Mal's Note: I hate how blurry my banner is but I don't care enough to fix it. I seem to have a thing for pink right now... This is... the horniest thing I've written in a while, but I seem to have been possessed. There probably won't be a part 2 to this, I have too much on my plate right now and I'm overwhelmed by everything in my drafts. Just use your imagination my loves, I know you've got them. Enjoy this so much, I'm still shaking in my boots.
Love,
Mal <3
Warnings: MDNI 18+, 20ish year age gap, reader has a good relationship with her father (if you don't just pretend ig, that's what I did to write it), alcohol use, vaginal fingering, biting, general fondling, hotch's mouth is filthy, reader cries a lil bit cause it's so good, female orgasm, light degradation, loads of praise, hotch makes her suck his fingers clean after she comes on them soooo, Morgan is ageist (sorry it was for the plot), I'm fairly certain that's everything, Have fun!
Word Count: 5.9k
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You truly didn’t know what your problem was.
Your father was very present in your life, in fact, he took you to dinner once a month. Just you and him at your favorite restaurant, he paid, and drove you home after. Walking you to your door and kissing your cheek with a “Sleep tight, darlin’. Call your mama in the morning, she’s missing you.” You had known the princess treatment since the day you were born, and had always thought you knew exactly what you wanted from a man because your father had shown you. Nothing less than the way he treated your mother was acceptable, and he’d have to dote on any future daughters the way your father doted on you. If your father knew the kinds of thoughts you were having… about a man closer to his age than your own…
He’d never be able to look at you the same way again.
Forty Seven.
Forty-fucking-seven.
That’s how old Aaron Hotchner was.
You knew because you’d asked. One day you just couldn’t contain yourself. He’d been driving you nuts for weeks already, plaguing your mind like a disease. So you thought that maybe—if you put a definitive number on it—knowing the age gap would help.
It did not.
The outcome had been so much worse.
“Hotch?” You’d asked, trying to seem busy with the file on the table in front of you.
“Hmm?” He’d hummed, not looking over from the cork board.
“How old are you?” You continued, trying to keep your voice as nonchalant as possible, eyes glued to the paper; the one you’d read ten times already.
He had paused and you could feel his eyes on you, but he only let out a soft chuckle, as though you had amused him.
“Forty seven.” He murmured, and went back to the cork board.
You’d nearly dropped the pen you’d been holding, your eyes snapping up to study his back in disbelief. Your father was fifty five, just eight years older. Swallowing hard, you went back to the file and found that, unfortunately, you still couldn’t focus on it. Instead, thinking of the way his sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows, and the way the muscle of his forearms might feel beneath your fingers… or teeth. The way his slacks hugged his ass, making it seem like he actually had one, and how they had a hard time hiding what he did have—
“Did it help?” He asked a few minutes later, and you realized, you had never given him a response, or a reason for your question…
“Huh?” You looked up at him, slightly stunned.
“Did it help?” He asked again, looking at you over his shoulder with that smirk; the one he often turned on unsubs if he saw right through them.
“I—” Your voice betrayed you, coming out broken instead of smooth, so you cleared your throat and tried again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t?” He purred, the smirk turning into a knowing grin.
“Not at all.” You lied, feeling your cheeks begin to heat under his gaze.
“Hmm.” His brows furrowed and you knew he didn’t believe you in the slightest as he turned back to the cork board.
That was the first time you’d realized that maybe you hadn’t been hiding your crush as well as you’d thought.
Several weeks later, on a case, you were in a heated debate with Morgan—having been the first two to make it back to the local police station—over a man who’s daughter was a victim. A man who’s current wife was only a little older than the daughter herself. All while Hotch looked on from the corner, not bothering to get involved.
“Either she’s taking advantage of his grief for financial stability, or he’s taking advantage of her naivety and financial instability to cope with his grief. Either way, he’s having a midlife crisis and she’s got daddy issues.” Morgan insisted, looking at you across the table like you were insane.
“That is not a fair assessment, Morgan, and you know it!” You shot back, “There are lots of reasons for age gap relationships, and most of the time they rarely have anything to do with money!”
“Name five.” He challenged, smirking at you because he either thought you couldn’t do it or were just playing devil’s advocate.
“Mutual attraction, being treated with respect, emotional maturity, the excitement of being with an older man or a younger woman and vice versa, and—” You stopped yourself short… You had the fifth one, but saying it felt awkward.
“And?” Morgan smirked, thinking you didn’t have a fifth.
You took a deep breath looked him in the eye and said, “Sexual experience.”
“Sexual experience, as in they’re in it for the experience?” He asked, furrowing his brows in confusion.
“No… I mean that older people—with the exception of those who abstain—are more experienced sexually than younger people.” You explained, and when he laughed you felt defensive. “Don’t laugh at me! That makes sense and you know it! Practice makes perfect or whatever the fuck the saying is! Older—sexually active—individuals have more practice, therefore more experience, and that—to me—says that they’d be better at sex!”
“What about stamina?” Morgan argued, “A fifty year old man is not gonna be able to keep up with a thirty year old woman!”
“That is not always true! It depends on the shape the man is in!” You threw your hands out to the side, and you almost found yourself using Hotch as an example—as your eyes flickered over to him—but caught yourself just in time, deciding to change the subject. “Besides, sex is not all there is to a fulfilling romantic relationship! There are all the other things I said too!”
“You can find all of those things with someone much closer to your own age.” Morgan reminded you, shaking his head, “An older guy could mean three or four years older! Why choose someone that’s twenty years older and has nothing in common with you, over someone who might and could keep up with you?”
“Curiosity?” You shrugged, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes flicked briefly to Hotch again, who was already watching you with an amused smile. “And no, I don’t think some women can find what they’re looking for in a man their own age. Which does not automatically mean daddy issues.”
“I disagree.” Morgan shook his head.
“Well you’re not a woman, so I don’t think you get to have an opinion on what we can and cannot want in a man.” You scowled, crossing your arms.
“Kid, you’re not even out of your twenties yet. You don’t know what you want in a man.” Morgan chuckled, clearly amused by your stance, for a totally different reason than Hotch.
“Some of us have it modeled for us from a young age and know what we want early.” You shrugged, keeping your eyes on Morgan and not daring to look over at Hotch again. “My dad is very present in my life, and we have a wonderful relationship, so I tell him everything. He comes and takes me out for dinner at least once a month, he calls me every single day, he reminds me to eat lunch, he makes sure I have good tires on my car, and he checks the latch on my door every single time he comes to my apartment; just to make sure it’s sturdy. He treats my mother like a goddamn queen, anything she wants she gets, and they are so in love it’s palpable, after nearly thirty years. He’s only five years older than her, but before you say that proves your point… Even though I know it works for them, I find myself disgusted by men my age. They’re crude, they’re rude, they don’t have any modicum of emotional maturity, they’re disrespectful, they’re boring—most only care about cars, video games, and money—and if you think a man in his mid twenties is in his prime… I beg you to look at pictures of Patrick Dempsey, Ryan Gosling, or Robert Downey Jr. in their twenties, versus their forties. The difference is night and day, and so much sexier.”
“What does that prove?” Morgan asked, unwilling to admit he was wrong just yet.
“That I don’t have daddy issues.” You insisted firmly, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Hotch bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I’d love to be treated the way my dad treats my mom, and any man I might see a future with would have to be one that I could see treating my future daughters the way I’ve been treated. However, I still find myself drawn to older men because men my age just don’t do it for me. Sometimes it really is just about attraction.”
“That’s all fine and good, I’m not gonna shame you for what you like, but in their case—” He circled back to the original topic of the victim’s father and step mother. “I don’t see what you’re seeing.”
With that, Morgan got up and left the conference room in search of coffee, leaving you alone under the discerning gaze of Aaron Hotchner.
“Who are you trying to convince?” Hotch chuckled from the corner once Morgan disappeared. “Morgan, or yourself?”
“What?” You breathed, finally looking over at him to find him studying you with laughter in his eyes.
“You sound less like you believe what you’re saying, and more like you desperately want it to be true.” He smirked, pinning you to the spot with those gorgeous fucking eyes… “I think you’ve recently realized you have a thing for older men, or more likely an older man, and you don’t know what to do with that information. So you’re struggling to make sense of it, and you thought arguing with Morgan—if you won—would help.”
You hated how close to the truth he was…
“Or…” You murmured, not trusting your voice to sound as strong as you wanted. “Maybe I do believe what I was saying, and I wanted Morgan to stop being so ageist about it because it was offensive.”
“Is that what you wanted?” He challenged, giving you that look again. The one that said he saw you… and knew how badly you wanted him.
“I think I would know what I do or do not want.” You shot back, with a little more attitude now that you thought you were being patronized.
“Do you?” He asked, undeterred by your snark, in fact, he seemed encouraged by it.
“Do I what, Hotch? You’re not making any sense!” You huffed, frustratedly.
“Do you know what you want?” He clarified, with a roguish smile on his face.
Suddenly, you didn’t think he was talking about Morgan and ageism anymore.
“Yes.” You whispered, hoping that was a safe answer either way.
“Are you sure?” He asked, and there was something else in his eyes this time. Something you’d never seen in them before… Something… Warmer.
“Are we still talking about Morgan’s ageism?” You asked, knowing that it had never been about Morgan… It had always been about him… and the way you felt about him.
“Are we?” He teased.
Before you could say anything Morgan came back, and you found yourself wondering how that conversation would’ve ended if he hadn’t interrupted it.
Over the following weeks, you caught Hotch watching you just as much as he caught you watching him, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Truthfully, you thought he found your little infatuation to be entertaining. He would laugh when you panicked over prolonged eye contact. Watch you with glee as you blushed over a compliment or the tiniest hint of praise. He’d rest his hand on the back of your chair if he chose to sit next to you—and he always chose to sit next to you—making sure you were aware it was there, but never letting it touch you. He’d make comments that made your heart race at their ambiguous nature, uncertain if he was flirting or just making small talk. He was always winking at you if you glanced at him, but would make sure his face was perfectly neutral if you did a double take. Along with a hundred other things to let you know he knew and thought you were just a silly girl.
He was teasing you.
At first, you thought it was cruel of him to play so flippantly with your emotions, but you noticed he was never mean about it. In fact, he never used it to humiliate you, never said anything about it in the presence of the team either. It was like a secret game that only the two of you were aware of, and having something to share with him—even if he didn’t take it seriously—was exciting.
So you began to play too.
Instead of pretending he didn't effect you, you showed him how much he did… and how much you could effect him if you tried.
If he winked, you bit your lip and winked back. When he would rest his hand on your chair, you would slip your shoe off and toe at the hem of his pants under the table. Sometimes brushing his ankle, but most often you teased him with almost but not quite touches. Every time he said something that could've had a double meaning, you always replied to the meaning you were meant to ignore. You could tell that he was well aware of the change in your behavior, but he never did anything about it.
So you got bolder.
You’d meant it when you said you knew what you wanted.
Two months after your argument with Morgan, it was the hottest day of the summer—in Texas—and Hotch had taken you with him to interview a victim’s family. You were boiling because the family’s A/C had been out. They’d had all their windows open, but it hadn’t helped. The trailer they lived in was basically an oven.
By the time the two of you made it back to the car, you were both sweating and he’d started taking layers off before he ever got in the vehicle. Suit jacket? Back seat. Tie? Right alongside it. Buttons? Undone to his sternum. Sleeves? Rolled up to his elbows.
He had ran his fingers through his hair so many times to keep the sweat at bay that it was standing on end and pointing in every direction. Effortlessly sexy. You were sure yours was plastered to your forehead, so you shook it out, and—as he started the car—you leaned across the console and plucked a pen from his shirt pocket. He barely glanced at you, not seeming to mind at all, if he even noticed.
