forehead, those piercing eyes blinking up at you through wet lashes like he's about to ruin your entire lineage. He hooks your leg over his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times, like you're not one second away from disintegrating, and then his mouth is on your thigh.
"Bucky, please..."
Your voice breaks on his name. He smirks. Of course he smirks.
"Please what?" he asks, nipping just above your knee. "Use your words, sweetheart. Otherwise I'm just gonna keep you here, writhin' on this tile while the rest of the team starts wonderin' where their manager went."
"You know what," you hiss, your voice shredded by need, and he laughs, lips brushing your skin, cocky and warm and goddamn infuriating.
"Oh, I do," he says.
Then his mouth is on you.
His tongue is lethal. Slow, soft at first—circling against your clit, savoring your taste. He hums when you buck your hips, when you moan, when your fingers twist in his hair like you're scared he'll stop.
He doesn't stop.
He alternates between soft licks and firm, deliberate strokes, and your breath goes choppy. Your thighs tremble. You have no control over the way your body reacts, arching toward him, clenching, begging with every inch of you. He groans when you tug his hair, the sound deep and hungry and completely unhinging. You can feel him smile against you.
Then he does this thing, a flick of his tongue, followed by a slow, dragging lick—and it short-circuits every working neuron in your skull. Like he's discovered you. Like he's unlocking cheat codes. Every time he does it, your body spasms, helpless and shaking, and he hums in satisfaction, pushing you closer to the edge with sickening precision. You love it when he pushes his tongue against your very entrance.
He edges you there, keeps you there. You whine. Plead. Curse him out and beg all in the same breath.
"Not yet, darlin'," he murmurs against you, warm and smug and evil. "Wanna make it last."
"You jerk—" you manage to choke out, and he just chuckles. And then he does it again.
Flick. Drag. Suck.
And that's it. That's it.
Your entire body fractures.
You cry out, too loud, definitely not subtle, but you can't help it. Your legs give out. Your vision whites out. You feel like you've left your body entirely. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out like he's feeding off your pleasure, like this is the part he's addicted to.
And when you finally slump forward, boneless and shaking and barely able to stand, he catches you.
He stands slowly, and kisses you—soft now, like he's reeling you back in. His lips are sweet, sticky with you, and it sends another jolt of heat through your gut. You taste yourself and don't even care. You kiss him harder.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, voice low and rough, pressing his forehead to yours.
You can feel him against your hip, hard and insistent, still so obviously wrecked for you and you almost whimper again.
"Gotta be careful," he mutters, brushing wet hair from your cheek. "Can't have the team knowin' their manager's this good at breakin' the rules."
You stare at him, still breathless, and manage, "Bed. Now. Before someone actually comes looking."
His grin? Cat-that-ate-the-canary levels of smug.
"Bossy," he says, but it's fond. Warm. And still hungry. He turns off the water, grabs a towel—because of course he's practical even now—and wraps it around the both of you, pulling you close.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Every creak makes your heart race. You're supposed to be going over mission logistics. Instead, you're dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, tiptoeing into Bucky Barnes' room like it's some kind of federal offense.
But the door clicks shut behind you. Locks. Then it's just the two of you again.
The air is cooler, but your skin is still burning, and when he spreads the towel on the bed, ever practical, you laugh. "What?" he says, raising an eyebrow as he pulls you onto the matress, his hands already roaming.
"You're so prepared," you tease, straddling his hips as he leans back, hands on your thighs. "What's next, a spreadsheet for sneaking around the compound?"
He laughs, rich and warm, but his hands tighten, pulling you closer. "Sweetheart, I don't need a spreadsheet to make you scream. But I might need one to keep track of all the places we've defiled this place."
You shut him up by yanking him down by the stainless tags, those damn dog tags that have been swinging between your bodies like they're in on the joke, like they've known all along what this was building to. Your mouth crashes into his, all tongue and teeth and barely-restrained desperation. He groans into you and you feel the shift in him, the way he jerks against your thigh, cock slick and hard as steel, and then...
Oh God.
His cock sinks into you, slow at first, the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, catching against the slick folds of your cunt. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He's big, and your body remembers how full he makes you feel, how impossibly wide he spreads you open—but it still shocks you every time. Every inch he gives you feels like it should be too much, and yet your hips rise to meet him, greedy for more.
"Jesus," he breathes, teeth grazing your cheekbone, his forehead damp with sweat, his vibranium arm braced beside your head. "You're so fuckin' tight, baby."
He's barely inside and already shaking, and when he pushes forward again, your walls clench around him like you were made to take him. You feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, every maddening throb of his cock as it glides deeper, filling you inch by inch until your breath hitches and your legs lock tighter around his waist.
The pressure builds, delicious and unbearable, and when he bottoms out—his hips flush against yours, his cock seated deep inside, stretching you wide—you both freeze. Just for a moment. Just to feel it. Just to let the weight of it crash down between you like a storm breaking open the sky.
"Oh my God," you whisper, and he laughs, this broken, breathless sound against your throat.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You feel that? You feel how perfect you fuckin' take me?"
You do. You feel it everywhere. It's in your spine, your ribs, the soles of your feet. He's thick and hot and so deep it aches, but in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your hips lift in search of friction, of movement, of more. But Bucky doesn't move—not yet. He shifts instead, angling his hips the tiniest bit, and oh.
Your head drops back, lips parted in a silent cry as the tip of his cock nudges against a spot so devastating you see stars. Your nails drag down his back, marking him, grounding yourself in the feel of his skin under your palms, the scent of him in your nose, clean and sharp and Bucky, all Bucky, with a hint of sweat and heat and something unspoken threading between you.
He does it again. Rolls his hips with a practiced rhythm that shouldn't feel so natural, like he's memorized every gasp you make, every twitch of your thighs, every flutter of your breath. His cock drags along your walls with every movement, slick and thick, and that pressure, that perfect freaking pressure—rubs right where you need it, makes your back arch and your legs shake.
"Say it," he grits out, the restraint in his voice hanging by a thread. "C'mon, baby. Say it."
You're not sure what it is, his name, how good he feels, how much you need this, but it doesn't matter, because all of it comes tumbling out in a string of breathless, broken syllables: "Bucky, oh my God... please, I'm... I can't—"
His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.
The dog tags brush your cheek. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.
"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"
"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."
He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.
He's still twitching when your legs go boneless. His body stays pressed to yours, forehead resting against your temple, breathing ragged, damp curls sticking to his neck. You can feel the way he's still thick inside you, softening slowly, your walls fluttering around him in the hazy lull of your release. His cum is leaking out around him, sticky and hot, making a mess of the ruined towel beneath you, soaking into your thighs, your ass, the backs of your knees.
Neither of you moves for a second. Then two. Then five.
Just the sound of your breathing and the faint hum of blood in your ears, still pounding from the rush of it all.
You're sticky. You're sore. You're pretty sure the marks on your thighs are going to outlast the week. You shift, wincing a little when he slips out of you, and feel the distinct, humiliating sensation of dripping—a slow, obscene slide of wetness down your inner thigh.
"Well," you manage eventually, voice sandpaper-rough. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."
Bucky blinks. For a moment he just looks at you, dazed. Then he laughs. Full-on, head-thrown-back, belly-shaking laughs. His eyes crinkle at the corners, teeth flashing, and something about it, about him like this, real and soft and undone—makes you feel drunker than any orgasm ever has.
"Sweetheart," he rasps, still catching his breath as he flops onto his side, pulling you with him, "you're gonna be the death of me."
You grin as you roll into him, pressing your cheek to his bare chest. The metal of his arm is cool against your back as he wraps it around you, possessive and warm despite the chill of vibranium. His knuckles graze the damp towel, and he groans. "We need to be more careful."
You nod against him, still trying to remember how to exist. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down. He'll write a memo about it. Or worse, tell Val."
"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."
You groan, smacking his shoulder, but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.
Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.
And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.
The door rattles.
Which—fine. Sure. That's a totally normal sound to hear when you're actively getting railed by Bucky Barnes on a mattress in the Thunderbolts compound, where you are very much not supposed to be right now.
It could be John, with his smug little quips. Or Alexei, asking about deodorant or soup again. Either way, your heart launches itself into your throat—and then keeps launching. Because Bucky doesn't stop. Not even close. He just grins, that cocky, half-wicked thing he does when he knows he has you wrecked, and leans in so close his breath ghosts across your lips.
"Better be quick, sweetheart," he rasps, hips starting grinding slow and deliberate. "Don't want ‘em knowin' you're gettin' fucked in my room."
You should say something. Maybe a smartass retort or a stern reminder that you're supposed to be his manager. But your brain short-circuits. Because those words—crude, filthy, said in that deep, reverent voice of his—make your thighs tremble and your whole body clench around him in response.
Oh, you are so screwed.
He's thick and hard and still buried deep, and every tiny shift of his hips sends lightning up your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and when he thrusts again—just once, slow, deliberate—you have to bite down on the muscle of his neck to stop from screaming his name.
There's a voice in your head—your rational voice, your you're-an-employee-and-he's-Bucky-Barnes voice—begging you to stop this madness. But it's silenced almost immediately by the way he twitches inside you, a slow, impossible pulse that has your breath hitching like it's learned to stutter.
"Bucky," you murmur, and it comes out a whimper. Pathetic. He grins like he knows.
"What's that, baby?" he says, all teasing drawl, even as his cock drags against your walls in a way that should probably come with a health warning. "Still want me to play nice?"
You glare. Or, well—you attempt a glare. It's a little hard to look intimidating when you're clinging to him like human Velcro, your whole body flushed and shaking.
"You're such a tease," you manage, though your hands are already sliding over his chest, nails leaving pink trails on his skin like you're trying to claim him.
"Only ‘cause you like it," he murmurs, and then he's moving—slow, unhurried, every thrust deep and angled just right. The kind of movement that feels designed in a lab. Or an evil genius bedroom.
The sounds are downright indecent. Wet, rhythmic, skin on skin, your gasps tangled with his breathless groans. You should be mortified. You're not. You're seconds away from combusting, and Bucky fucking knows it.
Because this isn't just sex. It's Bucky. It's the way he's staring at you—seeing you—as he ruins you, knowing every response before you give it.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, thrusting deeper, his voice ragged. "So fuckin' tight. Can't get enough of you."
You make some sound that is definitely not English. He leans in, and his hands—God, his hands—find your breasts again. One warm and rough, the other sleek vibranium, and the contrast is lethal. He palms you like he's memorizing the shape of your pleasure, thumb circling your nipple until you arch up into him.
"So sensitive, darlin'," he murmurs, lips brushing your throat as he speaks. "Fallin' apart for me already."
Your thighs are shaking. Your vision's blurry. And then the damn dog tags swing forward, cool metal brushing your mouth like they're in on the game. You bite one out of sheer desperation, and it makes him groan—actually groan—and thrust harder.
"Fuck, do that again."
So you do. You clench around him, and he twitches so hard inside you that your breath leaves your lungs like it's got somewhere else to be.
You're close. Again. Too soon. Your body's still sensitive, still wrecked from the last orgasm, but he's not letting up—he's teasing you, chasing you toward the edge only to pull you back.
"Bucky, please," you gasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound.
He smirks. Of course he does. "Please what?" he asks, but he's already thrusting faster, harder, relentless now.
His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.
The dog tags brush your cheek again. You grab them, yank him down into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and messy, wet desperation. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.
"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"
"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."
He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.
Your moan gets swallowed by the kiss. Your whole body shudders. You're so far gone you barely register the way he curses again, still twitching, still pressing into you like he can't stand to let go.
And then—silence. Just the sound of your combined breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears.
You're sticky. Sore. Dripping. His dog tags are stuck to your chest, and the towel beneath you is in shreds.
"Well," you manage, voice hoarse. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."
Bucky blinks.
And then he laughs—full-on laughs, head tipping back, eyes crinkling with something that looks a lot like joy.
"Sweetheart," he says, still catching his breath, "you're gonna be the death of me."
You roll into him, grinning like an idiot, and tuck yourself into his chest.
"Worth it," you mumble.
He hums, wrapping a vibranium arm around your back, protective and warm, even as his knuckles graze the ruined towel. "We need to be more careful."
You nod against his chest. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down."
"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."
You groan, smacking his shoulder—but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.
Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.
oneshot: sneaking around and sleeping with bucky was easy. keeping quiet while you do it? not so much.
pairing: thunderbolts! bucky barnes x reader
tags: (18+) 3k words. SMUT without plot. shower sex (kinda). raw penetration. creampie. being fucked as bucky's dogtags slam against ur face holy shit. minors, dni.
You're pretty sure that showering with Bucky Barnes qualifies as an objectively terrible idea—one that even your most chaotic decisions would respectfully step aside for.
Because this? This is not a rational choice. Not when your hand is currently gliding over his insanely unfair chest, slick with soap and hot water, steam curling around you both like a heavy, illicit fog. Not when the Bluetooth speaker on the bathroom sink is still playing R&B like the two of you aren't committing a federal offense under the team compound's roof. And definitely not when your palm wraps around him, fingers squeezing, slow and deliberate, and Bucky's head thunks back against the tile with a groan that does dangerous things to your already-frayed nervous system.
This is the staff quarters' shower. You're the manager. He's... him. Super soldier. Congressional headache. Thunderbolt-in-chief. And yet, here you are—naked, wet, and trying not to combust as his hips buck into your hand like your touch is the only thing tethering him to Earth.
"Jesus, baby…" he grits out, voice low and rough like he hasn't slept in a week and now you're the one ruining him. The thrill of it, the secrecy, the proximity, the fact that Yelena could burst in at any second, makes your pulse skip. You bite down on a groan, nipping the skin just below his ear like it might save you from collapsing entirely.
"Gotta be quiet, Barnes," you murmur, because someone has to be responsible here and it sure as hell isn't going to be him. "Wouldn't want the team to know their super soldier is being... what's the word? Inappropriate?"
He grins. Not a normal grin. Not a polite, sure-thanks-for-the-briefing grin. A devastating one, teeth and mischief and Brooklyn drawl thick as honey. "Sweetheart, you're the one makin' it real hard to stay quiet," he says, all gravel and ruin. His vibranium hand, cool and unyielding, cups your jaw, while the other slides down your ass with a reverence that makes you feel like some kind of miracle. The contrast makes your brain short-circuit: cold metal, warm calluses, his mouth, crashing into yours like a man starved. His tongue strokes against yours in a way that sends electricity straight to your core, and you moan into him—idiot.
"Focus," he murmurs between kisses, smug and panting. "You gettin' distracted? Or just thinkin' about how mad Val's gonna be when she finds out her golden girl's been sneakin' into my shower?"
You pull back just enough to glare. Or, well. You try. It's hard to be intimidating with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and your hand wrapped around his cock. "You're one to talk," you hiss, tightening your grip. His breath catches. "What's wrong, Barnes? Losing focus already?"
His eyes go dark. Dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that."
The vibranium hand moves, trailing down your waist with practiced precision, pausing at your hip like he's waiting for your pulse to spike—which it does, traitorous and loud. When his fingers graze the inside of your thigh, you gasp, instinctively pressing into his touch. But he doesn't give you what you want. Not yet. He pulls back just enough to leave you panting and twitchy and feral with need.