But you would make him notice.
Using the pen you secured your hair up into a twist to get it off your neck. Then you slowly began unbuttoning your own blouse, just as far as he had. So that if he glanced over at you he would catch a glimpse of flesh and pink lace. You didn’t say a word, and neither did he, he didn’t so much as blink… but his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
That wasn’t enough for you.
Fanning yourself, you slouched a little in your seat, letting your blouse fall open farther. Then you lifted your leg—slipping your foot out of your heel—and rested in on the dash as he drove. Letting your skirt ride up, you un-clipped your garter from your thigh high hose, rolled it down slowly, then tossed it into the back seat, and did the same with the other. When you put your second leg back down, you didn’t bother straightening your skirt, in fact, you let your legs splay a bit so that it would ride higher.
He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat, then clutched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white and the veins in his forearms stuck out.
Much better.
When you reached the field office, Hotch disappeared to the restroom for ten minutes.
The night that case wrapped up, you all decided to visit a club in Austin, waiting for the Jet to refuel and be ready to go.
Hotch looked delicious, wearing that black polo you were so fond of and a pair of jeans. You didn’t have much in the way of club attire but you made it work with your shortest pencil skirt—which you folded under and clipped to your garters to make shorter—and the vest that matched it, with nothing but a bra and panties underneath. You looked… Well, you’d never been one to brag.
When you walked into the hotel lobby—your heels clicking softly on the tile—the girls saw you first. JJ and Prentiss were the best hype women on the planet on nights like this.
“Goddamn, how do you manage to make that same outfit say, ‘respect my badge,’ in the daylight, but say, ‘fuck me sideways in the bathroom,’ at night?” Emily teased, giving you an appreciative round of applause, that subsequently got Hotch’s—and everyone else’s—attention.
His eyes locked onto your cleavage, and you focused on breathing into your upper chest to make your breasts rise with each inhale… He was mesmerized.
“Layers and choice of lipstick.” You joked, giving her a little spin that was not at all for her benefit, but for his.
When you faced them again, he was gone, but you caught sight of him… slinking into the men’s room.
Later at the club, you, Emily, and JJ hit the dance floor for long enough that you began to get thirsty, so you left them together in the crowd and made your way to the bar. You spotted him there, getting another round for himself, Rossi, and Morgan; though the other two were nowhere to be found.
You didn’t think it through, you just acted.
Slipping up behind him, you slid a hand over his ribs and up his chest, using it to put a little bit of space between him and the bar, but you didn’t look up at him as you stepped into that space.
“Hey, Hotch.” Was all you said to acknowledge his presence, before leaning over the bar and pressing your ass right against his crotch as you flagged down a bartender.
As you ordered, you made sure to wiggle around enough that he could feel every movement.
“She’s on my tab.” Hotch told the bartender after you’d both been handed your drinks.
The man nodded then walked away, so you turned around and leaned back on the bar—exposing your cleavage and throat—as your leg slipped between his and you made sure he felt it. You took a long sip of your drink, wrapping your red lips around the straw as you looked up at him from under thick lashes. Daring him with your eyes to make a move.
His own eyes were devouring you, and you thought he might break—might finally drop the act and do something about the way you’d been teasing him—but he took a deep breath instead.
“Thanks for the drink.” You smirked, and slipped back into the crowd as quickly as you’d appeared, but you watched once again as he excused himself after delivering Morgan and Rossi’s drinks. He found his way to the bathroom, and when he came back out you felt his eyes on you for the rest of the night.
Once everyone stumbled drunkenly onto the plane—yourself included—it didn’t take long for everyone else to fall asleep; except him, though you pretended not to notice. You wanted to get one last tease in before the long weekend, something he could ruminate on—obsess about—until he saw you again.
Standing from your seat, you pulled your go-bag out from beneath it—having planned this in advance—and pulled out a pair of sweats and an over sized tee. Your heels had long since been discarded so it was easy to slip the sweats on over your skirt, pulling it up to your waist once you were covered, and removing it over your sweats. Your garter belt following immediately after. You turned away from him, toward the wall where no one could see if they happened to wake, and unbuttoned your vest letting it slip off your shoulders. You contemplated removing your bra as well, but decided that with the others present… that was too far.
You took your time putting your shirt back on though, and you could feel his eyes on your back. When you turned around again, he didn’t even pretend not to have been staring. He watched as you sat down again, curling up into a ball and trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, content that he would be thinking about you incessantly.
“I know what you’re doing…” He murmured quietly, after several minutes had passed.
You didn’t respond, but you couldn’t keep a smile from tugging at the corner of your lips. Teasing him had become your new favorite pastime. Half an hour later, when he thought you’d fallen asleep, he slipped out of his seat and snuck to the restroom.
You could just barely hear the faint sound of his moans, each one resembled a broken utterance of your name.
Rossi invited the whole team to his house for dinner and drinks the very next night, and couldn’t help but see it as another opportunity to push your agenda. So upon receiving your invitation, you immediately texted the other girls saying, ‘let’s dress up and be cute, we can take pictures together!’ Penelope immediately jumped on the bandwagon, and with some gentle prodding—shameless begging—from her, the other two agreed as well. You knew exactly what you were going to wear.
When you arrived at Rossi’s that night, you were the very last one to show up. Partially on purpose, but also because you’d spent hours making sure you were irresistible. You’d been saving the little dress for an important occasion, maybe a first date or something, but breaking Aaron Hotchner’s will seemed like the perfect use for it. It was a black, satin, backless, halter top, minidress so short you couldn’t so much as bend slightly at the waist. Your hair was styled so that it wasn’t obstructing the view of your bare back, your makeup flawless. If he resisted you tonight…
You’d fucking give up.
As you walked into the dining room, Morgan let out a low, playfully teasing whistle—being the first to spot you—and that had everyone else looking your way. You blushed at the attention, playing up your innocence and biting back an ‘oh so timid’ smile. Hotch wasn’t buying it, you could tell by the way he was smirking at you that he knew exactly what you were doing.
“You look amazing!” Penelope gushed, wobbling over on her platform heels. “Do a twirl, lemme see the back!”
So you did a slow twirl… and when you faced them again, the smirk on his face was long gone. What remained was something between panic and desire.
“Do you like it?” You asked Penelope, smiling and looking down as if you were unsure of yourself. “I’ve had it for like two years, but never had a chance to wear it, and we were dressing up tonight so I thought… Why not?”
“Do I—? Do I Li—? Do I like it?!” Penelope blustered as if it was an absolutely ridiculous notion that she might not. “Sugar, I love it! You look like— Like— Like a dark seductress of the night or something!”
You tried not to laugh.
JJ and Emily did no such thing.
“Garcia, you just called her hooker!” Emily cackled, falling into JJ, already a few drinks in.
“I did not!” Penelope protested, absolutely aghast at the suggestion. “She looks much too sophisticated to be a hooker!”
“So a very expensive call girl then?” You teased her, joining in on the fun, even as you felt his eyes drinking you in.
“No— Well… now that you mention it— No! I’m kidding!” Penelope joked as well, laughing at your mock outrage.
Once the laughter faded, you all made your way to the table, and—as always—it seemed as though Hotch would sit next to you. This time however, he pulled out your chair for you, something he’d never gone so far as to do before. You could feel the heat of his hands, just inches from your skin, gripping the back of your seat as he pushed it up to the table, but as always… he didn’t touch you.
So you didn’t touch him either, instead ensuring that he could only feel the heat of you as you almost made contact all through out the meal. His hands twitched in your direction with a frequency you found encouraging, his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking, his breath hitched each time you laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile because you had him at the end of his rope. Of that you were certain.
By the time dinner was over, the others were several bottles in collectively, and they’d decided to abscond to the patio for more. They were intoxicated enough that no one noticed when you slipped away.
No one but Hotch, of course. Exactly as you’d intended when you made eye contact with him as you disappeared inside.
At first, you weren’t sure if he would follow you, and you couldn’t hear anything but the soft clicking of your heels as you traipsed down the hallway. Looking for a dark corner to get cornered in.
Hearing the faintest scuff of a shoe behind you, you stopped, but you didn’t turn around. You knew it was him, you could feel his eyes on you and recognized their weight.
“Do you enjoy torturing me?” His low rumble of a question just barely reached your ears over the sound of the music the others were blaring outside.
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” You quipped, still not turning to face him as he took a few steps closer.
“Is it not?” He asked, his voice near enough that it almost startled you. “Is that not exactly what you’ve been doing for the last five days? Before this week it was just retaliatory and I deserved that, but you’ve been taunting me, Sweetheart. I don’t like being taunted.”
You laughed softly, even though you could hardly focus… How could you? Your pussy had it’s own goddamn pulse.
“The only person taunting you was you.” You shrugged.
“I beg to differ.” He chuckled, and you felt his breath disturbing your hair, tickling your ear, sending a thrill down your spine. “Do you know how hard it’s been to keep my hands to myself? While you’ve been taking your clothes off in front of me, or just not wearing enough of them to begin with… Do you know how many times I’ve had to sneak away and take care of the evidence of what you do to me?”
“Four, by my count.” You grinned, turning your head just enough to make sure he could see it. “My name sounds so good falling off your lips…”
“You’re a menace…” He groaned, and you knew if you looked at him his fists would be clenched at his sides.
“And you’re a masochist.” You let another laugh roll off your tongue, shaking your head. “All this self inflicted yearning, when you could’ve just taken the invitation I’ve been serving to you on a platter.”
“You’re not even thirty.” A weak attempt at reason, and you both knew it.
“And you’re old enough to be my father, but I don’t have daddy issues, and you’re too uptight to be having a midlife crisis…” You shrugged, a smile pulling at your lips. “Sometimes it’s just about attraction, and having the balls to take what you want. We both know what we want… So what the hell are you waiting for?”
The force of your chest hitting the closest wall nearly knocked the breath out of you, but the feeling of his hands—sliding up under the hem of your dress and forcing it up around your waist—was what had you gasping. You moaned so loudly, as he took a handful of your ass and squeezed, that you bit your lip to keep from being heard.
“Don’t be shy now,” he growled in your ear, biting it, “they can’t hear your filthy little mouth out there, the music is too loud.”
“Hotch!” You whined, as he licked and sucked his way down the side of your neck.
“Aaron.” He corrected, slipping his other hand into the top of your dress and kneading your breast as he kept gripping your ass. “I knew there was no way you were wearing a bra under this little thing, I half expected you to have forgone panties too. Did you, sweetheart? I can’t feel anything but skin…” He released your ass, only to reach around and cup your cunt possessively. “Ah, there they are… must be a thong. I think I’ll leave that on while I fuck you, I bet it’ll look so pretty.”
His teeth snagged the bow on the halter of your dress, and he pulled it loose with a jerk of his head; exposing your breasts to the cool air and causing you to gasp. Gripping your hips he flipped you around and pressed your back to the wall, trailing hot, sloppy, open mouthed kisses down your chest. Then sinking his teeth into the mound of your breast he—making you cry out—he slipped his hand inside the front of your panties. His fingers swiping through your folds, gathering wetness and dragging it back up to your clit.
“You’re so fucking wet already…” He groaned, then sucked a nipple into his mouth, drawing on it hard enough to make you whimper before dragging his mouth back up to your throat. “Are you always this wet for me, darling? Have I always made you this desperate, or is has it built up with the anticipation?”
His fingers were circling your clit so perfectly, you couldn’t have answered him if you wanted too, and you didn’t because the answer was too raw… it was humiliating. Then he stopped, wrapping his free hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make a point, and make you dizzy with lust.
“Answer me.” He growled looking into your eyes, and holding your gaze so that you could see the fullness of his own desperation, his desire for you.
“Always.” You gasped, and the truth of it must have shown in your eyes because his softened.
“Fuck.” He nearly sighed, and then his lips crashed into yours, messy and frantic, all consuming.
His fingers grazed down from your clit to your entrance, and he kept the other hand around your throat as he slid one inside. You moaned into his mouth at the thickness of it, as he worked it in a come here motion against your g-spot.
“Aaron!” You cried, as he added a second digit, his thumb finding your clit as he moved the two fingers faster.
“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, and you felt him smile against your lips. “Let me have it baby, tell me how good it feels.”
“So good!” You panted, writhing against the wall and grinding down into his hand, desperate to have him deeper, to be fuller. “More please!”
“Such a good girl…” He chuckled, and the sound only nudged you closer to the edge, making your pussy clench around his fingers. “Begging for me already… You want another one baby? Need to feel fuller?”
“Yes!” You sobbed, the tension had built so quickly that it was beginning to throb painfully. “Please, please, please…”
“Pitiful.” He growled against your lips, biting the bottom one and dragging it through his teeth. “You sound pretty when you’re desperate.” You could feel his smile as he nipped and sucked his way up your jaw to your ear, his voice was a low rumble that made your whole body quiver when he said, “Ask me one more time, tell me exactly what you want, and make it sweet, darling.”
You couldn’t fucking breath, but you forced yourself to do it anyway.
“I need another one, please Aaron, I wanna feel so full of you it hurts! Please…” You pleaded, your body shaking with a mix of apprehension and pleasure as he huffed a condescending laugh against your skin.
“That’s my girl…” He murmured, and slid a third finger inside.
“Fuck!” Your voice broke, ragged and harsh as you panted through the stretch of it. “Oh, fuck!”
He busied himself with your neck, trailing kisses and finding sensitive skin with his tongue, fucking you into oblivion with his fingers all the while. You’d never been this overwhelmed by someone in your life, he was doing everything so perfectly as if he’d made you fall apart a thousand times before and knew exactly what you needed.
“Fuck, Aaron, I’m—” You choked out, barely able to speak at all as the pleasure mounted and you felt tears running from the corners of your eyes.
“I know you are, pretty girl… So fucking pretty.” He hummed, taking your lips with his again before pulling back to look at you, studying your trembling form and meeting your eyes with a fiercely possessive gaze. “Don’t look away from me, angel, I wanna see it in your eyes when you come.”
Then you were gone. It was like he’d broken something in your mind with that last command and completely shattered your last shred of self control. The sensation was white hot, and so powerful your knees buckled, but he kept you on your feet. Clapping a hand over your mouth as a scream ripped its way from your throat.
“Good girl, sweetheart, you’ve done so good…” He cooed, fucking you through it gently, and stroking your cheek with his thumb when your scream softened to short little whimpers. “Such a good girl, you came so hard, baby, I’m so proud of you.”
You whined when he pulled his fingers out of your cunt, and he stifled the sound by sticking them in your mouth instead. The taste of your release on his fingers was intoxicating.
“Clean up your mess for me, pretty girl.” He murmured, his tone somehow soothing and condescending at the same time. Then he chuckled when you moaned around him and began to suck without hesitation. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
You nodded, as he wiped tears away from your cheeks, now that it seemed your legs functioned well enough to stand.
“Can you walk, baby?” He asked, stroking your hair away from face.
When you shook your head no, he laughed, pulled his fingers out of your mouth, then slipped his hands beneath your thighs and lifted you off the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Where are we going?” You murmured, as he began to carry you up the stairs.
“To find a bed.” He said, kissing his way back up your neck and somehow managing to stay on his feet. “I’m too old to fuck on the floor, and I want you on your knees.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” You sighed into his mouth as you captured his lips with yours, threading your hands through his hair like you’d been dying to do for months.
“When I get done with you…” he growled, biting your bottom lip, “you’ll be thankful for the bed too.”
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: broken & hopeless, you let go of the prospect of living. but like so many others who made a heartbreaking decision in a moment of absolute darkness, your mind changes. when jack tries to save you...will he succeed?
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, depression, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, accidental injury with a scalpel
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty! | i also listened to the song 222 by Vyva Melinkolya ft. Ethel Cain on repeat while writing this & i think it's kinda fitting & makes the work impossibly sadder lol
The at times calamitous ambience of the ED served strictly to unmoor and unsettle you during your first few weeks between its off-white walls. The patients flowed in like a raging river—never-ending, and never a trickle. Instead, a gush. All at once until you were drowning beneath it. When you looked around, however, you took comfort in your fellow fish; you weren't alone, not as long as they swam against the current alongside you.
It'd felt like another world upon a strange planet, in truth. One with much beeping, serving as signals both good and bad as people with do-good hearts raced to save patients from the malicious claws that meant to drag them away from this plane of existence. And there was the awful bright overhead lighting which casted the unthinkable in an eerie glow. Necessary for visibility, but unpleasing to the eye. Some places stock their troffers with bulbs meant to mimic the sun instead, you hear.
That had sounded like a nice idea to you, but something unlikely for PTMC to ever implement. They don't seem to much care for the happiness of their employees.
The thrill of the catch—having an epiphany during an odd case, and grabbing hold of a diagnosis others were so far from discovering, made you feel invincible, and all the trials and tribulations thus well worth it in the end, however. You were saving lives. How many others can say the same about their occupation? Most otherwise work in trade or retail or from cushy corner offices. Which isn't to say that they're not all vital bees in the buzzing hive which is the world, but they're no Michael Robinavitch or Dana Evans or Jack Abbot.
Local rockstars to you they are. Or...were.
That began before long, too: burnout. Your days turning into a monotonous, psychologically draining cycle. No more do you walk out the Pitt's doors and it feels like you're coming back through them again, greeted not by smiles and welcoming sentiments, but by screaming, ungrateful patients who just keep dying.
Covid leveled your world and ripped the rose-colored glasses from your eyes that you once wore so happily. It ingrained such trauma within you that you didn't know where to put it.
There was no time for therapy.
Not that you probably would've gone had there been—making such an appointment was like accepting defeat; admitting that something had gone wrong with you.
That your brain was sick.
You power through the nightmares; the fleeting reminders of things you'd rather forget when a machine beeps a certain way, or an item of PPE flashes in your peripheral as a co-worker pulls it on. It'll move through you eventually, you tell yourself; work its way out of your system just like a virus or a nasty cold.
It won't last forever.
Or...you'd thought as much, anyway.
Lately, for the last few months, things have gotten exceptionally hard. You're both sleeping and not. When you get home, it's all you really want to do. As of late, you forgo dinner in favor of it. The scale in your bathroom reflects this change.
Runway models should really invest in giving healthcare a go for awhile instead of diet pills, you think. It'd work faster.
When you do rest, however, it's fitfully. You toss and turn, toss and turn. No more does your head hit the pillow and it seems like your alarm is screaming at you to get out of bed to get back to it.
You're withdrawn at work. Talking expends energy. Effort, even. Not that you want to conserve it. You just don't much like people anymore.
They've changed. At once they were so friendly. Human beings you liked talking to. Now, you'd rather drink bleach than carry on any sort of conversation at length. The same kind of goes for patients. You've thus been faltering in your bedside manner, and little handout review sheets reflect it. Something new enacted by those at the top of the hospital.
There's no thanks for the good you do, only chastisement for the bad. Bad, bad, bad. That's what you are.
You think maybe others can see it: this grotesque thing that's broken inside of you. You can't fix it. Not when you're not wholly sure what it is. Just...a part that can't be reached, you suppose. It's okay, though, if people don't want you around. You've never been terribly good with them, you think. Always saying the wrong thing, or making the moment needlessly awkward by inserting yourself where you clearly were never wanted.
They're happier, it seems, with you removed from their everyday.
The thoughts begin as mere daydreams in time, since you find yourself with little else to do in the quieter moments: pills, razors, rope, a speedometer climbing well past ninety. You toy with them like a Rubik's Cube—turning them this way and that, figuring which best suits you.
It becomes sort of exhilarating, really—knowing that there's such an incredibly easy way out of it all. And that it's always there, awaiting you. Like a friend. Something you can both lean and rely on.
You like that fact.
That peaceful feeling becomes...very hard to escape once it's implanted itself within your mind like a hard to pull root from a noxious weed. As in, impossible.
It haunts your steps in the hall, sits with you in the staff lounge, visits with you at home... It even comes with you to the toilet, it's so prevalent.
You could always take a bottle of pills from work. Ones that would just let you drift off to sleep. Peaceful and painless. No better option, in your opinion.
You tuck the thought away for possible later use.
You throw yourself fully into your work and turn on blinders to anything outside of it. You let yourself become a machine—merely doing as you are bid without quarrel. It seems to please people when you go along with them; are at their beck and call and always of agreement with their opinions and assumptions. It's strange how different social hierarchy becomes when you've set aside any personality of your own.
But you're not perfect. Sometimes your mind becomes fuzzy. You think maybe it's atrophying. And that equates to the occasional mistake.
Abbot dislikes when you give a patient double the dosage of a medication of what he instructed you to. It made them a little sick—some vomiting and a seizure—but they survived. Meanwhile, he'd pulled you aside and you stared while occasionally blinking as he told you why what you did was so dangerous.
Bad, bad, bad.
At one time, he'd liked you. Gave you extra attention and often let his hands rest on your shoulders or lower back. One time he caressed your cheek, which had made it warm pleasantly in response. Now that you're no longer his shining star, though—having burnt out so long ago—you think he'd rather you weren't around.
You should do something about that fact.
"We cannot afford mistakes like that, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that opens us up to?" He questions. Pressing one finger to the other, he supplies you an answer so you don't have to come up with one. You're glad for that.
You don't think you could if you tried.
"Lawsuits, a revocation of your medical license, an inquiry by the Medical Board..." He trails off after counting off so many digits.
You nod. "I understand, Doctor Abbot," the girl devoid of light and life says. "It won't happen again. I promise."
He gives a smile and a nod, pats you on the shoulder—a gesture which you flinch away from since you really dislike being touched lately for some reason—and tells you that that's exactly what he wants to hear before walking away from you.
You should just kill yourself.
It's what you think anytime you screw up now. Drop and break a glass at home? Suicide. Get berated by a superior at work? Suicide. Take too long to go after a light has turned green and a driver behind you honks their horn? Suicide.
Such a burden you've become. Maybe you've always been? You're not sure. You hope not, but if so, you wouldn't be surprised.
You start making preparations before your big, metaphorical trip.
Typing away on a computer, you drown out the hubbub of your surroundings—choosing to instead focus solely on the digital chart before you. When your eyes begin to grow a bit blurry, however, you glance up and idly watch as individuals in blue and black and grey scrubs come and go.
You pick Doctor Robby to observe for a bit.
You'd adored him at one time. For awhile, actually. You liked how tall he was, and his neatly trimmed beard. His Carhart pants and how he commanded authority while still being gentle in instruction. The timbre of his voice reverberating through your ear canal when he stood close as you tended to patients sent chills up your spine. It was like finely ground coffee: dark, but nevertheless smooth and tempting.
When he started calling you by various pet names around the Pitt, you'd stupidly humored yourself by believing that perhaps he felt similarly—had a hidden crush, same as you. You'd become almost certain of it one night when he gave you a ride home because your car wouldn't turn over due to a corroded battery.
Your heart had rhythmically thumped away between your breasts as you watched his hands turn the steering wheel—half hoping he'd take you home with him like a stray.