"What's that?" he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing. "Beggin' already? Thought you were the one runnin' this show."
You could lie. You could sass. You could pretend like your whole body isn't vibrating with want. But you do none of those things.
Instead, you stroke him harder, your thumb gliding over the tip, and grin when he curses under his breath and grips your thigh like it might save him. "Can you keep up, Barnes?" you whisper. "Or are you gonna blow our cover before I do?"
And the way he groans—low and wrecked, eyes fluttering shut like he needs you is answer enough.
His chuckle is low and dark and somehow smug in a way that tells you you're absolutely, completely fucked. And not even in the way you want yet.
His fingers finally move, sliding between your thighs with a kind of devastating precision that makes your brain empty out like someone pulled the fire alarm in your skull. He starts slow, almost lazy, circling just barely enough to make you twitch, to make you squirm and gasp and try (fail) to stay composed. You can feel the smirk forming against your mouth before he speaks.
"Careful, baby," he murmurs, voice rough against your lips as he nips at your bottom one, the sharp sting making your whole body flinch. "Keep makin' those noises, and we're gonna have to explain this to the whole damn team."
Which. Fair. You are absolutely making those noises. Whimpering, gasping, lips parted in helpless want. Your cheeks are hot. Your skin is prickling. Your legs are actively shaking under the weight of how good he's making you feel with just his fingers. And sure, fine, you could stop. Regain the upper hand. But instead, you tighten your grip around him, stroking him harder, just to see what it does to him.
It wrecks him.
His breath hitches. His jaw flexes. His vibranium hand clenches around your hip hard enough that you know you'll be wearing finger-shaped bruises in the morning—and you welcome them. "Keep that up," he growls, voice breaking, "and I'm not gonna last."
"Good," you whisper, lips brushing his ear, smug despite the way your knees are jelly and your entire body is vibrating. "That's the plan."
His fingers sink deeper with a precision that is absolutely illegal. They curl, just right, hitting that one spot like he's spent years studying you under a microscope. You choke out a gasp, head tipping back against the tile, and that's all he needs—his mouth starts moving again, down your jaw, trailing fire against your pulse.
It's not fair, the way he kisses you like you're something soft and precious while his fingers are literally ruining you. The contrast is obscene. And perfect.
He's relentless. Slow. Measured. Like he's conducting an experiment with your body as the thesis. His fingers work you with such a steady, intentional rhythm that you're panting, teetering, right there, almost falling, and yet not quite. The risk of someone walking by, of hearing your gasps echo against the steam-slick tile, makes every touch burn brighter, sharper, needier.
"Bucky," you manage, voice breaking into a whimper as your nails dig into his shoulder. "Don't... don't tease—"
He hums against your throat. Literally hums. The vibration makes you shudder, full-body, like you're a wire pulled too tight. "But it's so fun watchin' you fall apart," he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw as his fingers slow to a torturous pace. "You should see yourself. All flushed and desperate and gorgeous, sneakin' around with me like we're not gonna get caught."
You're about to fire back (or beg, honestly, you're not above that anymore), when he drops to his knees.
And your brain? Gone. Dead. Vaporized.
Bucky Barnes. On. His. Knees.
Water slides down his shoulders, his hair sticking to his forehead, those piercing eyes blinking up at you through wet lashes like he's about to ruin your entire lineage. He hooks your leg over his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times, like you're not one second away from disintegrating, and then his mouth is on your thigh.
"Bucky, please..."
Your voice breaks on his name. He smirks. Of course he smirks.
"Please what?" he asks, nipping just above your knee. "Use your words, sweetheart. Otherwise I'm just gonna keep you here, writhin' on this tile while the rest of the team starts wonderin' where their manager went."
"You know what," you hiss, your voice shredded by need, and he laughs, lips brushing your skin, cocky and warm and goddamn infuriating.
"Oh, I do," he says.
Then his mouth is on you.
His tongue is lethal. Slow, soft at first—circling against your clit, savoring your taste. He hums when you buck your hips, when you moan, when your fingers twist in his hair like you're scared he'll stop.
He doesn't stop.
He alternates between soft licks and firm, deliberate strokes, and your breath goes choppy. Your thighs tremble. You have no control over the way your body reacts, arching toward him, clenching, begging with every inch of you. He groans when you tug his hair, the sound deep and hungry and completely unhinging. You can feel him smile against you.
Then he does this thing, a flick of his tongue, followed by a slow, dragging lick—and it short-circuits every working neuron in your skull. Like he's discovered you. Like he's unlocking cheat codes. Every time he does it, your body spasms, helpless and shaking, and he hums in satisfaction, pushing you closer to the edge with sickening precision. You love it when he pushes his tongue against your very entrance.
He edges you there, keeps you there. You whine. Plead. Curse him out and beg all in the same breath.
"Not yet, darlin'," he murmurs against you, warm and smug and evil. "Wanna make it last."
"You jerk—" you manage to choke out, and he just chuckles. And then he does it again.
Flick. Drag. Suck.
And that's it. That's it.
Your entire body fractures.
You cry out, too loud, definitely not subtle, but you can't help it. Your legs give out. Your vision whites out. You feel like you've left your body entirely. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out like he's feeding off your pleasure, like this is the part he's addicted to.
And when you finally slump forward, boneless and shaking and barely able to stand, he catches you.
He stands slowly, and kisses you—soft now, like he's reeling you back in. His lips are sweet, sticky with you, and it sends another jolt of heat through your gut. You taste yourself and don't even care. You kiss him harder.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, voice low and rough, pressing his forehead to yours.
You can feel him against your hip, hard and insistent, still so obviously wrecked for you and you almost whimper again.
"Gotta be careful," he mutters, brushing wet hair from your cheek. "Can't have the team knowin' their manager's this good at breakin' the rules."
You stare at him, still breathless, and manage, "Bed. Now. Before someone actually comes looking."
His grin? Cat-that-ate-the-canary levels of smug.
"Bossy," he says, but it's fond. Warm. And still hungry. He turns off the water, grabs a towel—because of course he's practical even now—and wraps it around the both of you, pulling you close.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Every creak makes your heart race. You're supposed to be going over mission logistics. Instead, you're dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, tiptoeing into Bucky Barnes' room like it's some kind of federal offense.
But the door clicks shut behind you. Locks. Then it's just the two of you again.
The air is cooler, but your skin is still burning, and when he spreads the towel on the bed, ever practical, you laugh. "What?" he says, raising an eyebrow as he pulls you onto the matress, his hands already roaming.
"You're so prepared," you tease, straddling his hips as he leans back, hands on your thighs. "What's next, a spreadsheet for sneaking around the compound?"
He laughs, rich and warm, but his hands tighten, pulling you closer. "Sweetheart, I don't need a spreadsheet to make you scream. But I might need one to keep track of all the places we've defiled this place."
You shut him up by yanking him down by the stainless tags, those damn dog tags that have been swinging between your bodies like they're in on the joke, like they've known all along what this was building to. Your mouth crashes into his, all tongue and teeth and barely-restrained desperation. He groans into you and you feel the shift in him, the way he jerks against your thigh, cock slick and hard as steel, and then...
Oh God.
His cock sinks into you, slow at first, the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, catching against the slick folds of your cunt. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He's big, and your body remembers how full he makes you feel, how impossibly wide he spreads you open—but it still shocks you every time. Every inch he gives you feels like it should be too much, and yet your hips rise to meet him, greedy for more.
"Jesus," he breathes, teeth grazing your cheekbone, his forehead damp with sweat, his vibranium arm braced beside your head. "You're so fuckin' tight, baby."
He's barely inside and already shaking, and when he pushes forward again, your walls clench around him like you were made to take him. You feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, every maddening throb of his cock as it glides deeper, filling you inch by inch until your breath hitches and your legs lock tighter around his waist.
The pressure builds, delicious and unbearable, and when he bottoms out—his hips flush against yours, his cock seated deep inside, stretching you wide—you both freeze. Just for a moment. Just to feel it. Just to let the weight of it crash down between you like a storm breaking open the sky.
"Oh my God," you whisper, and he laughs, this broken, breathless sound against your throat.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You feel that? You feel how perfect you fuckin' take me?"
You do. You feel it everywhere. It's in your spine, your ribs, the soles of your feet. He's thick and hot and so deep it aches, but in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your hips lift in search of friction, of movement, of more. But Bucky doesn't move—not yet. He shifts instead, angling his hips the tiniest bit, and oh.
Your head drops back, lips parted in a silent cry as the tip of his cock nudges against a spot so devastating you see stars. Your nails drag down his back, marking him, grounding yourself in the feel of his skin under your palms, the scent of him in your nose, clean and sharp and Bucky, all Bucky, with a hint of sweat and heat and something unspoken threading between you.
He does it again. Rolls his hips with a practiced rhythm that shouldn't feel so natural, like he's memorized every gasp you make, every twitch of your thighs, every flutter of your breath. His cock drags along your walls with every movement, slick and thick, and that pressure, that perfect freaking pressure—rubs right where you need it, makes your back arch and your legs shake.
"Say it," he grits out, the restraint in his voice hanging by a thread. "C'mon, baby. Say it."
You're not sure what it is, his name, how good he feels, how much you need this, but it doesn't matter, because all of it comes tumbling out in a string of breathless, broken syllables: "Bucky, oh my God... please, I'm... I can't—"
His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.
The dog tags brush your cheek. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.
"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"
"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."
He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.
He's still twitching when your legs go boneless. His body stays pressed to yours, forehead resting against your temple, breathing ragged, damp curls sticking to his neck. You can feel the way he's still thick inside you, softening slowly, your walls fluttering around him in the hazy lull of your release. His cum is leaking out around him, sticky and hot, making a mess of the ruined towel beneath you, soaking into your thighs, your ass, the backs of your knees.
Neither of you moves for a second. Then two. Then five.
Just the sound of your breathing and the faint hum of blood in your ears, still pounding from the rush of it all.
You're sticky. You're sore. You're pretty sure the marks on your thighs are going to outlast the week. You shift, wincing a little when he slips out of you, and feel the distinct, humiliating sensation of dripping—a slow, obscene slide of wetness down your inner thigh.
"Well," you manage eventually, voice sandpaper-rough. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."
Bucky blinks. For a moment he just looks at you, dazed. Then he laughs. Full-on, head-thrown-back, belly-shaking laughs. His eyes crinkle at the corners, teeth flashing, and something about it, about him like this, real and soft and undone—makes you feel drunker than any orgasm ever has.
"Sweetheart," he rasps, still catching his breath as he flops onto his side, pulling you with him, "you're gonna be the death of me."
You grin as you roll into him, pressing your cheek to his bare chest. The metal of his arm is cool against your back as he wraps it around you, possessive and warm despite the chill of vibranium. His knuckles graze the damp towel, and he groans. "We need to be more careful."
You nod against him, still trying to remember how to exist. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down. He'll write a memo about it. Or worse, tell Val."
"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."
You groan, smacking his shoulder, but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.
Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.
And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.
The door rattles.
Which—fine. Sure. That's a totally normal sound to hear when you're actively getting railed by Bucky Barnes on a mattress in the Thunderbolts compound, where you are very much not supposed to be right now.
It could be John, with his smug little quips. Or Alexei, asking about deodorant or soup again. Either way, your heart launches itself into your throat—and then keeps launching. Because Bucky doesn't stop. Not even close. He just grins, that cocky, half-wicked thing he does when he knows he has you wrecked, and leans in so close his breath ghosts across your lips.
"Better be quick, sweetheart," he rasps, hips starting grinding slow and deliberate. "Don't want ‘em knowin' you're gettin' fucked in my room."
You should say something. Maybe a smartass retort or a stern reminder that you're supposed to be his manager. But your brain short-circuits. Because those words—crude, filthy, said in that deep, reverent voice of his—make your thighs tremble and your whole body clench around him in response.
Oh, you are so screwed.
He's thick and hard and still buried deep, and every tiny shift of his hips sends lightning up your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and when he thrusts again—just once, slow, deliberate—you have to bite down on the muscle of his neck to stop from screaming his name.
There's a voice in your head—your rational voice, your you're-an-employee-and-he's-Bucky-Barnes voice—begging you to stop this madness. But it's silenced almost immediately by the way he twitches inside you, a slow, impossible pulse that has your breath hitching like it's learned to stutter.
"Bucky," you murmur, and it comes out a whimper. Pathetic. He grins like he knows.
"What's that, baby?" he says, all teasing drawl, even as his cock drags against your walls in a way that should probably come with a health warning. "Still want me to play nice?"
You glare. Or, well—you attempt a glare. It's a little hard to look intimidating when you're clinging to him like human Velcro, your whole body flushed and shaking.
"You're such a tease," you manage, though your hands are already sliding over his chest, nails leaving pink trails on his skin like you're trying to claim him.
"Only ‘cause you like it," he murmurs, and then he's moving—slow, unhurried, every thrust deep and angled just right. The kind of movement that feels designed in a lab. Or an evil genius bedroom.
The sounds are downright indecent. Wet, rhythmic, skin on skin, your gasps tangled with his breathless groans. You should be mortified. You're not. You're seconds away from combusting, and Bucky fucking knows it.
Because this isn't just sex. It's Bucky. It's the way he's staring at you—seeing you—as he ruins you, knowing every response before you give it.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, thrusting deeper, his voice ragged. "So fuckin' tight. Can't get enough of you."
You make some sound that is definitely not English. He leans in, and his hands—God, his hands—find your breasts again. One warm and rough, the other sleek vibranium, and the contrast is lethal. He palms you like he's memorizing the shape of your pleasure, thumb circling your nipple until you arch up into him.
"So sensitive, darlin'," he murmurs, lips brushing your throat as he speaks. "Fallin' apart for me already."
Your thighs are shaking. Your vision's blurry. And then the damn dog tags swing forward, cool metal brushing your mouth like they're in on the game. You bite one out of sheer desperation, and it makes him groan—actually groan—and thrust harder.
"Fuck, do that again."
So you do. You clench around him, and he twitches so hard inside you that your breath leaves your lungs like it's got somewhere else to be.
You're close. Again. Too soon. Your body's still sensitive, still wrecked from the last orgasm, but he's not letting up—he's teasing you, chasing you toward the edge only to pull you back.
"Bucky, please," you gasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound.
He smirks. Of course he does. "Please what?" he asks, but he's already thrusting faster, harder, relentless now.
His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.
The dog tags brush your cheek again. You grab them, yank him down into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and messy, wet desperation. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.
"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"
"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."
He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.
Your moan gets swallowed by the kiss. Your whole body shudders. You're so far gone you barely register the way he curses again, still twitching, still pressing into you like he can't stand to let go.
And then—silence. Just the sound of your combined breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears.
You're sticky. Sore. Dripping. His dog tags are stuck to your chest, and the towel beneath you is in shreds.
"Well," you manage, voice hoarse. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."
Bucky blinks.
And then he laughs—full-on laughs, head tipping back, eyes crinkling with something that looks a lot like joy.
"Sweetheart," he says, still catching his breath, "you're gonna be the death of me."
You roll into him, grinning like an idiot, and tuck yourself into his chest.
"Worth it," you mumble.
He hums, wrapping a vibranium arm around your back, protective and warm, even as his knuckles graze the ruined towel. "We need to be more careful."
You nod against his chest. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down."
"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."
You groan, smacking his shoulder—but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.
Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.
summary: little jet fueled fun with bau's unsmiling boss-man
pairings: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
warnings: smut, pinv, public-ish, under the blanker action!
********
The soft hum of the jet was the only sound filling the cabin, everyone else blissfully asleep in their seats. The lights were dimmed, casting long shadows along the aisle. You sat perched on Aaron's lap, straddling him beneath a heavy blanket that draped innocently over both of you. From the outside, no one would suspect a thing.
Hotch's hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding your slow, careful movements. You faced away from him, your back arched just enough for him to admire the subtle roll of your hips as you sank down on his cock again and again. Reverse cowgirl under the cover of darkness.
"Just like that, sweetheart," he whispered, voice low and strained in your ear. "Nice and slow. Quiet for me."
You bit your lip to suppress a moan, feeling him stretch you open with each lazy thrust. The thrill of being surrounded by your sleeping teammates made your pulse quicken. Your breath hitched as his fingers slid around, sneaking beneath your panties to circle your clit with slow, deliberate strokes.
"A-ahh... Aaron," you whimpered softly, the sound barely audible over the quiet drone of the engines.
"Shh," he cooed, voice warm and commanding. "Don't wake them, honey. You can take it, can't you?"
Your head nodded quickly, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle the high-pitched noises threatening to spill out. His thumb pressed firmer, swirling tight circles around your swollen nub, sending jolts of pleasure through your core. You clenched around him involuntarily, earning a soft, broken grunt from behind you.
"Fuck, baby," he breathed. "You're so tight... feel so good."
The blanket shifted slightly as you adjusted your rhythm, grinding down on him, his cock buried to the hilt. The friction against your clit made your thighs tremble. Your breath grew more ragged, your hands gripping his knees beneath you for balance.
"Mmmph... A-Aaron... s-so close," you whispered, your voice a shaky whine.
He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Come for me, sweetheart. Nice and quiet. Be my good girl."
Your stomach tightened, heat blooming low in your belly as you finally tipped over the edge. Your body trembled, spasming softly as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your orgasm pulsed around him, your face buried into your arm to muffle your soft, choked moans.
Aaron's hands gripped your hips tighter, his own release following shortly after, deep inside you with a low, guttural groan. His chest pressed flush against your back, and you felt his low rasp of breath, heavy and broken, right against your ear.
Around you, the rest of the team remained blissfully unaware, their soft snores filling the quiet cabin. You felt his lips press a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades.
"Good girl," he whispered, voice still thick with satisfaction. "So perfect."
summary: How many shots can a girl take on a night out before she starts drunkenly flirting with her boss? You're about to find out.
warnings: fem!assistant!reader, (suggestive) fluff with a little angst and a whole lot of drinking, the usual team shenanigans, hotch kind of having game which is #scary, kissing!!!! 🌝
word count: 2,691. i went a little crazy LOL
While the cool marble sink feels good against your fingers, it does very little to ease the room's apparently incessant spinning. The vanilla scent circulating in the air only adds to the nauseating feeling. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror is concerning, bordering on crazy, and you cannot, try as you might, remember how you got here. Well... This bar? Yes. This situation? Nope.
It all started earlier today, when Derek and Emily dropped by your desk while you were packing up, twin grins on their faces. You'd complain about this department's commitment to only hiring hotties if you didn't think they were up to something devious. By now, you've developed a sixth sense when it comes to the both of them having something up their sleeves.
Derek speaks first, hoping his charm can carry him through the conversation. "Hey, sweet thing. Got any plans tonight?" If he smiled any wider, you're sure a little sparkle would appear in front of his teeth, sound effect and all.
"Hmm, I don't know. Why do you ask?" You have a feeling you know where this is going.
"We were thinking you might want to come out with us tonight," Emily tells you, with that voice she likes to use when she wants to coax something out of a suspect. Fuck. You've been putting off going out with the team for the last couple of weeks, too afraid to ruin the bond you've developed with them. Alcohol tends to bring out a side of you that you'd prefer to keep hidden for now. Before an excuse can form itself on your lips, Derek and Emily inform you of the significance of this particular invitation.
"Hotch is coming, too."
Well. You'd be lying if you said this didn't sweeten the deal. A fun little cocktail with a pink umbrella and some off-duty Aaron Hotchner on the side? Hard thing to pass up, especially when he doesn't go out with the team that often, from what you've noticed. You bite your bottom lip, trying to stop a smile from forming on your face at the idea of Hotch rolling up his shirt sleeves. Perv!
"Fine. I'll come. But no meddling!" Something is telling you they know more about your situation than they could've profiled. Probably from a blonde brainiac, currently holed up in her bat cave. You love Penelope for lots of reasons, but her lack of discretion is not one of them.
Your first real mistake of the night is agreeing to go to the bar with everyone else, while Hotch and Rossi stay back for a bit to finish up some paperwork. Perhaps you could've avoided taking three rounds of lemon drop shots with the girls on Derek's tab while he yells 'I'm a feminist!' to all the women in the bar. Spencer just sits back, nursing his beer while you all get progressively more tipsy.
At some point, JJ goes to pick up some actual drinks for you all, while Emily takes off to sweet-talk a redhead by the bar. Seeing Penelope wait patiently for her piña colada, you take the opportunity to ask her about your suspicions from earlier.
"Do Derek and Emily seem to be acting a bit off to you, Pen?"
"What d'ya mean, hon?" she asks innocently.
"Earlier tonight, when they invited me out, they mentioned Hotch. Did you... by any chance, tell them something?" You raise your eyebrows inquisitively, hoping to hide some of your embarrassment. It's already bad enough that you objectify your boss on the daily, you really don't need your coworkers gossiping about it, too.
"OH! Oh. Um... Well. You know me. I might've let it slip yesterday that you think he's not the worst-looking guy in the world." Sigh. "But nothing more! I swear to you! On every tiny unicorn on my desk!" You can't be mad at her. Honestly, you're more surprised that the others didn't mention it sooner.
JJ suddenly appears out of nowhere, back from the bar. "Your drinks, ladies." She puts down a G&T and a lemon drop martini in front of you, one in each hand.
"Wait. I only ordered one of these," you state, head tilted in confusion.
"Ah, yes. The martini is from a secret admirer." The knowing smirk on her face is suspicious, but you can't exactly place why. Regardless, it's a free drink, and a delicious one at that. You take your time sipping it, hoping that it'll somehow offset the earlier shots before the others arrive (not how that works but you're too buzzed to know better).
Emily comes back from the bar soon enough, ready to brag about the seven digits scrawled onto the napkin in her hand. Derek complains about 'having lost his magic touch', she teases him and Spencer butts in with a statistic on the prevalence of erectile dysfunction that makes everyone burst out laughing. You can't remember why you'd been so worried about going out with the team earlier. Then, of course, the source of all your troubles arrives, right on cue.
"It's about time you guys showed up!" Spencer's face lights up, already exhausted by the antics of people who tend to be too much while fully sober.
"We were just working some stuff out," Hotch explains.
"That we were. Remember what I told you, Aaron," the older man says as he looks him in the eye, eyebrows raised to drive a point. There's definitely something in the air today. You haven't known Rossi for very long, but it's quite unlike him to be this cryptic and mysterious for no reason. Maybe they were discussing something personal, you tell yourself. Even profilers have their secrets.
You and Penelope get up from your seats to let the two men get comfortable on the cozier side of the booth. As you sit back down, your friend motions for you to get in, conveniently placing you in very close proximity to Hotch. Probably too close, in fact. Legs-touching, no-arm-space, squeeze-tight type of close.
"Sorry for the lack of personal space," he whispers softly in your ear. Fuck me. Every single cell in your body is now wide awake. If he touched you right now, you're almost sure you would faint. Suddenly, it becomes very apparent that you won't stand a chance of surviving this evening if he keeps speaking within five inches of your erogenous zones in that deliciously deep voice of his.
"I don't know about you folks, but I need a drink," Rossi announces. The others are still nursing their previous drinks, minus Hotch, who's also empty-handed.
"I'll grab you a scotch, Dave." He pauses and turns to you. "Can I get you anything?" Always the gentleman. You feel a little tipsy but consider his question, nonetheless. He doesn't actually know how much you've had—one of the perks of being a fast drinker, you suppose. It's almost like the universe keeps putting them in your hands tonight.
"I could go for one more drink." It's a half-truth, at best. You don't want to be left without his company just yet. "I'll walk with you."
The second you are out of the booth and standing on your own two feet, you realize how drunk you really are. It's a miracle that Hotch doesn't notice the fact that you're unable to walk in a straight line. At least, it seems far easier to breathe now that you are no longer hip-to-hip.
The bar is pretty packed, even though the Bob Dylan song playing through the speakers isn't a real party-starter, so to speak. You sway a little anyway. With his blazer in hand and his tie loosened, Hotch is like a different man in here. Well, not that different. Still warm like whiskey, still heart-wrenchingly handsome but more... in the moment, maybe. It's nice to see him like this.
You pull up a chair while he orders a scotch for Rossi and an old-fashioned for himself. The bartender is blond, mid-30s, with a stocky build and a full sleeve of tattoos. Probably attractive, but you can't really tell anymore. Aaron makes all men around you nearly invisible.
Speaking of him, you realize that he's been staring at you for the last thirty seconds. What? You furrow your brows in confusion. He points to the man behind the bar, waiting for your order. Oh. Right.
"I'll have the same," you say, offhandedly.
"Didn't peg you for a whiskey drinker," Hotch shoots back. He moves closer to hear you better, and to put some distance between you and the other patrons behind you trying to get close enough to order. The proximity makes you shiver.
"There's a lot you don't know about me." The smirk on your lips betrays you. From where you're sitting, you can count every single one of his eyelashes, even the little white one.
"Yeah? Like what?" He lifts an eyebrow in curiosity. If you didn't know him any better, you'd suspect he was flirting with you. Ha!
"Well, for starters, I'm very good at holding my liquor," you slur, leaning in a little closer as if to confide a secret. A single whiff of his cologne stops you in your tracks. He smells like tobacco, and cinnamon, and... vanilla? Huh.
"Are we just going to pretend you weren't stumbling around back there?" He asks, a matching smirk on his face. Fuck. He definitely caught that. Cool. Cool. Nothing you can't recover from.
"I was putting on a show. For you. Since you were watching and all." This is why you don't drink. The adrenaline is making your heart beat faster than you thought humanly possible. Your eyes are glued to his, daring him to look away first. He shows no signs of backing down.
He whispers the next part, no more than a couple of inches away from your mouth. "Do you take requests?"
Time stops for a whole second. Your mouth has gone dry. Your underwear in the other direction. Any witty remark you had shelved has flown out the window. One glance at his mouth and you can no longer form a coherent thought. It's almost like he's moving closer?
"Here are your drinks."
The bartender swiftly pushes the three drinks towards you without so much as a glance. He's taking someone else's order before you can even process what just happened.
Mildly stunned, you each grab your drinks and make your way back to the table in silence. You can't even look at him without feeling white-hot shame flood your entire being. What the fuck just happened?
Either the two of you have terrible poker faces or the team just witnessed the last five minutes of your life play out like the most embarrassing ad for sobriety. To their credit, they try to hide it by resuming conversation, but it doesn't really make the situation any better.
You make small talk with Penelope about her drink while you sip yours, trying to save some of your dignity by pretending that didn't just happen. She gracefully cooperates. You start to zone out while everyone else places their bets about who'll win the Superbowl next year. Honestly, you don't really care, not when every inch of your being feels like a poorly-sewn fabric you want to rip at the seams.
"Hey, Pen, will you let me through real quick? Need to pee." She gives you a sympathetic smile and you want to cry.
"Sure thing, sugar." She whispers the last part right before you leave. "Let me know if you need anything."
"Yup. Will do," you say, shooting her a small smile. Ah, yes, could you erase the last ten minutes of my life forever? Thanks.
That's how you find yourself in the bathroom, head spinning and hands shaking. A splash of cold water on your face doesn't really do much, besides mess up your makeup a little. Still worth a try.
How you're going to be able to face Hotch after this seems like a complete mystery. He's your boss, for God's sake. He signs your paychecks! You schedule his meetings! Judging by tonight's events, it's clear the next meeting he'll be wanting you to schedule is with HR. You let your face fall in your hands with a whimper.
Mid-way through your impromptu bathroom pity party, you hear a knock at the door. The last thing you want right now is to face your friends, not when you're going to be fired the next morning for flirting with your superior.
"I'll be out in a sec!" You quickly check your reflection again for any stray spots of mascara under your eyes or smudged lipstick. You look fine, objectively speaking. Well. No need to put off the inevitable.
Hotch stands on the other side of the bathroom door, his hair messy from having run his hands through it too many times. He wastes no time once it opens.
"First off, I want to apologize for making you uncomfortable. It was not my intention to hurt you in any way and I accept full responsibility for the way I behaved." He's got a serious look on his face and maintains a healthy distance of at least five feet from you. Needless to say, you're more than confused.
"What the hell are you talking about, Hotch?" You hope he'll ignore the profane language, considering the circumstances.
"Earlier, at the bar. I made you uncom—"
"No, you didn't."
"What?" Now it's his turn to act confused.
"You didn't make me uncomfortable. If anything, I—Nevermind. My point is I obviously misread the situation and I understand if you want to fire me."
"Why on Earth would I fire you? You do your job exceptionally well and everyone on the team is happy to have you here." It's definitely not the time or the place but his praise makes you feel hot all over. Focus!
"My comment, at the bar. It was... not appropriate. I know that now."
"You—" He puts a hand on his forehead and lets out an audible sigh. "I think there's been a misunderstanding here."
"Yeah, no, I know. Believe me." This is going worse than you thought.
"No, you don't." He looks frustrated, clearly, but you don't understand why he's taking it out on you. You don't particularly want to pick a fight with your boss at this hour, but all this weird, pent-up energy has to go somewhere.
"I like you," he says suddenly, looking into your eyes. He looks so painfully sincere you know he means it. He places his hand on your arm and you're sure you must be dreaming. Maybe you've fainted and don't know it yet.
"Oh." You want to say something sweet, or smart, or funny, but you seem to have forgotten how to speak and so you do the next best thing you can think of.
You grab his face and plant a small, chaste kiss on his lips, so that he gets the hint. They're a little wet and taste like the whiskey he was drinking. When you pull away, you notice the soft pink flush on his cheeks and a devious little twinkle in his eyes.
What you don't expect is him pulling you in for another kiss. This time it's softer and more sensual, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth through feel alone. He even tastefully slips in a little tongue. Very classy of him, you think. You almost feel mad about all the time you've spent not kissing him. You'd tell him as much if he let you speak for maybe just a single second.
"You know," Kiss. "I'll go into" Kiss. "cardiac arrest" Kiss. "if you keep doing that." He's got a sly smirk on his face when he finally pulls away, clearly proud of himself for how this whole situation has turned out.
"That would be bad."