He never did.
Now, he doesn't so much as give you a second glance.
Maybe it makes you a narcissist to have assumed there was a mutual attraction. Not everyone wants you. In fact, no one does. If only you'd figured it out sooner, you would've saved yourself so much trouble in chasing after those who only wanted to get far away from you.
You lower your head then turn to the left where Santos sits with a recorder, dictating her own patient's chart. You wait until there's a pause, then speak—take your first steps in making your plan a reality.
"Hey, Trinity?" You ask quietly.
Swiveling around in your direction from atop an office chair, she toys with her recorder. "Yeah?"
"Do you like records?"
Her brows furrow. "Yeeeah. Why?"
You shrug indifferently while typing a few more words. "I'm getting rid of my collection. I thought that maybe you'd like to have them."
Her brows raise in surprise. "I mean, how much are you asking?"
You shake your head while hitting the space bar. "No charge."
She scooches closer—sure that this is too good to be true. "Wait. Are you actually serious? I mean, vinyl is like stupid expensive right now. You wanna just give yours away? To me?"
You nod. "I don't listen to them anymore." Picking up your phone, you wave it haphazardly before tossing it down with a thud. "If I want to listen to music now, I just stream it."
You look at her over your shoulder. "They're just collecting dust. You can have them all. Do whatever you like with them. Keep them, sell them, gift them." You shrug. "Makes no difference to me."
She beams at the prospect of furthering her collection, and for entirely free, at that. "Yeah, hundred percent I want them."
You save the chart you've just completed. "They're in my trunk. I'll get them to you once our shift is through."
For the next two weeks, you continue on with offloading your life onto others. You give Samira your clothes in multiple garbage bags. Mel your books, McKay some decorative figures you kept on your bookshelves for her son, Javadi your jewelry and accessories, and the nurse's station your stationary in all its organized glory.
When Dana tries showing concern—asking as to why you're doing this, sarcastically asking if you're moving—you shrug it off and tell her it's just a bit of spring cleaning.
She frowns, knowing that it's the tail-end of summer.
Once your apartment is nearly devoid of any sign that you once lived in it, you cry from joy.
You're so close now. Just a few more loose ends, and you'll be ready to go.
Abbot is the first to go out of his way to speak to you. He deems it good—great, even—that you're in a better mood today. He's heard...troubling news. Spring cleaning, you'd called it to Dana. But sometimes people just choose to declutter their lives, right? Especially in this line of work, it's way too easy to let your living space become an absolute wreck because you can't be bothered to expend the energy to clean it up on a regular basis.
Makes it easier the less you've got to deal with. And when you practically live in scrubs... Well, who needs dress clothes, right?
Bumping his shoulder against yours, and sending your fingers flying across the keyboard you stand at, you begin backspacing to fix your typos.
He doesn't like those.
"You seem better today," he remarks. "That's good. Got some big plans after work or somethin'?" He asks curiously.
You smile with warmth. If you were the sun—which, here in the Pitt, at one time you were—he could stand within the light your rays provide for forever. "I do," you say quietly, with cheer.
He raises a brow and his lips tug into a smirk. "Oh yeah? What's that?"
You shrug. "It's a surprise."
He leans in close. "Not for me, is it?" He whispers.
You turn to him, and he nearly stumbles back. The tone of your voice and your general demeanor... They don't match the vacant look in your eyes whatsoever. They don't... They don't even look like they're yours.
"You're a good doctor, Jack," you say while gently resting a hand against his upper arm. "I don't think I've ever told you how grateful I am that I was given a chance to learn from you. PTMC is really lucky to have you here."
His brows furrow and the smile slips from his face. "Sweetheart, you're starting to freak me out here."
Couldn't even do that right, you think. Just further confirmation that you're indeed making the right choice. "I'm sorry," you say while stepping away. "It won't happen again. Have a nice evening, Dr. Abbot."
You give Mel an unexpected hug before she's due to head home for the day. She stumbles back, hesitates for a moment, then returns it with a feeble embrace. "Becca is really fortunate to have such a caring sister. It makes me happy you two have one another," you tell her with a squeeze.
She steps back while flushing and nervously adjusting her glasses. "Y-Yeah. Me too."
You part from her with a nod, and let her go on her way.
Later on, you catch Mohan at her locker and lean against your own. Yours, which can been completely cleaned out, minus your stethoscope. They'll open it eventually. You left a note to please give the item to someone who needs it. Or just...keep it in the inventory as an extra incase another's becomes faulty.
"I know Robby has been kind of hard on you lately," you say quietly.
She doesn't speak.
"But you have so much talent with patients. You take their feelings into consideration. A lot of providers let this job get the better of them and their care suffers for it." You gently grip her wrist. "Don't let him turn you into someone you're not."
Just as she turns to say something, you've gone.
Dennis has just slung his backpack over his shoulder when you jog to catch up to him by the ambulance bay's doors. "Hey," you say, settling a hand atop his shoulder.
He turns with a surprised look on his face.
"I wanted you to know that I think what you're doing for Amy and her baby is really...sweet. Commendable." You drop your hand and smile. "Are you happy?"
He grins and glances down to his shoes while nodding. "Yeah. I-I am. I think she is, too."
You turn your head to the right and watch as a truck pulls up outside. "Don't let her go, Dennis." You look back to him. "Family is important. Make sure you don't let this place become the only one you have."
He raises a brow and makes to step forward—to question what's going on—until you take a few steps back. "I gotta go, but you two drive safe. Okay?"
"I'll see ya tomorrow, kid," Dana calls from behind you.
Slowly turning round to face her, you look at Emma who's seated just to her side. "You've got a good teacher here," you say while nodding to the older blonde. "So you listen to her and soak up everything you can. Having Dana as your guide here in the Pitt is invaluable."
Emma nods with a toothy smile. "I will."
Your eyes flit back to Dana. "See you around," you whisper.
By the end of your shift, things feel different. For the first time in maybe years, you feel content. At peace. Could it mean that things are...worth a second try? You'd not even considered that such a thought would cross your mind.
But there it sits, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
Exiting through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, you step out from beneath the overhead coverage that extends outward and stare up at the stars. You'd meant to be dancing amongst them tonight, but...plans can always change.
You look to the right, and find Robby strapping a bag to the rear luggage wrack of his motorcycle. Maybe... Maybe he can help? He'll know what to do, because you know this moment won't last. You have to reach out and ask for him to hold your hand through this while you've still got the mental fortitude at your disposal to do so.
Crossing your arms, you walk over to him. "Hey, Robby?"
Tightening a bungee cord into place, he raises a brow. "Hm?"
"Could I talk to you about something? It's—"
He sighs with irritation and runs a tired hand down his face. "I was really hoping to get going. Guess I didn't move fast enough." He turns to you with crossed arms as well, matching your stance. "Can this not wait until morning?"
Your eyes flit between his.
So much happens in that moment.
Your resolve shatters into irreparable shards which slice through any hope you'd had but a moment ago, and a confirmation is granted to you. Confirmation that you chose right all along.
What's meant to be will be.
And with the small orange bottle in your pocket, you'll make it so.
It's okay now.
You force a reassuring smile and shake your head. "Sure. It wasn't important. It doesn't matter." You take a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you. Have a nice night. And—and drive safe, ok?"
He barely pays you any mind as he mounts his motorcycle and drives away.
Waiting for your Uber to arrive, you continue studying the stars. They just...look like they'd take such good care of you, y'know? Never would they let you fall or falter. They act as one.
But, so, too, are they already dead.
You suppose that's rather fitting.
"You need a ride?"
Glancing to your left, you find Frank watching you with a curious look on his face.
You shake your head. "No, thank you, I have an Uber coming."
He nods. "Car in the shop?"
You shrug and look away. You donated it to a local charity yesterday, actually. You'd been rather surprised to find out such things existed. They repurpose them for homeless youth and single mothers and the like. It'll go to someone in need.
That makes you happy.
Your phone dings that your driver is 5 minutes away.
Standing, you pad over to Frank. "I'm really proud of you for going to rehab, Langdon."
He tucks his phone away into his pocket. "Yeah, well, Robby didn't exactly give me another choice."
You chew your lip. "It was the right thing. For you...and your children." Meeting his eyes, you crook your head to the side. "They need their dad. Your sobriety is a big deal. You should be proud of it, too."
His brows furrow.
"This hospital needs you here. I'm glad you came back."
Tires crunch against asphalt, and a white SUV pulls up.
When you start toward it, Frank takes a small step forward. "Are—are you okay?"
After popping open the back passenger door, you look at him over your shoulder. "I am. I know what I have to do now."
He thinks to reach out for you. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
You swing a leg inside. "Goodbye, Frank."
With that, you shut the door behind you.
An empty plastic bottle crinkles quietly between your shaking hands.
On the floor, a pill bottle lies on its side. It's contents currently dissolving in your stomach acid.
Looking around the nearly empty space you occupy, you tell yourself that you can't go back. There's nothing left. Even out in the hall sits yet another box of odds and ends you didn't know what else to do with. So you merely drew on the front of it 'FREE' with a smiley face and sat it next to your apartment door.
Someone will rifle through it and take what they like; give the things inside a second home.
Leaning back against the headboard behind you, you swallow thickly as hot tears practically singe your cheeks. The truth you don't want to admit now is that you're scared. You don't want to die like this: alone, and in what has now become a strange place.
What if no one comes in the next few days? You don't want them to find your body bloated and rotting; infested with flies and maggots that crawl inside your mouth and ears.
Fighting against how your head swims when you turn it, you reach for your phone. You grip it as hard as you can and jerk your unsteady limb back to you. Plopping the device onto the mattress you're seated upon, it takes four tries before you manage to punch in the correct pin code.
You dial 3 numbers, then wait.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Pleeease," you slur. "I changed my mind."
"—Female. Unconscious. Pulse is bradycardic and thready," the EMT informs Abbot and his team as he rounds the back of the van. "She told 911 about a half hour ago that she swallowed a bottle of Prozac."
Popping open the door, he turns back to Abbot and shoves the empty bottle into his hands. "She must've stole them, seeing as a man's name is on the bottle. We found it on the floor of her apartment. I figured you all would want it when you try to treat her."
Helping his partner get the gurney out of the van, the bottom wheels fall and clatter to the ground before locking into place.
"Oh my God," McKay exclaims before clamping both her hands over her mouth.
Having come back around to morning time, the rest of the day shift will soon be arriving.
Meanwhile, Abbot knows he can't leave now.
He'll work a 24 hour fucking shift if he has to.
When the other EMT exits the rig, he looks between the crowd of unmoving bodies. "You all know her or something?"
"She fucking works here," Toomarian replies before stumbling back.
Jack shakes his head, then begins firing on all cylinders as his body jumps into motion. "McKay, Shen, you two are with me. Henderson, get your ass inside and tell Handzo that I need a room cleared. We're going to intubate and then perform a gastric lavage."
He glances around. "I said now! Move your asses!" He shouts.
Standing outside, Robby watches as your body lifts off the hospital bed you've been transferred to. With numb, shaking fingers tangled painfully in his hair, he yanks tightly against the strands. Jack glances to the monitor, shakes his head, then commands McKay to try again.
"Please," he cries through clenched teeth. "Fuck," he curses. "It's all my fucking fault."
When he came in for his shift, your room was the first one he bothered peeking into, and it stopped him cold in his tracks before he barked at Whitaker to help him suit up so he could help.