"I agree." You pull away from him so you can collect yourself for a second. His smile playfully drops when you do so. "Come on." You tilt your head towards the exit. "You still have to give me a ride home, Hotchner."
author's note: HELLO! i am back from the abyss! i wrote most of this in a single day and then it took me like three days to edit it cause i couldn't get back into the groove of the whole thing (RIP) 😔 writing hotch and reader flirting and kissing did have me giggling and kicking my feet tho i won't lie to you 🤗 if you have any juicy ideas/headcanons/requests PLEAAASE send them my way! also your likes/reposts/comments help keep my serotonin levels high and my fingers typing 🫳💻 thank you all for being so nice!!!! i love youuuu 😊❤️🤏
The second you step through the door, you feel every head in the room turn.
Late. Unapologetically. And very obviously not wearing a bra under your white button-up.
Your nipples are stiff from the chilled air, outlined like punctuation marks under the thin cotton. Subtle was never your strong suit. Neither was following orders. Which, unfortunately, happens to be Aaron Hotchner’s kink and his trigger.
Your heels click through the silence as you make your way to the only open seat—directly across from him. You don’t apologize. You just drop into the chair, toss your hair over your shoulder, and casually fold your arms under your chest.
Which, of course, only pushes them up more.
“Glad you could join us,” he mutters, without lifting his gaze. “Though I’d suggest reviewing Bureau expectations regarding punctuality.”
You smile sweetly. “I’ll study extra hard.”
Someone behind you coughs to cover a laugh. His eyes flicker up—just for a second—and land squarely on your smirk. His jaw tenses.
You are so going to pay for this later.
9:47 AM – Meeting Adjourned
Hotch closes the folder with a decisive snap.
“That’s all,” he says curtly, standing. “The unsub profile will be distributed by noon. And in the future—” his eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly on you “—let’s remember how important discipline and professionalism are in this line of work.”
There it is. That sharp, clipped delivery. The verbal equivalent of a warning shot. You stay seated, watching as agents file out, mumbling their goodbyes and tapping their watches. Hotch busies himself at the head of the table, back turned, stacking files like he hasn’t just been half-hard for the past forty minutes.
You rise slowly, heels clicking softly as you cross the room behind him.
Then—pinch.
Right on the sensitive spot at his side, just above the waistband of his slacks.
He jumps. Actually jumps.
Spins on instinct, dropping the file in his hand as he glares down at you. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses under his breath. “What the hell was that?”
You tilt your head, all innocence and venom. “Sorry. Just checking if that stick was still up your ass.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re pushing it.”
You step closer, eyes raking over his flushed neck and clenched jaw. You bat your lashes. “You’re tense.”
“You were late.”
“And you were staring.”
“I was not—” His eyes drag over you again. He clears his throat. “You’re being inappropriate.”
You smirk. “I thought you liked inappropriate.”
His jaw clenches. You lean closer, voice barely above a whisper. “You gonna punish me for it, Hotch?”
“You think you can do whatever the hell you want because we’re sleeping together?”
You lean against the door, crossing your arms. “No. I think I can do what I want because I’m good at my job and you can’t discipline me without giving away your favorite extracurricular activity.”
He takes a step forward, his voice stern with anger. “My office. Now.”
11:24 AM – Hotch’s Office
You’re sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk, spinning slightly. Legs crossed, skirt inching up just enough to press a point. When he walks in, he shuts the blinds without a word.
That’s how you know you’ve won.
“I don’t even know where to start with you,” he says, walking to the desk.
You raise a brow. “Good thing you called this meeting then.”
Hotch steps behind you, suddenly closer than you expect. His hand clamps down on your jaw, fingers pressing just enough to tilt your head back.
“You think this is a game?”
“Pretty sure it’s just foreplay.”
His hand releases you, but the tension remains. He steps around the desk, loosening his tie, eyes locked on yours like a warning.
“You think this is funny?” he asks, arms folded.
“Little bit.” You cock your head. “You should’ve seen your face. The moment you realized what I wasn’t wearing?”
He exhales hard through his nose. “You show up late, half-dressed, and think it’s a joke?”
“I think you liked it,” you counter, stepping closer. “Your voice cracked twice. You barely looked at me the whole meeting.”
“I was leading a federal briefing.”
“And now you’re not.” Your hand reaches up, fingers lightly grazing the buttons of your shirt. “So what now, Agent?”
His eyes drop.
Hooked.
You pop a button. Slowly. “If I recall correctly, insubordination’s grounds for a very thorough… reprimand.”
His mouth is a hard line. His eyes are anything but.
You pop another button.
You barely have time to react before you're pressed back against the edge of his desk, the polished wood cold against your thighs, your shirt half-open, chest heaving under his stare. His hands cage you in—one planted on the desk beside your hip, the other gripping the back of your neck with barely restrained control.
“I don’t know if you’re brave,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “or just really fucking stupid.”
You smile. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”
His hand tightens slightly, just enough to make you swallow your next quip.
“You want a punishment?” he asks, eyes flicking down to your exposed chest, the peaks of your nipples taut and aching under the air-conditioning. “You think I won’t give you one right here?”
You shrug, lips curling. “Think? I’m counting on it.”
He curses under his breath—and then he grabs you.
Turns you around in a swift, commanding motion, bending you over the desk with practiced ease. Your palms flatten against the surface as you feel him press behind you, his hips flush to your ass, his breath hot against your ear.
“You don’t follow rules,” he growls. “You don’t show up on time. You don’t wear a bra to my meeting.”
You wiggle your hips slightly, grinning. “And now I’m bent over your desk.”
His hand comes down hard—smack—against your ass. You gasp, biting your lip.
“Keep talking,” he warns, “and I’ll make sure you can’t sit through tomorrow’s briefing.”
You hum, pressing back into him. “Is that a promise, sir?”
Another sharp smack. Then his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back enough to hear your breath hitch.
He drags your skirt up and groans when he realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath.
“You planned this,” he mutters, kneeling behind you. “You wanted to piss me off.”
And then his tongue is on you—no warning, no hesitation. He licks a stripe up your slit and moans when you twitch under him, grabbing onto the desk like you might lose your footing.
“Fuck—Hotch—”
He wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you in place, tongue flicking, sucking, tasting every reaction. He’s rougher than usual. Sloppier. Like the lines between punishment and praise have blurred.
You’re whining now—hips grinding back against his face, thighs trembling. “Aaron—!”
He pulls away only long enough to unbuckle his belt and flip you onto your back across the desk, pants barely down before he’s inside you—hard, thick, stretching you in the best way. The desk creaks violently under the weight of his thrusts.
“Gonna fuck that brat out of you,” he growls.
“Better fuck harder, then,” you moan back.
You moan, biting your forearm to keep quiet. It’s barely working. “You’re dripping,” he mutters, thrusting harder. “You’re fucking soaked and I haven’t even touched you properly.”
“You are,” you gasp, “so mad right now.”
“Oh, I am,” he hisses into your ear, one hand gripping your shoulder as he drives into you faster. “I’m furious. Furious that you make me this fucking stupid.”
You cry out when he grabs your hair, pulling you up against his chest.
“I should’ve let you sit there and squirm through that meeting,” he pants. “Should’ve let you suffer.”
His hand slides between your legs and rubs tight, brutal circles over your clit. You scream.
“That the mouth you bring to team meetings?” he pants.
You nod, wrecked. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see how smart it is when you’re full of me.”
Hotch grabs your wrists, pins them to the desk with one hand, and fucks into you so hard the entire surface creaks under your bodies.
“Fuck—Aaron—” You come again—so hard you black out for a second. His pace is brutal now. Deep, claiming strokes that steal your breath. Hotch doesn’t stop. He grits your name, thrusts twice more, and then he’s spilling inside you with a low, desperate groan.
For a long, quiet moment, the room is filled with nothing but your ragged breathing.
Then you say, “So… do I get a formal write-up, or…?”
Hotch pulls out slowly, dragging your panties back up with rough precision. “You get dinner.”
You glance back at him, smug. “So now I’m rewarded for bad behavior?”
He buttons your shirt for you without meeting your eyes. “You’re getting dinner so you don’t try this again in front of my entire team.”
You grin. “Guess I’ll have to find a new way to drive you insane, then.”
summary: After being inspired by the TikTok trend of calling your exes to wish them goodnight, Aaron Hotchner is surprised with a call from his ex-wife.
word count: 1.3k
warning: straight up fluff
note: Also, this wouldn't be me because I would've never let go of him sooooo
Even though exhaustion hadwrapped around his muscles, his body ached to be scrubbed off in the shower and melted back into the comforts of his bed, Aaron could not give in just yet. It might've not been a day where they were on the field, an uncommon occurrence really, but he'd rather tackle down an unsub than do paperwork.
A heavy sigh left his lips as he glanced to his side. His eyes met the darkness that shadowed the empty tables of his team. Stacks of folders and valuables documents sat as piles on their desk. Looking back at his table, his stack had decreased significantly from what seemed impossible. However, it did force him to stay longer than he had intended to—2 hours past his usual clock-out. Some days fell inevitable.
The folder he laid across his table stared up at him, waiting patiently for him to wrap it up. Rereading the sentence he had read at least four times already, the words were a jumbled-up mess, Aaron repositioned himself on his seat to get back into the mood he started with. Just a few more. With his ink pen ready in hand, he was ready to scribble the same signature he had jotted down more than twelve times already.
RINGGGG. The abrupt noise cut through the empty air. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the phone buzzed, screaming for his attention. Aaron snatched it. Was it another emergency case? He hoped not, because he didn't want to deal with the hassle of calling his team. All the dreaded thoughts about another mission left his body once his eyes read the caller’s ID. A relieved exhale calmed down his nerves. It was just Y/N. But then like a cracked open dam, his heart picked up its pace. Nervousness from anticipation. Why is she calling? Is she in danger?
Not allowing the phone to cycle through another ring, Aaron interjected midway—silencing its cries, “Hello Y/N.” He was up from his seat. More like shot up, and that usually meant business.
"Hey Aaron," She responded. Sitting cross-legged on her sofa with a blanket thrown over her lap, Y/N played with the cold metal of her bracelet. It had been one of those self-care nights: hair wash day, body shaved, skin shining from body oil, and teeth shining from whitening strips—she felt like she could take over the world. Maybe because she had already miraculously won the battle in the shower, to end up in her best pyjamas under her fluffiest blanket. "Am I disturbing?"
The unit chief shook his head—forgetting that he was behind a screen and that she could not see him. She had that effect on him. "No, not at all." Clearing his throat to remove the obstruction in his throat, his mouth suddenly forgot how to function. "You okay? You... don't usually call."
A small chuckle pressed into his ear, "Yeah. I don't, huh?"
Playing a soft smile on his lips, Aaron played with the pens that sat on his desk—arranging them in their organized, proper way as his mind focused every second of the call. Anything that he could get from her. Every breath, every laugh.
"Whatcha doin'?" Y/N inquired, reaching for the TV remote.
"Working, you know—the usual." Aaron sat on the edge of his desk, readying himself for the lecture he just dragged himself into. He could've lied. He could've said he was in bed, just reading a little bit before hitting it off to snooze land, but a small part of him wanted this, wanted to hear her lecture like old times.
"What?" All it took was to glance at a clock. "Aaron, it's twelve in the morning and your ass is in the office?" Even though they'd had this conversation more than she could count, Aaron was stubborn. She remembered strange hours of nights when she drove herself to his office just to drag him back home. Home. Suddenly, the walls of her house caved in. Short core memories they shared knocked on her door, flooding her thoughts. A glance was thrown to the empty side of the sofa he would sit at, the sofa they had bought together.
All the exhaustion he had felt not too long ago had left his body. Other men would let out the heaviest sigh and end the call—especially when it was a call with their ex-wife, but not Aaron Hotchner. No, he grinned. "Yeah? Guess I lost track of time."
"You always lose track of time, Aaron Hotchner, you can't be doing this." Y/N scolded, rolling her eyes. "I can hear your joints creaking all the way here."
Shaking his head at her audacity, Aaron let out a laugh, already expecting her to say that. However, she had him beat as she said it before the 1-minute mark he had expected. A con of being a profiler. A curse and a blessing. He responded, "Alright, don't be mean now. I'm not that old."
"That's not what you said when we first met."
Aaron huffed, "Maybe I should ask you then missy, why are you up at this time?"
"Wouldn't you wanna know, weather boy?" Before he could interject and question, she cut him off. "Cleaned my whole place today. I think we might have matching joints now."
"Welcome to the club," God, Aaron felt his cheeks pinch and sting from how much he was smiling. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much if he had smiled more. He thought he couldn't grin wider, but he did once he heard a laugh from the other end. "Well, you needed me?"
An 'oh' came from her lips as she realized why she called him. Repositioning herself on her seat to lock back in, she rested her feet on the sofa. She inhaled a bit before she got to the fun part, "I just wanted to say goodnight."
Aaron blinked, processing her words, "Goodnight?"
She hummed, "Yeah, I'm ready for bed and jus' wanted to say goodnight before I snooze off." It took a lot from her to not let a laugh escape because she knew if one wrong breath went out—she was done for. She would blow her cover.
Aaron wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep finally catching up to him or if his age had caught up to the point he might’ve lost his hearing because he truly could not comprehend what was going on. He picked up on the small laugh, “Are you okay?” He asked. “Are you drunk? Do you need me to come over?”
She couldn’t help the laughter from escaping. After gathering herself back, she responded, “I’m fine Aaron, really, and I’m not drunk. Just wanted to wish you a goodnight and sleep tight.”
Aaron took time to process her words, still unconvinced with her words, “Are you high?”
“What?” She half-screamed, fully amused at his accusations. “Aaron, I am perfectly fine. I have not had any sip of alcohol, I am not smoking a blunt right now, and I am also not doing coke. Can a girl not wish you goodnight?”
“Of course, you can,” Aaron responded, his tone as if she had asked a rhetorical question.
“Alright then," Y/N beamed, expressing too much energy for someone at midnight, especially after claiming victory in her bathroom. "Goodnight Aaron.” The words sounded coy, almost as if there was an underlying intention.
Aaron smiled, rounding to the seating side of his desk, and pulling open the drawer to reveal his wedding band that he shared with her. He felt like a high schooler again, “Goodnight, missy.”
“Byee,” Y/N sang softly, picking at the unravelling threads of her blanket. The call had dragged on longer than she had expected, filled with comfortable silence, and Aaron Hotchner still had remaining files waiting.
“Bye, Y/N.”
Silence stretched, familiar and tranquil.
“...Okay, bye Aaronn.”
“Bye, Y/N.”
Squinting at her screen, seeing the number increase with every quiet second, she laughed, “Why aren’t you ending the call?” God, she felt like a middle schooler as she raised the blanket to her face, covering her joyous face.
Aaron shrugged, taking out the gleaming ring onto his palm, “Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“You’re so dumb.”
“Am not.”
Another silent beat.
“Bye Aaron!”
“Bye Y/N.”
Then as if another caller, silence entered their call. The type of silence that you enjoy just listening to their breaths. She could feel her heartbeat pick up as she blurted out, "I made cookies."
"Hm?" Aaron fidgeted with the silver ring between his fingers, his body moving on its own will as he slipped it on where it used to sit.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, "Wanna come over?"
Aaron's grip on the device tightened, "Fifth floor?"
With a 'yeah', the call ended. That was all it took for her to jump from her couch to spray her house with whatever house spray she could get her hands on. The ones Aaron liked. Maybe she would win another battle, this time in her bed.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends with benefits to lovers, light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (oral f! receiving, p in v, cockwarming), humor, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: Friends with benefits doesn't work. You fall out of line and fall in love, trapped in Dean with no hope of escaping.
But he might never want you to leave.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one was very fun. All time favorite hobby, giving men emotions.
Word Count: 5.4k
The room is dark.
You never let Dean turn on the overheads, there are no windows in the bunker, and you angle yourself to stay away from the hallway light—leaking under the door—so it’s as dark as you can possibly make it.
It’s still not enough.
Your eyes aren’t your friend, and they adjust. You can still hear your skin slapping against Dean’s as he guides you up and down his cock, and his groans of your name whenever you squeeze around him or scratch at his chest. You can feel him, everywhere, and it’s the best, cruelest thing in the world.
He’s deep inside of you, pressed right on that spot no one else can ever it, and you can feel it lighting up in every nerve of your body. He keeps trying to grab your hand, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to help with, but you can’t let him. But there’s not winning, because the only way to avoid it is planting your palms flat on his chest and feeling the firm muscle shift and flex whenever he ruts up into you. He’s got a hand secured on your hip to keep you above him and the other playing with your tits. Flicking at your nipple and palming at them more for himself than you, but it still feels good. Then his hand will shift down to flick at your clit, and you’ll arch your back with a high gasp, and it’s too much and never enough.
It really doesn’t matter if Dean is doing this for you, or for himself. You’ll give him whatever he wants.
But it’s not dark enough.
So you keep your eyes squeezed shut, and try not to think about who’s below you. It’s an impossible task, when nobody else is a good as he is. Nobody fits into you like Dean, no one else has that deep, gravelly voice and says your name like it’s a baseline in their favorite song, no one else knows that if they grab you by your neck and press their thumb into your mouth, right as they slam up into you, you’ll make that stupid, high, breathy sound and your pussy will flutter around them.
And Dean always laughs to himself after, and the sound rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your clit, and then you let out the loud moan of his name that means you lost.
You know it’s Dean below you. It’s always going to be Dean below you, until he kicks you out to the curb. And even then, you’ll just sit in the gutter and hope he comes back.
You love him. You’d never want anyone else but him.
But Dean doesn’t do love.
And you knew that, the first time he kissed you after a bad hunt, right after yelling at you for ten straight minutes about trying to get yourself killed. You knew it when cornered you in the hallway with a hungry expression, licking his lips and muttering that he didn’t mean to yell, but he needed to be able to touch you. You’ve known it, every time you’ve fallen back into bed with him—only more and more as the months pass, until it’s more of a routine than an itch being scratched—and he’s pulled you apart, and you’ve failed to find a room that’s dark enough.
Because this is the part that you always try so hard to avoid, and never can. Dean moans your name and tries to pull you down into a kiss, and you can’t stop him—you don’t hate yourself that much, or enough—but you still can’t look at him. And then you can taste the cherry and whiskey from dinner on his lips, and feel him a little more than everywhere, and he mutters your name again.
You push up. You always sit right back up, even when Dean tries to trap you against his chest.
But you also fail again.
Your eyes open.
And he’s art. Looking up at you will the sex-addled expression you only see half shrouded in shadows, where his eyes are hooded and he’s licking his lips. And he looks like he was carved from marble rather than just made, and his chest is heaving as he fucks up into you at a brutal pace, and when your mouth falls open in a silent scream he pushes up and kisses you again.
You manage to close your eyes.
The damage is already done.
You love him. You love his face, and how he never stops you from digging your nails into his chest until it’s littered with small marks, and how when he cums in you he moans your name in the only way you’ve ever wanted to hear it. You love how he always stays in you for another moment after, and buries his face in your breasts like he can’t bear to move—even though he always does, and you know he just likes boobs—before kissing your neck and going to clean you up.
The cleaning you up is the worst part. You have to wait for him, because whenever you try to leave after that he just picks you up and tosses you back onto the bed. And your heart won’t be able to take that, right now. The way he’ll just wrap his arms around your stomach and carry you to the mattress, pinning you down and grumbling that you’re like a stray cat sometimes, just taking his food and running away before he can take care of you.
And you always tell him he doesn’t even like cats, and he just laughs, shrugs, and pushes your legs apart to clean the mess between them.
Today, you don’t try to run. It’s already too much to have him watching you so carefully as he works, and leaving soft kisses on your knees and thighs. You have just stare at the ceiling and take it, trying to fight down the soft sob rising in your throat.
This isn’t fair. You love him, and he’s just doing this to you like it’s not breaking and remaking you every single fucking moment, and you want to hit him then climb right into his chest forever.
And you know Dean cares about you. He’s your friend, and that’s probably why you’re allowed to stay in his bed after. Why he always brings you water and food to get your energy back. Friends is still a part of the arrangement. Even with benefits.
But it’s been too much, today. So before Dean can even grab the box of your favorite snack he keeps in his mini fridge—just for you, which is even crueler—you’re running. Grabbing your clothing and scrambling into it, then slipping out the door before he can stop you.
It’s fucking cowardly.
But you need a shower so you stop feeling his phantom warmth on your body. To wash away the smell of him all over your hair, and give you a safe place to cry on the floor until it feels a little better. And if you’d told Dean you needed a shower, he’d just try to shower together.
It’s so mean. How he does sweet things like that and expects you not to fall for him, to keep the line between sex and friendship so firm.
You can’t even tell him he’s being mean. He doesn’t know you love him. He has no way to know.
You still need to curl up in the corner of the shower and cry, though. Where the soft sobs that shake your body are drowned in the water, and the tears are washed away the same second they fall. Then you can pick yourself up, drag yourself back together where Dean had unraveled you, and just keep moving.
It’s not good form, to ignore him. You have to smile at Dean when he walks into the kitchen the next morning, and not start crying when all you get is an odd frown in return. You just drop your gaze back to your cereal, and bite your lip to keep it from wobbling. And when you go to town with Sam you can feel him staring at your back as you leave, and when you’re putting away the groceries and talking to Sam about something stupid, Dean won’t stop walking in and out of the room without saying a single word.
He’s still your friend. You smile at him every time, but wait for him to speak first, and he never does. He just frowns and grumbles something at Sam, then fucking walks away.
He’s ignoring you.
Maybe he’s done with you. Maybe he called it, last night, and now he’s trying to figure out how to tell you. And that fractures at your heart all day, right until you’re curled up in the library, trying to think about anything but Dean, and failing just as drastically as you always do.
Or maybe Dean’s just Dean. Grumpy and bad at talking about anything.
Because he doesn’t seem done with you when he leans over your chair and starts to kiss along your neck.
You shouldn’t let him. Not when he’s barely said a word to you all day.
But you love him. And he hasn’t been angry or rude. He might have just had a bad day.
So you angle your head a little to the side to grant him further access, and let out a long sigh.
He bites and sucks a deep mark against your skin.
You’re going to fall apart again, and he’s barely even touched you.
“Dean,” you mumble, trying to keep your attention on your book. “Sam’s in the other room.”
He grunts, big hands brushing your hair to the side. “So? He’s seen me do a hell of a lot worse than kiss a pretty girl.”
“But- It’s-“ Your breath hitches as he nips at your throat, and you shake your head weakly. “Dean- I can’t.”
He freezes. “Can’t what.”
“Have sex.” You mumble, turning another page, having not read a single word on the first one. “I- I’m busy.”
“That’s fine, sweetheart, we can just sit.”
“But- I- I’m busy-“
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He sighs, right in your ear, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Then he says your name, and you have to just keep fucking looking at your book.
He repeats it. You just hum. You can’t-
“Look at me.” He grunts, and you swallow.
All the words on the page look more like scratching marks. All you can really see is Dean in your periphery, moving to kneel before you and taking your face between his hands.
You still can’t look. Even as he tilts your head up, you keep your eyes fixed down.
You don’t know what he’s trying to do, when he grunts your name again.
You know it’s mean.
“Son of a bitch,” He mutters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you almost start crying again. “Fucking- Just look at me-“
You shake your head weakly. “I- I’m busy-“
“Too damn busy to look at me?”
There’s no good answer to that. And Dean know is, because he lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head.
“C’mon, baby, I- I know you’re pissed at me, but-“
That gets your gaze to snap up to his. And he looks devastated. Like you’ve been kicking him on the ground, with a deep frown and furrowed brow and open expression of strain over his handsome features.
You really don’t know what’s happening. At all.
“What?”
Dean clears his throat, and suddenly you can hear how hoarse his voice is. “You’ve been ignoring me all day-“
“You’ve been ignoring me-“
“I’ve been giving you space.” He grunts. “And don’t try and tell me something isn’t wrong. You fuckin’ bolted last night, so I know something’s wrong.”
Fuck. “I- I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. And I know I fucked something up, and I’m gonna fix it-“
“You can’t fix it, Dean.”
His brows raise. “So there is something.”
Fuck. “You- Uh-“
“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters, tracing his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. “I’ll fix it, baby. Promise.”
“I-“ You let out a long, slow sigh. Too late to go back now. “Dean, I told you, you can’t.”
“Not if you don’t tell me.” He grumbles, holding your gaze. “Did I forget something? Say something? Was- Uh- Was it bad last time-“
“It’s never bad.” You say quickly, and his frown twitches. “And you- this isn’t your fault-“
“It sure goddamn feels like it’s my fault.” He snaps. “And you just need tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Swear I will, I’ll do anything, just tell me how to fix it.”
You need to look away from him. He’s on his knees and begging you, and it hurts. He’s pressing on a raw, open wound in your heart and he doesn’t even know it, and you’re confused and trapped in him, and he doesn’t know. He can’t know. He’s never known. And you have to look away but you can’t. You’ve never been able to. To look away, or walk away, or stop loving him.
And Dean looks like he’s in pain, and that should make you mad, but it just breaks your heart even more.
“Dean.” You hold his hands against your face, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault. I promise.”
His eyes narrow. “Alright, then tells me whose fault it is, and I’ll kick their ass-“
“It’s my fault.” You whisper, your voice already cracking. “I- I know you don’t do relationships, Dean, and I’m not trying to like, give you an ultimatum or something, but I can’t- I can’t keep-“
You take a shaking breath, and Dean mutters your name, but you just squeeze your eyes shut and keep pushing.
“I- I love you, and this,” you gesture between your bodies. “It’s hurting me, Dean. It really hurts. And that’s not your fault. But it still hurts. That’s it.”
He’s not saying anything. And you’re still not looking at him, so you can’t work out if he’s pissed, or annoyed, or indifferent.
Pissed you can take. At least you can try and let him fully break your heart, so you’re cured of him. Annoyed you can handle too. You’reannoyed with yourself too.
But indifferent might break you. The idea that Dean simply doesn’t give a shit that you love him, and he’s willing to keep fucking you as long as you don’t expect more-
That will slam you into the dirt, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to drag yourself back up.
He says your name, and you can’t read that tone. “Open your eyes.”
You shake your head. He’s still touching you. Rough, warms hands so gentle on your face. Maybe he knows he’s about to shatter your heart, so he’s trying to be careful with the rest of you.
“Baby, I need you to look at me.”
Baby.
That’s not fair.
Your eyes drag open, and Dean’s frowning at you. But it’s not his angry frown, where he looks like he’s gunning to rip something in half. It’s not his bored frown either.
It’s just that hurt look. Like a kicked dog, wet from the rain and whimpering to be let inside.
You were wrong about the indifference.
This hurts more.
“You love me?” He whispers, and it’s hard to talk through the lump in your throat.
“I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, firm and demanding, and you nod.
“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenches. “You- You’re fucking sorry?”
You blink. “I-“
“And you think I don’t love you?” His voice is raising. Not to a shout, but still something angry. “You- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re-“
“Dean-“
“Of course I fucking love you!” He snaps, and you might be floating out of your body. “I- Goddamnit, I’ve been- I thought you just- Fuck-“
“Dean.” You try to make your voice sound firm, but it just comes out a plea. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head, and you bite on your lower lip until you taste blood. “Shit, I’ve been such a dumbass-“
You frown. “No you haven’t-“
“Yeah, I have. I didn’t know this wasn’t a-“ He swallows, scanning over you with a broken expression, his voice almost a rasp. “I thought we were dating.”
You might be drowning. Or dead. Maybe Sam crashed the car on the way back from town, and this is just hell or heaven or limbo. The world is blurry, but you can see Dean clearly. There’s a ringing in your ears, but you still heard him.
You think you heard him. You’re really not sure.
“What?”
“You’ve been it for me,” Dean says your name, and your grips tightens on his hands. “For a goddamn year, you’ve been everything. And I- I thought I told you. We- we go to bar together, and we sleep in the same bed on hunts, and I- Son of a bitch, we’ve gone on dates-“
“No, we haven’t-“
“We go to the movies all the goddamn time-“
“As friends.” You protest, and Dean snorts.
“Friends don’t give each other hand jobs in the theater, sweetheart.”
You flush, but still shake your head. “But you- You never told me-“
“Yeah, I did.”
“Dean-“
“I said I had to have you.” He mutters. “That I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t need you.”
Your eyes widen. “I- I thought you meant my body.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I figured that out myself.”
“It’s- You’ve just always said you don’t do relationships-“
“I didn’t. Before you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He pauses, scanning over you carefully, his voice still a rasp. “Do you- do you want that?”
You frown. “Want-“
“Me.”
You can’t stop your mouth from falling open. “Of course I fucking want you, dumbass, I just said I loved you.”
Something flashes over Dean’s face, and he nods slowly. “Good. That’s- Good. C’mon.”
He starts to tug you to your feet, and you just stare at him. “Dean, what-“
“Move, sweetheart, I’m trying to fuck you properly-“
“You always fuck me properly-“
“Apparently not, if you thought I didn’t love you-“
Your heart does a little stutter stop. “You really love me?”
“Course I fuckin’ love you. More than anything. But you didn’t know, so I gotta fix that- Son of a bitch.”
He’s staring at you, and you blink up at him in open confusion. “What?”
“That’s why you always make me turn off the lights.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “And why you’re always on top, and you never hold my hand, and- Fuck, baby, I thought you were just shy-“
“Dean, I-“
“No.” His hand moves to cover your mouth, his eyes narrowed on yours. “We’re doin’ this right, this time. I’m gonna fuck you with the lights on, and you’re gonna look at me and take everything I give you. Blink twice if you’ve got it.”
You’re only staring at him, something dying then rebooting in your brain. He loves you. Dean loves you. And he’s looking at you as if you’re all he’s ever wanted, and you need him, and you can’t remember how to do anything but look at him-
“I need you to blink, sweetheart.” He mutters. “I’m not doing anything until you’re good with it.”
That’s the reset. You need him, now, and you can move again.
You pull his hand down slowly, holding his gaze as you speak. “I’m good with it. Please.”
His throat bobs, and you get a tight nod in return. “Good. Hold on.”
“Hold- Dean!”
At the very least, Dean moved your book out of your lap before he tossed you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He’s walking before you even get a chance to wiggle, and the moment you try, a sharp slap lands on your ass.