A gesture which didn't last long when he backed into a tray of sterile instruments once inside, and thus sent them scattering across the floor. Panicking, he tried picking them up as a series of apologies spilled from his lips. Aimed toward you, Jack, or the team which was trying to save you, he's unsure. In the end, he sliced his hand open with a ten blade. As blood oozed from the wound, Jack shouted for him to get out. To have someone stitch him up while he otherwise kept his focus strictly on you.
"No, I-I have to s-stay. I can do it. We have to fucking save her, Jack."
Jack had leveled him with a glare. "I am going to do every goddamn thing I can to ensure that she doesn't slip away from us, but you have got to leave this room. You're breaking my concentration. It's already hard enough!"
Forcing her way inside, Dana shoved against his chest to guide him out of the room. Stumbling backward, Robby pointed at Jack. "You fucking bring her back. You bring her back to us or I'll never forgive you!"
Now, here he stands in the middle of a fast-moving ED with over a dozen stitches in a hand that's wrapped in gauze, praying to a God who stopped listening long ago to take him instead if it meant sparing you.
It's all his fault.
You had tried to talk to him. Had given living one last try. And he couldn't be bothered to spare five minutes.
The lump in his throat becomes too much to breathe or swallow over.
Robby starts choking on his own saliva.
His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and his knees buckle out from under him.
Falling to the floor, Dana runs to his side. "Hey, Rob, Robby, look at me. What's goin' on, big guy?"
He clutches at his chest. "MI," he pants.
"I need a gurney over here!"
A panic attack.
He'd hoped for worse, because then it would mean God had actually obliged his only request.
Sitting in a hospital bed with his head held hopelessly between his hands, he refuses to face the room that lies across the way. Peds.
So much horror its walls have bore witness to.
But also love and care.
Like the day of PittFest. Another moment which saw Robby at his lowest; collapsed in on himself like a dying star. You were the one who pulled him out of the darkness, though.
Caressing his face between careful hands, you swiped tears from his cheeks while telling him that you understood—had been where he sat so many times (why didn't he see it then?)—but still nevertheless needed him that day. That you both had essential work to do which you wanted him at your side for, and after is when he could break. In your arms, if that's what he required.
Did he kiss you then? Or was that an imagined dream he drew up in his muddled head?
Shoving off the bed he occupies with a huff, Robby does exactly that: gets to work. It's what you would want. And the only way he won't fall apart again. Because if he continues sitting there thinking up worst case scenarios, he'll never make it out of here alive.
The whole department has spent the day on-edge. Jack has assured them that the worst has passed, but until... Unless you woke up, you weren't totally out of the woods.
Practically everyone sticks around until well after their shifts are through—waiting with bated breath—to see if you'll open your eyes.
For what it's worth, piles of your things begin arriving in droves when people realize you hadn't just been cleaning out your apartment like you said.
You'd been preparing never to come back.
For the absolute worst of reasons.
They each take turns visiting with you. Apologizing. Or just telling stories.
Besides Robby and Abbot, Frank takes it the hardest. He was the last person you spoke to. He tells Jack over and over and over again that he should've stood in front of the fucking car if it meant making you stay. That he knew—he knew—in his gut what you had planned.
Mel has bumped into patients and coworkers alike so many times while passing by your room that 'sorry' has become her word of the day.
Dana stays quiet. She merely watches from beneath the board, awaiting the opening of your pretty eyes again.
Javadi quietly asks Jack when—not if—you wake up, he'll have you put on an involuntary psyche hold. He tells her that psyche will be called for a consult, but what happens from there will be out of his hands. All he knows is that he has to make sure this never happens again.
When his chin begins to wobble as he smooths hair from your brow is when she takes her leave.
When his shift nears 20 hours, Jack finally takes a seat at your bedside. Holding your limp hand between each of his, he presses it to his lips. "You have people waiting for you," he murmurs. "I am waiting for you. Robby is. Sweetheart," he cups your cheek and your head lulls to the side. "I love you."
He begins to cry. "Why the fuck I didn't say it sooner I—" He shakes his head. "I thought it'd be unprofessional. You were my subordinate." He lowers his head. "Goddamn coward." Lifting his head again, he kisses your fingertips. "I'm saying it now. I mean, how could I not fall for you?"
A knock sounds from the door.
Robby.
Pushing open the glass entrance, he steps inside. "Still nothing?" He asks quietly.
Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. But she'll wake up soon. She has to."
Seating himself on the side of your bed, Robby cups your cool cheek in his palm. "You came to me. You needed me and I wasn't there." He runs the pad of his thumb along the curve of your jaw. "But I am now. I will spend as much time as I have to fixing this; making it up to you."
Leaning down, he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your lips.
But that only works in the stories...
"Rest of my life if I have to."
Jack falls asleep slumped over in his chair—his head resting beside you and his fingers firmly intertwined between your own. Robby took up position at your side in bed. Holding you close to him with his hoody draped over your chest, he tucked you just beneath his chin before drifting off.
As long as your heart still beats, they've each something to hold onto.
Your awakening is sluggish; gradual. Pulling yourself from the primordial sludge which deigned to hold you meant fighting a battle you weren't sure you could win.
But when you stir quietly, and feel warm bodies on either side of you, accompanied by the sound of quiet snoring, you know you've come out the other side victorious.
"Welcome back," drawls a thickly accented, feminine voice from across the way. "Had a lot of people worried, kid."
The rumbling chest you're pressed against quiets, then shifts. Pressing your head back against the soft pillow beneath it, you stare up at Robby's tear-stricken face. He doesn't speak. He merely smiles before cupping your cheek in his palm and pressing his lips to yours.
You're far too exhausted to think on it.
You'd thought he didn't care. What else have you been wrong about as of late?
Your right hand suddenly released, Jack stands, then seats himself on your bedside. "We're going to take care of you. Alright? I promise."
Leaning down, he kisses you next.
Dana turns back to the nurse's station.
"You'll never be alone again," Robby whispers. "We weren't there for you then, but we're here now."
Mal's Notes:Hey... how y'all doing? This is gonna hurt, I'm so sorry. Reader needs some therapy, for real... and so will all of you by the time you get to the end of this. Who am I kidding, if you're on this site you've been dodging therapy for years. Anyway, I'd say enjoy, but if you do you're a masochist or I didn't convey my emotions about this as well as I thought. For the full effect, I listened to "Don't Worry, I'll Make You Worry" by Sabrina Carpenter—she has me in a choke hold—while I wrote this, as evident by the title. Do with that information what you will. My next post will be light hearted and/or absolutely filthy, so at least we all have that to look forward to!
Love,
Mal 🩶
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI; p in v sex, oral fem rec, vaginal fingering, all very tame stuff, (this fic isn't about the smut), EMOTIONAL DAMAGE, (yes, you should have read that in the voice of the guy from the meme, does that age me? probably Idc), EVERYONE NEEDS A HEALTHY DOSE OF SELF ESTEEM, Reader hates herself prolifically, there's a sexual harassment scene but... it's mild, some sexual manipulation if you fucking squint, Aaron is baby girl, Aaron is lover boy, Aaron would give her the moon if he could, (the bar is still in hell, but he's definitely above it.) Haley Hotchner doesn't exist AU, Pre-Canon—Canon Divergent, I think that's everything but you can DM if I missed something
WC: 9.8k
AO3 here
Aaron usually hated these things. The smiling, the groveling, the politicians that didn’t know their ass from the “unnecessary resources” tonight’s song and dance was all about..
The Bureau’s entire federal funding budget was up for review in the next few months, so Gideon and Rossi had ordered the whole unit to get dressed up to the nines and go woo some congressmen, and women…
However, Aaron knew that it was really up to him to do all the wooing, well…
Him and you.
You… who looked so goddamn gorgeous in that floor length, black gown. It was the epitome of class, grace, and sophistication. It wasn’t flashy, or eye-catching on it’s own… You were just that beautiful.
Aaron knew he was attractive in his own right… but he still wondered everyday how he’d managed to catch your attention at all, or how he was keeping it.
Jill Gideon referred to the two of you as the “Designated Unit Eye Candy.” She’d even pulled you both aside to remind you that Jason was hopeless at the political aspect of his job, and while Dave could shmooze it up with the congresswomen, he would be far more concerned with wooing them into his bed than he would be about preventing budget cuts. Jill herself was… not well liked on the hill. She said what she meant, often didn’t have a filter, and she also had a bit of a chip on her shoulder. A chip she was well aware of.
She did most of the work, but Jason and Dave often got most of the credit. It’d make Aaron angry too if he was in her shoes.
So the two of you had left her office with a list of all the politicians who needed their asses kissed at tonight’s gala.
It was ironic really…
He had been born into this life of gala’s and charity fundraisers, internships in the Attorney General’s office, among other things that he had long since abandoned. His father’s connections had given him a shot at being the Attorney General someday, but he’d never wanted anything to do with that. He’d barely made it to prosecutor and then realized his calling was to stop the atrocities before they ever made it onto a prosecutors desk because by then it felt too late. So yes, he’d walked away from this life that he’d been born into because it didn’t suit him…
But it suited you.
You may have been born in a lower middle class home with no connections at all, but you made them for yourself just as easily as smiling. It was amusing watching you work rooms like this. Never once had he seen you slip up, you knew exactly how to play each of them. It was partially because you were a phenomenal profiler, but he knew that you did your homework, he could quiz you right now and you’d know all the gossip, the scandals, the inappropriate secret relationships. You knew which Congressmen to treat with the utmost respect and decorum, and which ones to wink and show a little leg to. He loathed that part, but he understood that sometimes that was what it took to have them eating out of the palm of your pretty little hand.
You were with one of the sleazier senators right now, being led around the dance floor with much too little distance between the old fucker’s chest, and your breasts; which were in fact pressed up against him. It wasn’t your fault, he knew that the man was holding you too tightly, but he also knew that if he came to your rescue before you asked for his assistance that you would castrate him in his sleep.
He loved that about you.
You could fend for yourself, you were a tough woman, and you didn’t take shit from anyone if you didn’t want to. So on the occasion that you did need his help, or more likely wanted it, he was quick to take the opportunity to impress you.
God did he love it when you looked at him with gratitude and adoration, the later was rare… but it did happen once in a blue moon.
Truthfully though…
Aaron just loved you.
He was beyond being in over his head… he was head over heels.
You, however, were a tough nut to crack. Thus far, he’d made it into your bed, but not your heart.
He was desperate to change that.
In fact, you were the one, and he was sure of it. So he just kept trying… no matter how many times he made a fool out of himself to do it. Some days you seemed to be just as into him as he was you, but if you let yourself get too close… then he could always count on you being distant for the next few weeks. Which meant he both lived for and dreaded those moments where all your walls came crashing down.
So as he chatted with Gideon and a group of House Representatives—making sure that Jason didn’t step on any toes—he watched you on the dance floor, and waited for the moment your eyes would seek him out.
“So, what has the BAU accomplished this year?” A snobbier woman asked Gideon, Aaron recognized her as one of the committee members Jill had insisted they impress, and he could tell by the set of Jason’s jaw that his answer was going to be more sarcastic than he could reasonably cover for.
So he cut in.
“Well, we’ve been so productive this year, I don’t think we’d have the time to tell it all, and if we did we’d probably sound conceited…” He gave the group a conspiratorial grin, and a teasing wink to the woman who’d asked the question. She melted, her cheeks heating up at his attention, but he couldn’t have cared less. “I could give you the highlights–” he’d begun to offer, but just then your eyes found his across the ballroom and he knew you were done, the way you mouthed, help me, was a pretty clear sign, “in just a moment if you’d like, but you’ll have to excuse me for the time being, my partner is practically begging for a rescue from Senator Jones.” He joked, and it landed, because the Senator’s behavior toward younger women was the worst kept secret on the hill.