You squeak, twisting and pushing on his back to glare at him, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Dean Winchester, I’m gonna kick your ass-“
“You’re cute when you threaten me.” He turns to nip at the exposed skin of your thigh, and a moan escapes your throat. “C’mon, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
You frown, but still slump into his hold. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I- I dunno-“
“You better not be talking about what we’re about to do.” He hums, and you go almost boneless as one of his hands trails right between your thighs, rubbing your pussy over your shorts.
“Dean-“
“Trust me, baby.” He shoulders open the door to his room, and lowering you down to sit on the edge of the mattress and settling between your legs. “This is about me.”
You swallow, nod, and Dean’s smirk splits into a full, wide grin. He holds your face so carefully, as he pulls you into a kiss. Trailing his tongue over your lips and nipping at the corner of your mouth, chuckling as your arms wrap around his neck and you must be dreaming. You’ve had this dream. The one where you bite his lower lip right back and he growls, deepening the kiss until melted against him and clinging to his as tight as you can, pulled entirely apart from only a kiss. The dream where you’re still Dean’s to do whatever he wants with, but all he wants is you.
It hits you fully, when he helps you out of your shorts without ever fully breaking the kiss, presses his hand against your clothed pussy, and groans into your mouth.
All Dean wants is you.
“So fucking wet,” he mutters your name, rubbing his palm in a slow circle. “You ever get this wet for anyone else, sweetheart?”
You shake your head, your fingers curling on his neck. “N- No, Dean-“
“I know,” he coos, almost teasing, and you start to grind into him. “You need it bad, don’t you-“
“Yes-“ You gasp as the heel of his palm starts to rub over your clit. “Feels so good-“
“Yeah, it does.” He mutters, and you buck into his touch. “Jesus, baby, someone would think I’ve been neglecting you-“
“Dean-“
“Sorta have, I guess. Need to fix that.” His fingers drift up, playing with the band of your panties. “You like these?”
“No-“
“I’ll buy you new ones anyway.”
You hear the rip of the fabric, but a weak protest barely leaves your throat before Dean’s diving down, and everything narrows to heaven. It’s always heaven, when Dean licks a firm stripe your pussy and sucks your clit between his lips, giving it just enough attention drive you insane before he moves away. Dragging down and tasting every bit of your pleasure, groaning against you when your thighs squeeze his head, the sound vibrating through your body and making you fall flat back on the bed.
Your hands fly into his hair, as he pushes his tongue into your entrance and lets his nose rub on your clit. His stubble is tickling at your inner thighs, and he keeps moaning into you, and whenever you gasp his name, it only seems to spur him on.
“Shit- I-“ You take a sharp breath when his teeth scrape against you, and his hands squeeze your ass, angling you a little higher. “Dean-“
He groans, and when you angle your head up, he’s fucking rutting against the edge of the bed.
He’s getting off on it. On eating you out like he’s been starved of you.
And you’re seconds from toppling over the edge when he pulls away, and a high whine leaves your throat.
“Taste so good,” He mutters, kissing right over your clit and sending a shiver of pleasure through your body. “Son of a bitch, baby, the sounds you make-“
His thumb presses on your clit, a loud moan pushes itself out of your throat, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah, just like that.”
“Dean,” you mumble, tugging at his hair. “I was so close-“
“I know, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, dragging your hand away before kissing over your knuckles as well. “But want you to cum on my cock. You think you can do that?”
You nod frantically, and Dean grins.
“Good girl.”
He rises up, shedding his clothing like it’s coated with toxins, and crawls over you with an almost feral grin. You can see how hard he is, thick and long and all yours, and your legs spread wide to let him settle between them.
This is usually the part where you make him flip you over, and you fix your gaze anywhere but his face. But tonight, it’s all Dean. And he’s keeping you right below him, twinging his fingers in yours and squeezing your hand with a wide grin.
You don’t know how you ever lived without this. Without your eyes wide on Dean’s as he pushes into you, watching his nostrils flare, and mouth fall open in pleasure. You’re never going to be able to not have it, now. But that was always the fear.
Now you get to have Dean bottom out, lean down to give you a heavy, hot kiss as he lets you adjust, and fall apart from only the adoration in his gaze.
“Ready?” He mutters, his voice a deep, gravely sound that makes you clench around him, and he groans. “Goddamnit, sweetheart-“
“Sorry,” you whisper, and he laughs.
“No, you’re not.”
You’re really not.
Because Dean starts to fuck you.
He’s everywhere. Drilling into you until your right back on the edge, his lips attacking every bit of bare skin he can find. One hand stays in yours as the other angles you up to drive himself impossibly deeper, until he’s hitting a deep and needy spot that makes stars cloud your vision. Every time you roll to meet him, he moans your name and captures your lips back against his, and your arms wrap around his neck to keep him a close as possible. So his body is molding into yours, and there’s no clear line between you, and every time you plead for more he just swallows it with a kiss, and throws it right back to you.
The hand on your hip moves without warning, pressing right over your clit, and you fly apart. Warmth washing over you like a wave as your scream, and Dean just eats that sound too.
He’s not stopping. His cock slams right back against that spot, and you’re thrown even higher up. But Dean just keeps catching you—fucking you into oblivion and rubbing your clit until you’re a messy, whining frenzy—and when you sense him reaching the edge, you hook your legs around his waist to try and keep him.
You know you have him.
But you don’t want to miss a single thing.
Dean slams home with another moan and pinch of your clit, and you cling to him as tight as you can. You’re a boneless, heated mess of want, but you’re Dean’s. And he’s still rutting into you as your last orgasm shivers up your spine, and he collapses over you with a grunt.
“Can I-“ Dean clears his throat, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “I’ll clean you up later, promise, but I kinda wanna-“
“Stay?” You whisper, your voice a little hoarse from the everything, and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah. That.”
“Okay.”
He pushes up on his palms, remaining sheathed inside of you as he gives you a pointed look. “That easy, huh?”
You flush, your fingers curling on his neck. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he rolls his hips, already semi-hard again, and your lips part in a sharp gasp. “For months. Thought you just didn’t like, y’know-“ He nods down between your bodies. “This.”
“Cuddling?”
“Yeah. And if I knew all I had to do was ask-“ He frowns to himself. “Would you have said yes?”
“To you?” Your voice is still soft, and Dean only gives you a small nod in return. “Yeah.”
“Even though you thought we weren’t together?”
You sigh. “I still loved you, Dean.”
He nods slowly. “And now?”
“Wha-“
“You love me now, right.”
You giggle, tugging him down into a long, slow kiss before humming against his lips. “Now, I’m never letting you go.”
“Good.” He mumbles, twitching inside of you and making your hips jerk. “Not gonna go anywhere. I’ll latch onto you like, uh- What’s something that sticks-“
“Velcro?”
“Sure.” He kisses and sucks a path down your neck, finally stopping to bury his face in your breasts, his words muffled against your skin. “Long as I get to hold you, babygirl, ‘m good.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s impossibly good to be able to touch him like this. Like he’s yours, and if you so much as try to blow away in the wind, Dean with launch up and catch you. If you start to drift, he’ll tug you right back. And you can see now, all the moments he’s been doing that before—kiss you with too many teeth to not want to leave a mark, holding you to his chest like you’re a lifeline—and it breaks your heart, but it’s already mending. You’ll make it up to him.
And he must be reading your mind, because he props his chin up with a deep furrow in his brow, grunting your name like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Dean.” You mimic back to him, and his lips twitch.
“You’re getting sassy, sweetheart.” He nips at your skin, and you squeal, whacking his shoulder. “I like it.”
You swallow, holding his gaze. “Nobody says sassy-“
“I said it-“
“Because you have the heart of a ninety-year-old, my love.” You boop his nose with a soft smile—now that you’re allowed to do this, you don’t think a gun to your head would stop you—and his eyes widen into a look of what might be awe.
“Marry me.” He whispers, and you blink.
“Dean, we’ve been dating for an hour-“
“Been four months for me. And I meant it, you’re everything for me, I- I gotta-“ He’s pushing up to hang back over you, framing your face with one hand and almost a frantic look in his eyes. “I love you, babygirl, and if I know I’m not gonna be good at telling you that, but you need to know-“
“I know.” You smile up at him, wiggling slightly around his cock, and he grunts. Given the surprise over his face, he might have forgotten he was in there. “I do, Dean. I only didn’t because I was- I dunno- I just didn’t. But I know now. So let’s give it at least another four months before that.”
“Four months.” He mutters, nodding. “What day is it.”
“Uh- I’m not-“ Your eyes narrow. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t know shit, sweetheart.” Dean rolls you over without warning, pinning you to his chest above him and looking up at you like you’re the final answer to every question in the universe. “We’re gonna go on some real dates, and I’ll sleep in your bed and make out with you in front of everyone-“
“You already try to do that-“
“Yeah, but I’m gonna do it more. Everyone will know that you’re my girl.” He kisses to corner of your mouth, and you giggle again.
You sound sort of like an idiot. You’re certainly smiling like one.
You really don’t care.
“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me so hard.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“I am in love with you-“
“Then more. You’re gonna love me more.”
You shake your head, giving him a soft smile. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
His eyes flash again, and get a deep, heavy kiss before he speaks again. It’s all exploration and time, because Dean knows you, but he seems to want more, and you have all time in the world.
And he tucks the hair behind your ears when he pulls away, his touch so soft, and his smirk dangerous as he thrusts up into you, and your breath hitches in your throat.
“Never cared about possible, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You’re mine, and I’m never gonna give you a reason to leave.”
End Note: Thinking about Dean going to the movies like "this date is going great!" and she's just straight sweating.
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okay bc tell me why i’m also in that hotch obsession phase.. if u don’t mind writing recs for him — hear me out: both lawyer!reader and his’ stubborn asses having an argument and you start setting up to sleep in the guest room or on the couch and hotch is just like what are u doing??
stubborn — aaron hotchner
pairing: aaron hotchner x reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: lawyer!reader , argument, reader is mad at hotch ,
a/n: hii !! i havent written for hotch in ages sooo forgive me if this isn't good
“Okay, I’m done talking about this.” You stood abruptly from the kitchen table, both hands raised in surrender—not the calm kind. The kind that came after a long, thankless day and a disappointment too many.
Aaron stayed seated for a second, then pushed back his chair and followed you out of the kitchen. But you didn’t look back as you walked away, your socked feet padding softly against the hardwood.
"No," he said, following you into the hallway. "We need to talk about this."
“Aaron, I get it,” you snapped, not looking back. “You’re too busy to come.” You didn’t sound like you “got it” at all.
This was supposed to be something—a major trial, and you’d asked, just once, if he could be there. You’d seen him hesitate earlier, mumbling about the BAU’s schedule and not being sure it would work out.
Between your clients snapping at you, case files mysteriously vanishing from your desk, and the scalding coffee that had spilled down your blouse in the courthouse lobby, you were at your limit. And Hotch’s hesitation—his quiet, infuriating "I’m not sure if it’ll work with work"—had been the tipping point.
“I’ll try to make it,” he offered quietly behind you. His hand settled on your shoulder.
You didn’t even hesitate. Your shoulder shifted just enough to let his hand fall away as you walked into the bathroom. The overhead light flicked on. You avoided looking at him directly, reaching up instead to remove the clips from your hair with trembling fingers.
Click. One pin.
Click. Another.
Each clink against the porcelain sink echoed louder than it should have.
When your eyes finally found his in the mirror, your voice was soft—but the chill in it was unmistakable.
“Don’t worry about it, Aaron. I'll manage just fine on my own.”
Behind you, Hotch watched you in the mirror. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes searching yours. But you didn’t turn around.
The way you said his name made his expression flicker. He knew what it meant. Knew that when you repeated it like that, when your tone went flat and cool, forgiveness wasn’t on the table. Not yet.
His hand, still hovering where you’d shaken him off, finally dropped to his side.
You took your time unraveling the mess of your hair, fingers dragging through the strands with deliberate slowness. ( Something he usually did for you. )
The bathroom light buzzed softly, filling the silence. In the doorway, Aaron lingered. You could see him in the mirror—arms crossed, brows slightly drawn, trying to find the right words. But you didn’t give him the chance.
“I’m going to take a shower now,” you said, calm but cold—your tone clear enough that it wasn’t just about hygiene. It was a dismissal.
He hesitated for a beat, as if trying to decide whether to push further or retreat. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
You shut the door with a soft click and leaned back against it, releasing a slow breath. The weight of your own frustration settled on your chest. You knew you were being petty. You could admit that much to yourself.
Aaron had come to every single one of your trials—without fail. Sat in the back row, out of the way, sometimes still in his dress shirt and tie from work. He always gave you that same look when it was over: proud, warm, a touch of awe in his eyes. And then the hug—God, the way his arms wrapped around you afterward made the chaos of the courtroom melt away.
This was the first time he couldn’t make it. And, of course, it had to be this trial—your biggest one yet. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but the thought of looking up and not seeing him there, not catching that faint smile of his across the room, hurt. A lot.
The shower helped a little. The hot water washed away the day’s tension, but not the sting under your skin.
When you stepped out and reached for your clothes, you realized with a sigh that the only things left in the bathroom were your favorite black shorts… and Aaron’s shirt, slung over the towel rack.
The one he’d worn last weekend, the one that still carried the faintest trace of his cologne.
You hesitated, jaw tightening. Then, with a frustrated sigh, you yanked it over your head.
You hated that it made you feel better.
When you stepped out of the bathroom, the apartment was quiet. The lights were off in most of the rooms, bathed instead in the faint moonlight filtering through the windows.
You paused near the kitchen.
Even in the dim light, you could see the dishes had been washed and the counters wiped clean. The plate of food you hadn’t finished—because you were too upset to eat—was neatly packed away in the fridge. Aaron had done it, without saying a word. You felt a small pang of guilt tug at your chest.
But then your mind circled back to the trial. To that awful, hollow feeling of imagining the courtroom without him in it.
Just like that, the guilt was overtaken by that sharp ache again. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to hear reasonable explanations or I’ll try my best or you know how the job is.
So, you did the one thing your stubborn, exhausted mind told you to do.
You walked into the bedroom, still wearing his shirt, where Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, a file open in his hands. He looked up the second you entered. His eyes flicked over you—shirt, damp hair, tired expression—and then back to your arms, where you were gathering a spare pillow and blanket.
He set the file aside instantly.
“What are you doing?” he asked, brows drawing together as he stood slowly.
“Getting ready for bed,” you mumbled without meeting his eyes, fussing with the blanket as you tucked it under your arm and turned away.
You didn’t have to say anything else. You didn’t need to. He followed you out into the hallway.
“You’re sleeping on the couch?” he asked, voice low but tinged with concern.
“Yes.”
You dropped the pillow onto the couch, smoothing the blanket over the cushions with more force than necessary. Your back was turned to him.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said gently from behind you, stepping closer until he was just a few feet away.
You didn’t reply. Instead, you lowered yourself onto the couch, still avoiding his eyes, your fingers tugging absently at the edge of the blanket.
“I’m going to try and make it,” he said. “I only brought it up because I didn’t want to promise something and let you down. But sweetheart… I swear I’ll try.”
The sound of him crouching in front of you made you finally glance up. He was kneeling now, trying to meet your gaze, his voice laced with sincerity. You pouted just slightly—more from emotional exhaustion than actual defiance—and he took that as permission to rest his hands gently on your knees.
“I don’t want you sleeping out here,” he murmured, thumbs beginning to draw slow circles over the fabric of your shorts.
You didn’t say anything at first.
“I just like having you there in court,” you mumbled eventually, voice barely above a whisper. You were looking at his hands, not his eyes, but the words were honest.
His expression softened instantly. The crease between his brows eased, his shoulders dropping just slightly.
"I like being there too," he admitted, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. His thumb resumed its gentle circles on your knee. "And I know this is a big trial for you."
A involuntary shiver ran through you at the reminder, your fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of your shorts.
"I was reading about it and-"
"You read about it?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your eyes widening slightly in surprise.
That tiny flicker of eye contact made his smile grow.
“What do you think I was doing in the bedroom just now?” he asked, tilting his head. There was a trace of smugness in his tone.
"Oh." The single syllable escaped in a breathy exhale as you felt some of the weight lift from your chest. Without realizing it, your shoulders relaxed slightly, the rigid line of your spine softening. His hands felt warmer now where they rested against your skin, the earlier anger ebbing away.
“But like I said,” Aaron murmured, continuing those slow, soothing circles against your knees. The muscles in his legs protested from crouching so long, but he gave no indication of discomfort beyond the faint tightening of his jaw. “I will try to make it.”
You shifted slightly at his words, your pout threatening to return—but before it could fully form, he gently pressed a finger to your bottom lip.
“Hey,” he said softly, eyes intent on yours. “I know you’re going to do amazing. Just like you always do.”
His hand moved tenderly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. You leaned into the touch almost instinctively, your cheek resting in his warm, calloused palm. Your eyes fluttered shut at the familiar comfort of it, at how easily he could melt you without even trying.
Taking your silence as a cue, he leaned in just a little and whispered, “Please come to bed.”
You didn’t answer right away. The emotional fog hadn’t entirely lifted, but it had lightened. You exhaled, a soft, resigned sigh escaping your lips.
“Fine.” You grumbled, but there was no bite left in your voice.
Aaron smiled—just a small one—and let out a breath of relief, standing up slowly and offering you his hand. You took it, and in one gentle pull, he brought you to your feet and into his arms.
The relief was immediate - both in the way his shoulders relaxed and the quiet exhale he released as he finally straightened his protesting legs. Your hands fisted in the back of his shirt instinctively.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he murmured into your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.
"You should be," you muttered into the soft cotton of his shirt, your words muffled but your meaning clear. The vibration of his quiet laughter rumbled through his chest, and you felt the curve of his smile against your hair.
"You're stubborn, you know that?" His lips brushed your crown once more before he reluctantly loosened his hold, fingers sliding down to intertwine with yours as he guided you toward the bedroom, taking your blanket and pillow with him.
You offered a half-hearted shrug but let him lead, your resistance fading with each step. The moment your legs brushed against the mattress, he drew you back into him, your body molding perfectly against his as if you were made to fit there.
"And you also can't hold grudges," he teased, his fingers idly tracing the seam of his shirt where it stretched across your shoulder.
"Hey!" You lifted your head sharply, only to have it gently pressed back into place by his hand. "That wasn't intentional - it was the only thing in the bathroom," you protested, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way you instinctively nuzzled closer.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," he hummed, the words laced with amused disbelief as his palm smoothed down your back in slow, comforting circles.
The sheets rustled as he shifted, one hand sliding beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—to press against the small of your back.
"You’re still mad," he observed, though his voice held amusement.
"Mm. Maybe." You curled closer, your lips grazing his collarbone.
A pause.
"You know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble you felt more than heard, "I was thinking of sitting in the front row this time." His thumb brushed a particularly sensitive spot between your shoulder blades, drawing an involuntary shiver. "That way you can't miss me when you're tearing the prosecution's case apart."
You tilted your head just enough to peer up at him through your lashes. "Front row? You never sit in the front row."
The corners of his eyes crinkled as his hand came up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "For this case? I'd sit on the witness stand if it meant seeing that fire in your eyes when you cross-examine."
i desperately need nanny!reader and jealous!hotch. maybe reader have a date (that didn’t end well) and afterwards something happens between her and hotch… i just need something steamy to happen tbh
also how old is nanny!reader according to you?
date night (gone wrong) - a. hotchner
criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series
Summary: hotch recruits help to make sure the nanny’s date is not a serial, it’s definitely not because he has feelings for her.
Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader
Word Count: 1.4k
Warnings: jealous and posessive aaron (finally), feelings galore, kissing, mentions of a bad date
Author's Note: thank you so much for your request and i hope you like it!!
Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.
Aaron convinces himself that it is for the best. And perhaps, it is. He doesn't need to feel this way—jealous, possessive—but somehow, when he sees you slipping into that dress, he is a goner.
Black, skintight, and short, it is enough to drive crazy on its own if he were to imagine you in it. But actually see you walk out of his house wearing it?
It’s a big problem.
A very specific kind of problem that tightens in his chest and coils low in his gut.
Jack had run up to hug you goodbye, completely unaware that his father was standing there, stunned silent, jaw locked, and fists clenched just out of your view. You’d looked over your shoulder to say something, he can’t even remember what, but the flash of a smile, the tilt of your head, and the bare expanse of your legs had him swallowing hard.
“I’ll be back before midnight,” you’d said sweetly, adjusting the strap on your purse. “Try to be good for your dad, okay?”
He’d barely managed a goodbye. Because how was he supposed to let you go when you were walking out the door looking like that?
And with him?
Your date had pulled into the driveway with his engine too loud and his sunglasses still on, even though the sun had set a long time ago. Aaron watched from the window, watched you wave and laugh as you slid into the car, his car, and drove off into the evening. And how could he be sure that he was a good driver? How could he be assured that he wasn’t going to get you in an accident which could end up in you getting hurt?
So, he told himself it was because he wanted to make sure the man wasn’t a criminal. That it was just protocol. But that excuse thinned out the second he called Garcia to dig up a background check. Just in case.
And now? Sitting alone in the dark with a glass of scotch he doesn't even want, Aaron realizes the truth: he's never wanted to punch a man more in his life. He’s never also wanted to punch himself more in his life for suggesting that you should try dating other people, but that’s a whole other story.
He’s still on the couch when the sound of your key in the lock breaks the silence.
It’s 11:56.
You step in quietly, slipping off your heels by the door. He hears the faint clink of your purse hitting the entryway table, then the soft shuffle of your feet against the hardwood.
Aaron doesn’t move. Not until you sigh.
A quiet, tired, defeated little sound that lodges itself right into his chest.
You’re in the same dress—minus your heels, and your makeup is smudged in a way that has nothing to do with laughter, passion or good conversation. Your expression is sour, your lips pressed into a line.
“Hey,” you murmur, as you step into the living room and realize he’s still up. You take a few steps and drop yourself onto the armchair across from the one he’s sitting in.
His eyes flick up to meet yours. You look… not upset exactly. But not like someone who had a good time either. “Hey,” he echoes, setting his glass down. “You’re early.”
“Date from hell.” You respond, not choosing to elaborate, since you know he’ll understand just how bad it was from your lack of explanation.
He doesn’t respond. Not right away. Because part of him is already, shamefully, thrilled. But the lack of words on your part doesn’t stop him from asking, “What happened?”
“He was rude to the waitress. Talked about his ex-girlfriend half the night. Called me a babysitter like it was a bad thing. Then he tried to kiss me in the parking lot and got pissy when I didn’t let him.” The shudder that goes through you is enough to send Aaron snapping.
His jaw clenches so tightly it hurts, and his fingers curl into fists against his thighs. He’s up before he even knows it, crossing the room with a kind of restrained intensity that sets your heart hammering.
“Did he touch you?” he asks, voice low and dark. Deadly calm. The kind that would make you scared for your life if you didn’t know he’s not capable of hurting you in any way.
“What? No!” You shake your head, your face scrunched up in disgust. “No. I got in my Uber and left before he could try again.”
He breathes, but it doesn’t ease the storm behind his eyes. You’ve seen him like this before—when someone threatens Jack. Or when a case hits too close to home. But never over you.
Never like this.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with people like that,” he says, and there’s steel in his voice now. “You shouldn’t have to pretend to be interested. You shouldn’t have to settle.”
You cross your arms—not out of defiance, but to hold yourself together, and it nearly drives Aaron insane because you push up your breasts without even intending to. “I wasn’t settling!”
His eyes meet yours, sharp and knowing, and he tilts his head to the side in a knowing way. “Weren’t you?”
You flinch at the honesty of it, at the way it lands squarely in your chest. You’d tried. Tried to date someone nice, someone safe. Someone who wasn’t Aaron. But it had felt wrong the entire night. “You told me to go,” you whisper. “You said I should date other people. That I—”
“I know what I said,” he cuts in, voice rough. “And I lied. I lied because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought…” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I thought if I wanted what was best for you, it couldn’t be me.” You don’t answer him right away, not knowing how to choose the right words, and he takes it as a sign to continue. “I live a complicated life. I have a son. A demanding job. I don’t always get to come home on time. Sometimes I come home broken. And I thought someone else could give you something easier. Something… simpler.”
He’s looking at you now like it’s the first time he’s let himself really look. The way you hold yourself. The faint smudge of mascara beneath your eyes. The way your shoulders sag like you’re tired of pretending.
You feel exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. He is so tall, even when he is sitting down with a drink in his hand. “If I didn’t know any better,” you start, leaning towards him, “I’d say you were jealous.”
“Do you?” He asks, an inquisitive eyebrow raised, “Know better?”
Your lips part in a silent shock. “What are you saying right now?”
“I’m saying I hated watching you walk out that door tonight.” His hand brushes your arm, trails up to your shoulder. “I hated knowing someone else was going to touch you, even just your hand, even for a second.”
Your breath catches. “You told me to go,” you remind him.
“I know,” he murmurs. “And it was the biggest mistake I’ve made in a long time.”
There’s a beat of silence where neither of you move. Then you whisper, “So fix it.” You glance over at him then, the corner of your mouth twitching, something unreadable in your eyes. “You jealous, Aaron?”
The question hangs there, naked and daring. Kind of like you are, minus the naked part—though you wouldn’t object if he asked you to.
His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t look away this time.
“Yes.” It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that prickles under your skin.
You blink. “Seriously?”
He nods once, slow. “Painfully.”
A beat.
Then you stand up and walk over to him.
Climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he lets you. You’re straddling him now, your dress riding up, your palms pressed to his chest. Your legs bracketing his. You’re so close now, so unbearably close, and he realizes just how well you fit together, as if you were always meant to be.
“I wanted to call you all night,” he admits, voice low and rough. “Wanted to tell you not to go. That I couldn’t stand the idea of someone else making you laugh, touching you, kissing you.”
Your pulse spikes. Your knees feel unsteady even though you are sitting down on his lap. “And now?” you whisper, barely audible.
His eyes drop to your lips. Then back up. “Now I’m going to kiss you,” he says, “unless you tell me not to.”
You don’t.
You couldn’t even if you tried.
So, when his mouth finds yours, it’s with months, or maybe a year, of pent-up longing behind it. It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious.
so i just had a tiktok on my fyp of a couple where the guy always instinctively holds out his and behind him whenever he walks/has to walk in front of his fiancée and my mind went instantly to aaron bc let’s be honest he’s a lover boy and he’d 10000% do that 🤭🤭 oh to be loved by him😔😪
intertwined
lover boy aaron loml 🥰 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, some protective aaron <333, your usual cm case content, fluff
An annoyed huff left Aaron as he pulled up to the front of the precinct. "You're kidding."
News stations, reporters, and interested civilians flocked the entrance, cameras rolling and snapping pictures the second the SUVs came into view.
You frowned, your eyes quickly scanning for an alternate route. "There isn't a back way?"
"Unfortunately not." Cutting the engine, he moved fast, swiftly unbuckling his seatbelt. You instantly followed suit, zipping up your FBI windbreaker. "Let's go."
Reporters were shouting a flurry of questions before you had properly exited the vehicle. Your unsub had been high profile; a local, popular philanthropist. A fraud nonetheless, using his 'compelling' platform to take advantage of those vulnerable. Convincing them he could help, and then using their weaknesses to a deathly advantage. Evidently, word of his arrest spread like wildfire.
Aaron waited for you at the front of the car, lingering until you were promptly at his side before catching up to the others. He quickly oversaw Dave and JJ pry the guy out, acting as a protective barrier from the crowd - before following.
That meant you were on the back end; Dave and JJ leading the way, then Aaron, and then yourself.
Your strategic, collective job was easy; get through the crowd and use the simple words no comment. It was no problem avoiding their questions, a press conference to be done at a later time to compensate. As for right now, the only concern was getting the guy inside.
After a moment, amidst the frenzy, Aaron's hand gingerly moved behind him, his fingers stretching blindly for yours.
Your heart warmed at the gesture, especially since you were feeling the crowd closing in, but hesitated. Aaron's aversion to public displays in the field rarely faltered, set on the intention of keeping it behind closed doors. You knew that, and you respected that, and you didn’t want him to compromise on it unthinkingly.
Your eyes lifted in the interest of meeting his, to confirm the exposed contact, in front of cameras, but he didn't turn his head. His hand hung waiting as he continuously moved forward, unwavering and unyielding until your fingers brushed against his.
You firmly grasped onto his hand, the warmth of his skin grounding you in the surrounding chaos. Aaron's hand squeezed yours once, twice. A silent: Stay close. Don’t let go. He even pulled you toward him, right to his back, ensuring you were securely within his proximity.
It was disorientating. The flashing of lights, strongly illuminated due to the dark of night. Intertwining, hurried voices - you could barely hear Aaron or the others state no comment. Some knew to keep a favorable distance, but one anchor did manage to bump right into you, his microphone hitting your arm. Not too harshly, but enough to be noticeable.
Aaron felt it, the abrupt jolt of your arm. His head snapped back, and the anchor earned himself a hardened glare in return, receiving a sharp, "careful."
He cowered, shrinking back and blending into his fellow over enthusiastic colleagues.
Aaron's gaze met yours, concern hidden behind his unit chief demeanor. Only you could interpret their soft, discrete meaning. You alright, sweetheart?
You offered a small nod, softening your eyes in response. Further proof that you were in fact: Fine.
His hand tightened its hold, only letting up when the team reached the front doors. He stepped aside, using his backside to hold it open. He ushered you in, his hand shifting to the small of your back momentarily and letting the doors close behind him.
As you followed JJ and Dave into holding, Aaron caught up to you rather quickly - close enough that his shoulder was bumping into yours. Hidden between your sides, his gentle fingers intertwined with yours once more.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader
Summary: You have five simple truths. But when your relationship and your life are put on the line, you start to question what you believe in anymore.
Warnings: reader is a bau tech analyst, serious angst, aaron is being mean, big argument, mentions of haley's death, references to foyet arc, home invasion, graphic descriptions of violence
Words: 3.5K
Masterlist
a/n: there will be a part 2.
1. Aaron doesn't yell at you.
If all else was unsure, then this was one of the five things you knew for certain. You weren't sure if he yelled at all. Maybe at work with criminals, but never with you.
This was still true.