He was a disgrace, and everyone knew it, but no one ever did a thing about it because technically he’d never done anything illegal.
Publicly anyway…
Aaron nodded in your direction, just to show Gideon he wasn’t kidding, and the entire group followed his nod with their eyes.
“Pretty little thing, someone should’ve warned her about Jones…” One of the men in the group tutted.
He had warned you—knowing that you were already well aware—but you were a force of nature that could not be stopped. You kept him on his toes, and he was sure you’d have him turning gray in no time.
Gideon nodded for him to go mount his rescue, and he did it with the smallest of smirks on his face, which made Aaron grimace a bit. You’d be mad if you’d seen it.
Aaron would’ve told the whole world he was in love with you, if you’d let him, but that wasn’t something you were comfortable with. In fact, you’d never even told Aaron that you loved him too…
He never knew where he stood with you. You refused to label the relationship, and that was fine, he didn’t need a label. He just wanted to know where your head was at.
Some days it seemed like he was your whole world, and others… others it was like you couldn’t have cared less.
So as he crossed the ballroom and walked onto the dance floor, he carefully went over exactly what he was going to say to get you out of that situation without embarrassing you; or pissing off the senator and ruining all your hard work.
“Excuse me, Senator Jones,” he said, as he tapped on the older man’s shoulder, “I’m afraid I’ll have to steal my partner away from you for a moment. We’re being summoned to speak to the Attorney General about a recent high profile case. I’m sorry.”
Jones didn’t release you immediately—which irritated Aaron on principle—instead, he lean back just enough that as he looked down to meet your eyes he could see down the front of your dress.
Aaron clenched his fists, but bit his tongue.
“Oh, if the AG is summoning you, you’re either in trouble, or you’ve done a bang up job of something. So which is it sweetheart? Have you been a good girl, or a bad girl?” The fucker asked, giving you a lecherous, leering grin.
Aaron could’ve cold cocked the guy right then and there, but your smile never faltered when the Senator could see it.
“A lady never reveals her secrets…” You winked at the old piece of shit, making Aaron’s stomach turn as you peeled yourself away from him and took Aaron’s outstretched arm. “Have a good night, Sir.”
As soon as you were out of ear shot you slumped against him and sighed, clutching his arm a little tighter as if borrowing a little strength.
“Are you alright?” Aaron murmured, leading you through the crowd toward the wall.
“I’m fine,” you assured him, offering a soft smile that just barely reached your eyes, “the comments just kept getting cruder, and his hand started in the center of my back, but it was nearly on my ass by the time you interrupted.”
“I saw.” He ground out, his jaw clenched so tight he felt a cramp swiftly approaching, then noticed the slightly worried furrow of your brow and tried to relax. “Someone should really make a complaint about him.”
“You know it won’t do any good, he’s got too many friends in higher places than we can reach.” You shook your head, “Best to focus on the creeps we can stop until someone with a heftier fishing pole comes looking for him, hmm?” You squeezed his arm, smiling softly at him—genuinely this time—and his stomach did a fucking back flip. “Did the AG really ask to see us, or were you bluffing?”
“Bluffing…” He grinned, feigning confidence he wasn’t truly feeling. He never let himself get too cocky with you… because you were quick to bust his balls if you felt he was getting too egotistical. “Don’t worry though, she was a friend of my father’s and she’ll be offended if I don’t say hello, so we can just pop by for the sake of appearances.”
“Lead the way, trust fund baby.” You teased, earning yourself an eye roll.
“You know I don’t actually have a trust fund, right?” He muttered, biting back a smile, because if you knew he thought it was funny you’d be relentless.
“Mm hmm, because Mommy wasn’t happy when you decided to join the FBI and waste the two hundred thousand dollar law degree she paid for.” You said patronizingly, and he couldn’t even argue because you were right. “Bet you’ll still get that inheritance though, trust fund or not.”
You were right about that too.
Mother had only wanted him to get a taste of what it would be like to live on an Agent’s salary, instead of a well respected and successful attorney’s. She’d thought he would come running back to the safety net of his law degree—that he still used every day, just not the way she intended—but she had been wrong.
He still loved this job—and his new lifestyle—six years later.
“Is that any way to talk to the man who just rescued you from the handsiest senator on The Hill?” He smirked down at you, laughing as he caught a gentle elbow to the ribs.
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten. However could I possibly make it up to you? My knight in shining armor, my modern prince charming, my dashing defender, my–”
“I think you’ve made your point.” He chuckled, stopping you before the blush on his cheeks became bright enough to stop traffic.
He loved it when you called him “my” anything. There was nothing he wanted more than to be yours… so he would take what he could get.
“Hmm, I think I could make it a little clearer out on the terrace…” You murmured, leaning into him a bit and getting up on your toes to whisper in his ear, “Where it’s dark, and secluded, and if we hid in the far corner along the wall no one would see us… or hear us if you were quiet.”
A vision of you leaning back against the wall of the hotel—with your head thrown back and his feet just barely showing from under the fabric of your full skirt—popped into his head at the suggestion alone. He knew it wasn’t what you had in mind, but it was what he’d been daydreaming about since the moment he’d picked you up earlier.
Aggravatingly, he felt himself getting hard just thinking about it, and that was the last thing he needed to happen…
“Behave.” He murmured back to you, shaking his head as he fought off a grin, “You know we can’t do that here, the best three profiler’s in the nation are in this room and they happen to be our bosses. There’s no way we’d get away with it.”
“I bet we could. Agent Rossi is three sheets to the wind, Agent Gideon is talking to the committee members, and I haven’t seen Dr. Gideon since we got here. They won’t notice if we slip out for a minute… they have four other Agents to keep track of too.” You tugged on his arm giving him a pout, and he always had such a hard time saying no to you…
This time, however, it was out of the question. He couldn’t compromise you like that. Sure you were the same rank, and you’d both just made SSA, but he was a man… You were a woman—and though this may have been the mid 90s—unfortunately, progress hadn’t come that far yet. So—depending on who caught you and how—if you were caught he’d survive the fallout, but you wouldn’t.
“Jill is watching us right now, actually. She’s beaten you to your hiding spot—out on the terrace—and is monitoring our progress from a distance; because she hates politics and politicians.” He enlightened you, flicking his eyes in Jill’s direction to show you without having to point. “Rossi hasn’t had a drink in two hours because he drove the Opel tonight, and Gideon is… Well, he needs a babysitter to keep his temper in check. So we have to talk to the AG and then get back to him before he pisses off the wrong Congressman.”
The problem wasn’t really with your bosses, they already knew that you were sleeping together. They just feigned ignorance for your sake—though certainly not for Aaron’s. They teased him all the time. He’d never once publicly confirmed—or denied, so perhaps therein lied the problem—his love for you, and still they were relentless. They all knew it was something that you either weren’t ready—or didn’t ever intend—to talk about. So they left you alone, and focused the brunt of their teasing on him.
You were like that, you liked to keep work and life separate and he understood it. He also understood that your emotional baggage was heavy, and he had yet to even make the metaphorical zipper budge… let alone begin to unpack it.
He would wait as long as it took though… for you he’d wait forever…
As for the matter at hand, however, the bosses may not have cared that you were sleeping together, but he was certain they would have something to say about any shenanigans in a public space. Especially at a Congressional Gala, with the unit’s budget hanging in the balance. That was the problem…
“We could make it quick.” You gave it one last shot, and he knew you were—mostly—teasing, but his dick wasn’t getting the memo…
So he desperately needed you to stop, cease, and desist.
“No,” he said firmly, then, letting a bit of heat slip into his tone to soften the impact, he murmured, “but be a good girl, and I’ll let you do whatever you want when I take you home.”
He threw in the good girl just to piss you off enough to leave it be. Knowing that after your encounter with Jones, you’d be appalled by it.
"Ew, don’t— good girl?? Are you kidding?” You groaned, slapping his chest and giving him the most disgusted look you could muster.
“You didn’t seem to mind it last night…” He smirked, earning a gasp that parted your perfect lips and the prettiest shade of pink he’d ever seen as it spread across your cheeks.
“That was before the serial groper asked me if I was a good girl or a bad girl,” You grumbled, but he could tell he’d reminded you of just how much you liked it when he called you those things by the way your eyes had dropped to his lips, “but I could be compelled to like it again…”
“I thought you might.” He teased, chuckling softly as he took a look around the room.
Once he spotted her, he led you over to the table that the AG was seated at. Along with the Speaker of the House, the President pro tempore, several other members of the Cabinet, and the Vice President.
“Oh shit, Aaron, she looks busy and— oh God, that’s the Vice President.” You murmured, tugging at his sleeve to make him to stop.
Glancing down, he quickly realized you were nervous—and that was reasonable, there were some very powerful people at that table—but he knew what he was doing, the AG would remember him. He was certain of that for more than one reason.
“Hey,” he let his tone float into that soft low timbre that seemed to soothe you best, and murmured, “it’s okay. Of all the people at that table to be intimidated by, Reno is the worst, and I used to call her Aunt Janet. We’re fine, I promise.”
“God, you make me sick sometimes with your cockiness and… connections.” You muttered, but you had relaxed a bit, so he was satisfied that you would be fine.
“It’s called confidence, and you’re one to talk.” He teased, giving you an easy smile. “You’ve got the biggest head in the unit.”
“Jerk.” You snipped, but you were smiling, and he took that as a win.
He didn’t get too close—because he could see the Secret Service eyeing the both of you from their posts along the wall—instead he cleared his throat loud enough to get at least the attention of the AG.
“Madam Attorney General.” Aaron addressed her, in the most respectful tone he possessed.
“Yes?” She responded, turning in her seat to look for him, and when her eyes landed on him they shot wide, her hand flying up to her chest as though clutching her pearls. “My God.”
“Hello, ma’am.” Aaron gave her an impish grin, and ducked his head slightly in deference.
“Oh my God.” She whispered again, still seeming stunned at his appearance. “Aaron Hotchner, you look just like your father. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“I see him every morning in the mirror.” He joked, stepping forward—and, regrettably, away from you—as she stood to shake his hand.
“How’s your mother, and am I correct that you have a little brother?” She asked, clasping his hand a little longer than necessary, but he didn’t mind she meant well. “I never met him, but I remember hearing about him… bit of a trouble maker wasn’t he?”
“Mother is well, I spoke to her earlier and she’s mostly concerned about Sean finishing school. If that answers your other question? He’s his own person.” Aaron shook his head, cupping her hand with his free one as she chuckled softly at his response.
“And who is this young lady, your wife?” Reno asked, smiling over his shoulder at you.
“Oh, no ma’am!” You blurted before he had a chance to respond, and though you were only telling the truth, his heart cracked at the swift urgency of your answer. “I’m his partner.”
“Partner?” Janet asked, raising her brows, seemingly impressed, “You have a firm now? That’s quick work, Aaron, your mother must be proud.”
Hardly… He fought the urge to role his eyes as he thought about his mother’s true opinions on the matter. Though it was a welcome distraction from the way you’d just unintentionally eviscerated him.
“Actually, I’m not practicing anymore, I’m in The Bureau now.” He explained, then introduced you—rank and all—as you shook her hand. “She’s been my partner for three years now in the BAU, but we went through the academy together before that. We’re practically attached at the hip, mostly because I’d be fumbling around like an idiot without her.”
It had only taken him two and a half years to gather the courage to make a move on you… Not that dear old Aunt Janet needed to know that part…
“The BAU?” Mrs. Reno smiled, nodding as though she approved, “We’ve heard nothing but good reviews about your unit, in fact, I think we would benefit greatly from more units just like yours. I’ll be sure to put in a good word with the budgetary committee.” She winked at him then, stepping back and sinking into her seat. “Well, you kids go have fun, enjoy the party, maybe have a dance or two. It was good to see you Aaron, tell your mother hello for me, and it was a pleasure to meet you Agent.”