Right now, he wasn't yelling at you. He was speaking in an even tone, but you knew him well enough to notice the difference. His voice was as cold as his rigid stance, like ice ran through his veins. His arms were crossed, and so, even if you weren't a criminal—even if you knew you were his fiancé—you sure as hell felt like one.
Standing on the other side of the kitchen island, you were in opposition of each other in every sense of the word.
You took a deep breath before speaking. "Aaron—"
He cut you off before the words could even leave your mouth. "We've had this conversation before. I've already told you how I feel about it."
You repressed the urge to take another breath, knowing he was a profiler. Knowing he could profile the discomfort all over you, regardless. But you picked up a few profiling tricks, too.
You could see the way he was staring at you. Like you were an idiot.
Maybe you agreed on that.
Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot—
You took the breath, anyway. "Aaron, I said I'm sorry."
You tried to step closer to him, and he didn't move away. But he didn't usher you into his arms, either.
And despite the fact that Aaron doesn't yell at you, you could tell he really wanted to.
"And I'm saying you shouldn't have to say sorry. We shouldn't be having this conversation because you shouldn't have done it," he scolded.
You took another step closer, rounding the counter like your body was trying to get him to physically understand, to remind him that you were on the same side.
"What was I supposed to do?" Your voice was desparate now, almost like you actually wanted him to answer. "You were working. I had to work. You weren't picking up the phone—"
"That's right," he cut you off again. This time, he stepped closer to you. "I was working. You weren't."
2. You have an equal relationship.
The second truth was what had you tilting your head. You were already flushed from the heat of the argument, but now you could feel yourself getting a little angry.
"What do you mean I wasn't working?" you questioned. "Yes, I was. Garcia said you called everyone in; you said to get there stat."
He was quick. "I meant everyone that was necessary. You aren't."
You could feel the cut immediately, etched deep into your skin. It didn't matter how he said it, frivolous or not—the words were sharp enough to cut you effortlessly.
You aren't necessary.
The words echoed through your head. Words you'd heard before, but never from him. Never from the man who swore to be better than everyone else who ever hurt you.
Yet, no matter how much you'd been hurt in the past, it hurt a thousand times more to come from him.
You waited for him to say something else, waiting for any sign of regret to cross his face.
Nothing did.
There were many times when you wished you had Aaron's poker face, but right now, you didn't have to try. The sadness flooding your body remained internal; the only thing that showed on your face was rage.
Your eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Hotch doubled down, staring you right in the eye. "It means your job is an accessory. Garcia does the same job as you—you aren't needed."
That was a lie so blatant it made you scoff. You were a technical analyst for the BAU, and you'd proven yourself time and time again. Hotch was the one that hired you—he's the one that said he saw something in you.
Apparently not.
"I'm not needed," you echoed, sarcasm lacing your voice. "Right. So when an alert comes out that there is an active hostage situation and a potential terrorist threat, what do you expect me to do? Not come into work?"
"Yes," he deadpanned. "Not when you're picking up my son."
You ran a hand through your hair, stuck in disbelief. "You can't be serious—"
"When you're picking up my son, what I expect is for you to take him home."
You spoke over him, countering, "I brought him to a place where I knew he'd be out of harm's way. You weren't picking up the phone. I did what I thought was best—"
"You brought him to Jessica—"
"I brought him to his aunt—"
For the first time since the conversation started, Aaron raised his voice just enough for it to stop you dead in your tracks. "You don't get to bring him to his aunt. You are not his mother!"
3. You are not Jack's mother.
You knew that. God, you knew that. You were there to see the carnage in the Hotchner household after Haley's death. The blood that splattered the walls. The boy who was too young to spell the word devastation but still felt it in his bones.
You knew you were not Jack's mother. You lived in a house with her pictures on the wall. Jack was a mirror image of her; he was her son, and you knew that. It was one of the truths you held the most conviction in.
It was the truth.
But you still recoiled, almost like Aaron had slapped you. A part of you thought maybe that would've hurt less.
All the fire you had was extinguished. You didn't have a rebuttal for that. What could you say? It didn't matter if you loved Jack like he was your own—that didn't change the fact that he wasn't.
You avoided Aaron's gaze, choosing to stare at the pattern of his tie instead and trying not to succumb to the sting in your eyes. You liked this tie; it was one of your favourites. You were close enough to him to see all its beautiful details.
But, at the same time, you'd never been further away from him.
Aaron still hadn't said anything, and out of fear that the dam would break if the silence continued, you spoke up. "I—" your voice cracked. "I know I'm not Jack's mother, and I'm not trying to be." You paused. "I was just doing what I thought was best."
You left it there, not knowing if the right words to say the right thing even existed. Saying the right thing was always Aaron's thing, not yours.
But whatever words he was going to say were cut off by the shrill pinging of a cellphone. Two cellphones.
Aaron picked up his first, sighing immediately. You didn't have to guess what it said. "We have another case." The heat in his voice was gone; he sounded like himself.
That didn't mean you felt any less burned.
"Okay, um—" you couldn't stop yourself from sniffling even if you tried. "I'll stay here and watch Jack. You go."
Another sigh left him. "Y/N—"
The sound of your name leaving his mouth almost made you cry, but you persisted, "No, you can go, it's fine." You chuckled if not just to make light of it for yourself. "I'm not needed there, anyway."
"Y/N."
"Aaron." You fingally looked up at him, and you saw it. Remorse swirling in his brown eyes. The same eyes that crinkled at the sides when you said you'd marry him. Somehow, that made it worse, knowing that it was the same person who said both of those things. Who built you up from scratch just to bring you right back to the bottom.
You repeated yourself, "Go." The team needs you, you wanted to say. The only reason you didn't say it was because he'd already accused you of trying to be his past wife; you didn't need to prove him right.
You could practically hear the churning of his inner turmoil, torn between staying and leaving. It was pointless; you both knew what his decision would be.
When he reached for his go-bag, it was final. And in some ways, he was leaving more than just the house.
As if he could sense that, he turned around. "We'll finish this discussion when I'm back," he said. That was an anchor: telling you something about the present by talking about the future. When I'm back meant that he'd be back. Discussion meant you had something to talk about, a two-sided activity. We meant you were still one unit; you were still a we.
Maybe that's what he meant by it. If you scoured through his words and read between the lines, maybe you'd find the beginnings of an apology—in his own way, at least. But he wasn't sorry, not for what he said. If anything, he was only sorry that he said it.
You wouldn't profile him and ascribe meaning to words that didn't mean anything. We'll finish this discussion when I'm back meant you'd finish the discussion when he was back.
When you replied, that was what you were replying to. "Okay."
You weren't okay.
This wasn't okay.
Aaron cast one last look at you before he crossed the threshold. You looked away.
And then he was out the door, leaving you in a house that no longer felt like your own.
—
"Y/N, my love, I thought I'd die without you!"
Penelope was on you as soon as you walked into the bat cave, shooting up from her chair and hugging you so tightly that you would've thought you'd been gone for ages. Really, you were only gone for a night.
You told Aaron that you wouldn't be coming in, and you were holding true to that, but you weren't gonna make Garcia work alone if she had to, even if she was perfectly capable of it.
You knew you weren't needed. Hotch was right: this ship could sail just fine without you. But you could help.
You'd just dropped Jack off at school, so now you were here, ready to work until you had to pick him up again.
You forced yourself to laugh at her words, causing her to hit your back. "No, I'm being serious! You're my oxygen—I can't live without you."
At that, you snorted. "Okay, Penelope."
She pulled back, resting her hands on your shoulders. "Seriously, though." She looked deep into your eyes, seeming to be looking for something. "Are... are you okay? I don't even think you've taken a sick day since... since forever."
You smiled at her exaggeration, even if it didn't really reach your eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, P. I just have to leave early to go get Jack, and um... I'm gonna stay off camera today. And off the phones." You shifted your weight. "Not like it matters or anything, but I just don't really want Hotch knowing I'm here. I just want to stay in the background today, if that's okay?"
Her brows raised, but she quickly affirmed, "Yes, that's okay! Totally okay. We'll keep this 100% incognito."
It was in Garcia's nature to ask questions, so you knew she had them, but she didn't voice a single one.
You talked about work, and new bureau technology, and your next girls night, and everything but what you asked of her.
You'd never been more grateful.
—
It'd been two days since the team left, two days of bouncing back and forth between the office and back home with Jack. The son that wasn't really yours. The son that felt like yours, anyway.
If you were doing as good as you thought you were, then nobody knew you were even there. Garcia was telling the rest of them that you were sick. Your phone had been flooded with get well soon messages from everyone except the one person you really wanted one from.
Aaron hadn't spoken to you since he left. You wished it didn't hurt as badly as it did.
"Okay, Jackers! I think it's time we head to bed."
"What?" You held back a laugh at the incredulity in his voice, knowing that—for an 8 year old—this was a very serious matter. He looked at you with traces of shock, somehow looking everything and nothing like his father at the same time. "But it's only ten o'clock!"
"Ah, and yet it is still past your bed time. Mine, too."
Jack frowned—and there it was. There was that bit of Aaron you were looking for. "You say that, but you're just going to stay up after I go to sleep."
You couldn't suppress the smile on your face any longer. "No, Jack. I promise you I'm so tired, I'll be out as soon as my head hits the pillow." You ruffled his hair, your smile becoming a grin as he groaned. "Now go brush your teeth, little man."
Jack got up from the table, his little feet pitter-pattering across the floor as he made his way to the stairs. It didn't sound much like a pitter-patter anymore now that he was getting older, but he would always be the same little boy to you. So, "pitter-patter" it was.
Until suddenly, you heard a different noise.
Not pitter-patter.
The door.
Your eyes darted to Jack as he stopped in his tracks, then they darted to the door. The knob, turning lightly, gold glinting in the light. The sound of your own heart beating was just as loud as the turning. The person got impatient, the knob turning faster now, like someone was trying to pry it open.
Fuck. Fuck.
Your mind ran a mile a minute. That wasn't Hotch. You weren't expecting anyone, and whoever was at the door certainly wasn't asking for an invite in.
They were trying to force their way in.
Somebody was breaking in to the house.
With that realization, you were moving. "Jack." You caught his attention easily, spotting the fear on his face right away. More than fear.
Familiarity.
He went through his before. Oh, your Jack. He'd been through this before, and he would know what to do. You did.
Conversations with Aaron flashed through your head, just-in-case scenarios, if then statements. Emergencies.
You knew what to do, too.
You just never thought you'd have to.
You grabbed onto Jack's shoulder, immediately feeling how his body was trembling. "Jack, I need you to listen to me." The knob got louder. You lowered your voice. "I need you to work the case, okay? Like with your dad. Do you understand me?"
His eyes went wide. "Wait, Y/N. What about you—"
"Jack. Do you understand me?" He went quiet, and then he nodded, making you sigh in relief. "Okay, take my phone. Call 911, but don't make a sound." You handed him the phone, and then you let go of him. "I love you." Your throat closed up. "Now go."
Jack ran up the stairs, and you were up automatically, trusting he'd do as you said.
It was like someone else was in your body, telling you what to do. You opened the pantry, looking where you'd never looked and typing numbers into a keypad you'd never touched.
Why do we need a safe in the kitchen? you had laughed at the time.
In case of an emergency, Aaron had said. You thanked his forward thinking.
The only way you knew that you were still there was by the violent shaking of your hands as the cool metal touched your skin. You'd only ever operated a gun once or twice. Did you even remember how to load it?
The door banged, making you jolt. You had to remember now. Come on, Y/N. Load the fucking gun.
You thrusted the magazine into the well and then pulled back the slide. Another bang. You turned the safety off.
Hold the gun with both hands.
God, Hotch, when will I ever need to do this?
Well, I hope you never have to. But we can never be too safe.
Another bang hit the door, this time more forceful. We can never too safe. Tears flooded your eyes, and you promptly blinked them away.
Then. There was another bang, and this time, the door hit the wall.
You intook a sharp breath, hearing footsteps thump against the floor. You closed your eyes, focusing on the noise. One set of footsteps.
Aaron's voice echoed throughout your head. Are you sure?
You screwed your eyes shut tighter, straining your ears. Yes. One person. Loud. Heavy. Male.
Okay, that's good. What else do you know?
You knew they spent a long time fiddling with the door knob before busting the door open. That could either mean they lacked physical strength or they were trying to taunt you. The second option. You knew this was a low-risk neighbourhood. You knew your car was out front. This wasn't about money. This was personal. Intentional.
You knew this was an FBI agent's house. You knew—
Wait. You strained your ears more, following the footsteps. They weren't heading for your direction. No. No, no, no, no.
Jack was upstairs.
You couldn't let this man go up there.
4. You love Jack Hotchner unconditionally.
Knowing number four makes you act fast with a determination you'd never felt before. The pantry door swung open as you left the enclosed space, instantly raising the gun in the air like it was weightless.
You pointed it at your stairwell where a masked man stood, motionless.
"You better stop right there, you son of a bitch," you threatened, cocking the gun like it was second nature to you.
The man raised his hands into the air slowly. He tilted his head at you as if he was trying to mock you.
And then he smiled.
Before you could even realize what was happening, he was running at you. Your eyes widened, pulling the trigger. You barely got to see if your shot made it before he was tackling you to the ground, knocking the gun out of your hands.
The back of your head hit the ground, making a sickening crack. You gasped for air, and then you were wheezing as the man's hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing tightly.
You looked up into his demented eyes, hearing not the sound of your own voice but Hotch's. Use what you see. Frantically, your eyes flew all over the unsub's body until you saw red staining black, right at his shoulder.
Without thinking about it, you stuck your finger into the wound, hearing him scream. He was stunned enough that he loosened his grip, giving you the chance to kick him off of you.
You scrambled to your feet, searching for the gun and finding it in the middle of the living room floor. You dove for it right as he got back up, getting to you before you could try shooting again.
His hands wrapped around yours, trying to wrestle the gun from your hands. You held on like your life depended on it because it did. Your life depended on it— Jack's life depended on it.
You fired a shot into the ground and then another into the wall as he fought you, knocking a picture frame off the mantle. You couldn't see where the gun was pointing anymore, but then, suddenly, pain radiated throughout your lower abdomen, and you knew it was pointed at you.
You gasped, looking down and seeing blood spreading through the white of your tank top.
You looked back up, seeing the asshole smile at you with his teeth. They were pearly white. So clean for a man so dirty.
You sought to make them red, too.
In a surge of energy, you twisted the gun out of his grasp and didn't think before pointing it at his head and firing.
You watched the bullet penetrate his skull before he fell to the ground. Like a domino, you followed, crumpling against the couch.
The gun slipped out of your hands and they immediately went to your wound, making you hiss in pain. You pressed down on it, feeling blood flow between your fingers like a river.
Keep swimming. Keep your eyes open.
The fatigue hit you like a train. You blinked, trying to keep your eyes open, but they felt so heavy.
Jack. Jack was upstairs. He called the police.
He was okay.
You heard sirens in the distance. The police were coming.
You could sleep now.
And so, as you remembered your fifth truth, your eyes started to flutter closed.
5. You love Aaron Hotchner. And he loves you.
You let yourself fall into a dreamless sleep, hoping that somehow, on some plane of consciousness, he could hear you say I love you one last time.
You loved Aaron Hotchner. You knew that for certain.
You just hoped he still loved you.
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