“It’s an honor, ma’am.” You smiled softly, “Most agents don’t get the chance to meet the AG unless they’re in hot water.”
“That’s very true…” Janet chuckled, “Well, don’t be a stranger Aaron.”
“Yes ma’am.” He murmured, still feeling the sting of your quick denial as he led you away.
He understood.
Really, he did.
You were partners, members of the same unit, and you loved working together. There was no one he’d rather have with him in the field than you, he trusted you with his life and he knew you felt the same way. Going public with your private relationship—however you were classifying it—was a threat to your professional one.
It still hurt though. Every time you laughed off the teasing, responded to playful accusations with sarcasm—or got angry when he didn’t—he died a little more inside.
He couldn’t get it out of his head, not even as you smiled fondly while telling Gideon and Rossi that he’d, “single handedly saved the budget by charming Janet Reno,” ten minutes later.
It was all he could think about.
How embarrassing, that a single knee-jerk reaction from you could completely ruin his night… You didn’t deserve that. It was not your fault that his feelings were hurt, not in the slightest. He knew you had never meant to hurt him with things like that, he was pretty sure you weren’t even aware that you had.
So he tried…
He tried to smile at you, to laugh at your jokes, to return your banter, and be as affectionate as he normally was. Unfortunately, he was struggling more tonight than usual, and he wondered if perhaps the strain of loving a woman—with all his heart—who didn’t openly love him back was finally catching up to him.
It didn’t matter though, because you deserved his love… every bit of it.
So he would endure.
Aaron had been quiet since your brief conversation with the AG. You didn’t know what was bothering him exactly, but you knew it had to be something you’d done. He’d been his usual—charmingly confident—self with everyone else at the gala, but with you he’d gone distant and quiet.
He didn’t seem to be angry—a sight you’d seen many times, though never because of you—no, not quite.
It was more like he was frustrated, maybe a little bit confused, and a hint resigned, but not angry. You didn’t know exactly what you could’ve done to trigger all of those emotions, but you knew that if you didn’t ask he’d stay silent about it forever. Aaron was always careful not to upset you, he never came to you accusingly, he never pushed you farther than you were willing to go.
And you…
Well, you never aired your grievances with him unless they were professional ones. The profile was always up for debate, and if you thought he was wrong—about even the slightest of details—you were quick to let him know. Hell, if he was so much as getting on your nerves at work, you’d bitch at him about whatever it was that was pissing you off. Just as all long term partners did.
You saw it all the time from Rossi and Gideon— the two of them never stopped bitching at each other.
Aaron always took it in stride, laughing and teasing you about being so “particular.”
Even so, you had to admit, you were a little scared to ask him what you’d done wrong tonight. Emotional confrontation… it wasn’t your thing. Past experiences had truly hindered your ability to effectively communicate your thoughts and feelings with a partner; and you didn’t mean the professional kind. It was a short coming you were painfully aware of, but terrified to look too hard at.
Needless to say, this drive home had been an awkward one.
Your attempts at idle conversation had gone poorly—not that he had ignored or been short with you, Aaron never treated you that way—his answers had only been quieter and more subdued than they normally would’ve been. He wasn’t giving you enough engagement to carry on the conversation.
So, you’d let silence fill the space, and neither of you bothered to touch the radio.
It wasn’t until he was ushering you gently into your apartment that your conscience won it’s internal struggle with your instincts.
“Have I done something wrong?” You murmured, though in the silence of your empty home, you might as well have shouted.
“No.” He mumbled, taking your coat—as he always did—and hanging it in the hall closet where it belonged, then draping his over your entryway table.
“You know you can’t get away with lying to me, you might as well tell me.” You sighed, walking down the hall toward your bedroom, already slipping off your elbow length, black, satin gloves. Then your heels, stooping to pick them up as you went.
“I’m not lying to you.” He muttered, shedding the tux jacket and undoing his tie to leave them with his coat. “You haven’t done anything wrong…”
You heard the tone… the way he said wrong, like it was an arbitrary term.
“Okay, if I haven’t done anything wrong objectively, what have I done wrong subjectively that upset you?” You shrugged, glancing back at him over your shoulder to see him stiffen a bit, and you knew that you’d hit the nail on the head with your interpretation of his statement. “I know there’s something.”
“It was nothing, Honey, let’s just–”
“It wasn’t nothing, Aaron, you’re upset. You’ve been distant ever since we spoke to the AG.” Turning to him in the doorway of your bedroom—because you didn’t want to shout through walls—you insisted, “I don’t know what I did, but I know it was me and I’d like to… I don’t know… make it right? Or at least apologize and understand why you seem so off kilter.”
“There’s nothing for you to apologize for.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one with the problem.”
That couldn’t have been further from the truth, and you both knew it, but you weren’t going to bring up your baggage tonight; not if you could help it.
“So, there is a problem…” You were beginning to grow frustrated, and his silent stubbornness had you throwing your hands up in the air as you gave up on this method of interrogation, retreating into your room to regroup. “Aaron, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
“I don’t want you to help me.” He called after you, but he didn’t follow. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself over, it’s my own issue.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you marched through your room and into your bathroom to get undressed, leaving the doors open in case he came to his senses and decided to follow you.
As determined as he was not to talk about it, you were three times as motivated to figure it out. Your… feelings… for Aaron may have been scattered, muddled, and shrouded in uncertainty, but his for you had always been crystal clear.
You knew how he felt.
He’d never made you guess, and you hated that you couldn’t return the favor. You hated yourself even more—not that you’d ever be emotionally stable enough to tell him any of that—so the only thing you could offer him in return was to try your best not to hurt him more than the inevitable.
So you went over every minuscule detail of every interaction you had from the moment he rescued you from Jones to the moment you noticed his demeanor toward you had shifted.
“Is it because I danced with Senator Jones, even though you warned me not too and then you had to come save me?” You called loudly, so that he could hear you from wherever he was in the apartment.
“No.” He called back, though much quieter.
You took off your necklace and hung it in your jewelry box with care, then started on the buttons that lined the back of your dress to cover the zipper. How you’d gotten into it on your own was a mystery to all of womankind, one that would probably never be solved. Thankfully, getting out was a lot easier than getting in, it would just take you a while. Normally you’d ask Aaron for help—which he was always eager to provide—but right now that didn’t feel fair and seemed manipulative.
“Was it that I winked at him?” You guessed again, already knowing that couldn’t have been it… Aaron wasn’t that possessive, and never treated you like this over things like that.
He’d never treated you like this at all, come to think of it.
“No, sweetheart, of course not.” He responded, and now his voice was coming from your bedroom, you thought he must’ve been standing in the bedroom door.
That was the extent of your time with the senator, so you moved on from the interactions with him and to the conversation afterword.
“It wasn’t the trust fund joke, was it?” You asked hesitantly, he’d never been ashamed of that before, and it had certainly never offended him.
“No, baby, please just—”
“Did I pressure you too much about messing around on the terrace?”
“No, but—”
“I called you a jerk when you said I had a big head, but I didn’t mean it…”
“No, love, that isn’t—”
“Then what is it Aaron? Because I’m running out of options, and I—” and then it hit you. “Oh my God.”
“Sweetheart, can we please just—”
“It was when I corrected Reno about our relationship.” You said with certainty, “I was too quick with it, and that hurt your feelings.”
The bedroom was silent.
There was no soft denial, no patient pet name, just defeated silence.
“I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.” His tone was almost too sharp, as if your apology would put him at the end of his rope.
“Well then what do you want from me?” You asked, “How can I fix this? I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings, Aaron, but she isn’t like Gideon squared and Rossi. She’s not just our boss, or their boss, she’s like… our boss’, boss’, boss’, boss’, boss. That’s boss to the fifth! She could ruin our careers with a single sentence, what was I supposed to say?”
“I don't expect you to fix anything, you did nothing wrong.” He ground out, his patience slowly—but clearly—declining the more you pushed him.
You were also getting angry.
Not at him, but at your dress. The buttons were pissing you the fuck off.
“If I did nothing wrong,” you asked through gritted teeth, as the buttons became increasingly harder to reach, “then why are you being so distant?”
Though, you supposed that wasn’t an entirely fair question, because the first thing you did when you got uncomfortable was push him away.
“Because, I’m afraid that I might…” he sighed , and there was a long pause before he continued. “I just don’t want to take my issues out on you.”
You knew that was a cop out, he wasn’t the one with issues… you were.
“You're afraid that you might what?” You challenged—as you finally got the last button undone and lowered your zipper—even though the potential answer scared you.
That was another thing.
You were too stubborn for your own good, and it often got you into situations that left you feeling too vulnerable.
Your dress slipped to the floor, leaving you in your underwear—a black lace bustier and matching thong—as you stepped out of it and carried it—and your shoes—into the closet a few feet to your right.
“That I might push you away again!” He exclaimed, as you hung the gown on the rack so it wouldn’t wrinkle before you took it to the cleaners.
His answer stunned you, and for a moment you felt like you couldn’t breathe.
“Like that.” He grumbled, his tone dismayed enough to get you moving again.
The usual pang of guilt began to squeeze your heart, in a vise so tight that you wondered how a heart attack would compare. Unfortunately, not even that pain could get you to talk about your feelings… it wasn’t that you didn’t want to.
You couldn’t.
Honestly, this was for the best. The only thing Aaron could gain from a real relationship with you was heartbreak. You weren’t capable of sustaining anything real long term, and the second you tried to build something substantial… it would all come crashing down around you.
You were protecting him… from yourself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied, stationing yourself in front of the mirror.
“That.” He said, and you could hear the underlying despair in his voice.“That is exactly what I'm trying to avoid. It’s fine when you push me, but if I ask you too many questions, if I get too emotional, then you pull away from me.”
“That isn’t true.”
It was.
“Yes, sweetheart, it is.” He shot back, then you heard his footsteps crossing your bedroom floor, but they were slow and cautious, like he was approaching a manic schizophrenic with an AK-47. “You don’t like to talk about your feelings, and that’s fine. I can live with it, but I can’t live with you shutting me out.”
“I don’t ‘shut you out,’ I’m just…”
Scared? Terrified? Absolutely horrified of what might become of this wonderful, sweet, amazing man once you’d finished wrecking him. Like you did everything you touched.
“You do.” He insisted, in the exact tone he used to talk down hysterical victims, and you could tell how much he was struggling to stay calm. “You are never willing to talk about anything that feels too real, and I am always left reeling after these conversations! I would just like to know—for once—exactly where I-”
His sentence ended abruptly in a strangled gasp.
You would’ve turned around to check on him, if you hadn’t caught sight of his face in the mirror. His jaw had gone slack, and his eyes—wide as quarters—were trained on your ass.
“Exactly where you… what?” You murmured, biting back a smirk… and it was entirely unfair of you—you knew it was—but he was right, you didn’t want to talk about your own feelings.
So, you leaned over the sink and toward the mirror, pretending to look at your face a little closer, and making your ass pop just a little more.
“Hmm?” He hummed, and suddenly there wasn’t a single—PG rated—thought behind his eyes.
You bent even further at the waist, stretching on your tiptoes to lengthen your legs, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
“Aaron, are you alright?” You asked, and your voice took a teasing tone.
“I know what you’re doing…” He mumbled, but didn’t even attempt to pull his eyes up to yours in the mirror.
“Is it working?”
“It always does…” His sigh almost made you feel guilty…
Until he approached you slowly, cautiously, and let his hands settle on your waist as he pressed his hips to your ass; letting you feel exactly how well it had worked. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck and warmth ran down your spine.
“Let’s put a pin in this conversation…” He suggested, dropping more kisses to your neck as he worked his way around it and up to your ear. “We can come back to it later.”
You hummed your agreement, and tipped your head to the side to make the job a little easier for him. However, you knew damn well that you wouldn’t give him another chance at this conversation for a long time.
His hands slid up from your waist, over your stomach, to cup your breasts—making you moan as he squeezed them—his grip firm but gentle.
“You look so beautiful tonight…” he whispered, so softly it was almost a sigh, “that dress was driving me insane, and now look at you…” He brought a hand up to your chin and made you look into the mirror. “You’re killing me, baby…”
Your eyes met his in the reflection, and you couldn’t handle the raw emotion you saw in them. Emotion that suggested there was a double meaning to his last four words… So you watched as his hands disappeared behind you instead.
One by one, he undid the clasps of your bustier, leaving kisses over the marks each one left. When he’d finished, he slipped the straps off your shoulders and watched in the mirror as your breast were slowly revealed.
“Fuck…” He murmured, kissing your shoulder tenderly. “You’re so perfect, sweetheart.”
Your heart and pussy clenched at the same time, and your brain… well… she fled the building.
It was at moments like this, when he was so gentle and loving, that you were most vulnerable to your emotions. He always took care of you, never thinking of himself first, and that was something that never ceased to stun you.
No one had ever treated you as well as Aaron did.
Even when you pissed him off, he was calm and respectful. He never yelled at you, not really, and if he felt his voice start to rise or his tone turn harsh he simply took a deep breath.
Not once had he walked away from you, not once had he made you feel small or insignificant.
Which only made your guilt grow.
You weren’t trying to string him along, you cared for him more than you’d let yourself care for anyone in years.
Which terrified you.
The more you cared, the more it would hurt in the end. For both of you.
Gripping your hips, Aaron turned you to face him, then lifted you up so you were sitting on the edge of the sink and brought his lips to yours.
You immediately tried to deepen the kiss—nipping at his bottom lip and licking the sting away—but he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.
“Slow down…” he murmured against your lips, “there’s no rush…”
But there was.
Because the slower he went, the more emotional the moment felt.
You could handle rough sex, it was a walk in the park for your heart, but emotional sex might as well have been a bomb.
“I want you.” You argued—your hands going to the buttons of his white dress shirt—and it wasn’t a lie.
You always wanted him, so much that you feared you might be addicted to him, you couldn’t stay away from him. That was why this whole mess had happened in the first place.
“I know,” he smiled, and didn’t stop your hands, but continued the kiss at a leisurely pace, then said in a reverent tone, “and you can have every piece of me, but I feel like worshiping you tonight…”
Tears began welling up in your eyes—a startling reaction, one that you didn’t have the strength to analyze—so you blinked them away, and lost yourself in his kiss.
He let you finish with the buttons of his shirt before he picked you up, wrapped your legs around his waist, and carried you to the bedroom.
Crossing the room to your bed, he gently lowered you to the mattress, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he stood and hooked his thumbs into the waist band of your thong. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched him slowly peel it down your legs, his eyes devouring every inch of your skin as it was revealed.
He gazed at you with longing more than lust—both were present, along with a third L word that you refused to acknowledge as long as you could avoid it—as if he desired you completely.
Body and soul.
Stripping off his shirt and undoing his pants seemed to be the next items on his agenda, and—grateful for the distraction—you memorized the sculpted plain of his chest until his belt began to jingle. Then your eyes were locked on the bulge barely hidden by his pants, and when they slipped to the floor you took a deep breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. You held that deep breath, waiting for him to strip out of his boxer briefs as well—they were Calvin Klein’s and looked so hot on him—but he didn’t.
Instead, he put a knee up to join you on the bed, leaving you in suspense.
So you groaned and let yourself flop back down onto the bed, your arms splaying out to the side dramatically. A deep, toe curling, amused chuckle rumbled out of his chest at your theatrics as he crawled over the top of you—bracing himself with one hand next to your head—and pressed a kiss to the exposed column of your throat, turning your groan into a soft moan.
It urged him on, and he slowly trailed sweet, gentle, lingering kisses down your neck to your chest, then over the curve of your breasts. He drew one nipple into his mouth, circling it with his tongue as he sucked on it so lightly it almost tickled. Gently stimulating the other with his fingers, until—between the two sensations—he had you whimpering and rubbing your thighs together to ease the ache that was growing just above them.
He noticed—of course—and slowly trailed his hand down your stomach, letting it get all the way down to the apex of your thighs before he followed it with his lips. His fingers found your clit with practiced ease and you let your legs fall open for him as he caressed it in perfect little circles.
His mouth stalled briefly at your belly button to teasingly trace it with his tongue, pulling a mixture of a giggle and a moan from your lips before he continued on. As he got closer and closer to his target, he slipped gracefully off the bed and to his knees on the floor.
Gripping your hips firmly, he dragged you to the edge of the mattress, then skimmed his hands down to your knees, and draped them over his shoulders.
“You have no idea how many times I thought about doing this tonight…” He murmured, lightly kissing the sensitive insides of your thighs.
“How many times?” You whispered, picking your head up to look into his eyes.
Which was a mistake… because they were full of that emotion again. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you felt too.
“Every time I looked at you.” He confessed, soaking in the sight of you as though you were a work of art, in a way that no other man had ever looked at you. “You’re irresistible, honey.”
“Aaron…” You croaked, unable to control the torrent of emotions that were tearing you apart on the inside, “I—”
And you wanted to say it, as hope lit his eyes.
In that moment—not for the first time—you were desperate to say the words that he so often offered you with ease, but…
They caught in your throat, wrapping around your vocal cords and strangling them until your tongue felt so thick you couldn’t even breathe.
“I need you.” It leapt off your lips—barely more than a gasp—easing the panic in your chest; allowing air to reach your lungs again… but your heart felt only self loathing as you watched the light in his eyes die.
Just as it had a hundred times before.
His lips pressed the gentlest of kisses to the skin just above your cunt, and then he buried his face in it, licking you from bottom to top in one broad sweep of his tongue… Dipping it inside you, like he was teasing at what was to come.
Aaron’s skill with his mouth wasn’t limited to pretty words and dry wit, he was also well versed in using it to bring you to the heights of pleasure and bliss. A blessing and a curse, because he could coax almost anything out of you with the right amount of pressure.
On a night like tonight it was more curse than blessing.
You wanted to beg for mercy already as he sealed his lips around your clit, sucking with stunningly precise flicks of his tongue that left you breathless.
“Fuck, Aaron!” You keened, unable to keep your hands from flying off the bed to thread your fingers through his hair, and you couldn’t decide whether you intended to pull him away or push him closer.
You tightened your grip and he groaned, sending vibrations rumbling through your clit that had you gasping.
Then you felt a thick finger teasing at your entrance with soft strokes, until you were clenching in anticipation. His other hand soothed away the tension with a firm squeeze of your thigh. The message was clear: relax.
You did your best, drawing in a deep breath and willing your muscles to melt against the mattress. It must’ve worked well enough, because he hummed his approval as he slid his finger inside to the second knuckle, curling it up against your g-spot.
Bucking against his hand and face—involuntarily—earned you a quiet snicker, that you couldn’t even be annoyed at because it felt so good.
You were putty in his hands… as always.
That familiar, deep, tension began to rise—slowly but powerfully—until there was a knot in your stomach that seemed to be attached directly to your clit… and it was mere seconds away from unraveling.
Aaron felt the spasms starting even before you did—too focused on the rising pleasure to notice the pulsing it triggered—and his eyes flicked up to your face, locking gazes with you. There was such satisfaction in his hazel depths. He was thrilled by the fact that he had such an effect on you, and the pleasure he seemed to derive from yours only drove you higher.
“Aaron!” Your strangled gasp filled the air, the wave of your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami crashing against a shore and wrecking you just as thoroughly.
He murmured your name soothingly as he talked you through it—praising you quietly—and when it was over, he pressed one more feather soft kiss to your clit. You rewarded him with a quiet whimper.
Then he got to his feet, joined you on the bed, scooped you into his arms, and gently repositioned you in the center of the mattress. He nudged your knees apart with care and settled between your legs, hovering over you to leave a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, both cheeks, your chin, and finally your lips.
It was a lingering kiss, and it may have been the sweetest one you’d ever had.
“You’re so beautiful…” He murmured against your lips.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him down so you could feel his weight on top of you as he kissed you.
So that your guilt wouldn’t be the only thing crushing you…
You’d never understand what it was that he saw in you. Sure, you were beautiful, you weren’t denying that. He said it consistently enough that he must have believed it anyway. However, beauty wasn’t a believable cause for such devotion…
It couldn’t be the reason he felt the way he did for you, but for the life of you, you couldn’t find any other reason.
You tortured yourself over it—nearly everyday—until self hatred was the only emotion you capable of truly expressing.
It was exhausting— unending and eternal in it’s brutality.
So—even though it only made the guilt worse in the long run—you allowed yourself the brief respite that only he brought to your mind; as he worshiped your body until the only thing you felt was oblivion.
“Aaron, please…” You whimpered into his mouth, once again fighting with everything you had left to keep from crying. “Need you…”
“I know…” He murmured, kissing a line up your jaw to your ear, “I know, baby, I’ve got you.”
Untangling himself from your legs, he got to his knees and you watched—completely enthralled—as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear and slowly revealed himself to you.
It never got old…
You never grew tired of it.
Aaron was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, with his dark hair and dark eyes. His lean, toned, sculpted physique had you drooling every time you had the pleasure of gazing at it, and that was all before he took his cock out. He was a perfect specimen.
That wasn’t what had drawn you in though.
At nearly thirty he still had this boyish whimsy about him, a joy for life that you just couldn’t get enough of. Every moment with him felt like a fairytale, and he was the perfect prince charming. He was a luxury your heart couldn’t afford, a blessing you didn’t deserve.
Unfortunately, that knowledge hadn’t been enough to stop your feelings from forming.
The motion of his hand, gripping and stroking the shaft of his cock, was enough to pull you out of that familiar downward spiral… for now.
“God, Aaron, why are you so pretty?” You sighed, on a dreamy exhale, trying to stay in the moment for him.
“I’m pretty?” He smirked, leaning over you again and bracing one hand next to your head.
“Mm hmm, so pretty.” You nodded, picking your head up to meet him halfway as he went in for another kiss. “I think staring at you is my favorite pastime…” you murmured against his lips, “you make my eyes very happy.”
“Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed…” he chuckled into the kiss, as he lined himself up with your entrance, the heat of it making you gasp softly, “I always notice the way you look at me…”
Something in his tone threw up a yellow flag for you, signaling danger, but you asked him anyway, “How do I look at you?”
“I think you know…” He whispered, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes—searching them intently—before he nodded once like he was confirming something for himself, “Are you ready for me, sweetheart?”
Emotionally? No. You didn’t think you ever would be. Physically though, you felt like you might die if he made you wait another second.
“Please…” You pleaded, nodding your head earnestly— in near desperation.
If he was inside you physically, then you could forget about the turmoil he was causing in you emotionally…
That was your theory anyway, though it had proven nearly useless so far.
He pushed forward just the smallest bit, and you moaned at the pressure, clenching around the head tight enough for him to moan as well.
“Relax for me sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing your cheeks and then your lips, “let me in…”
You knew he hadn’t meant for his words to have two meanings, but you read into them anyway. Wishing desperately that you could do just that… let him in. Your heart screamed for it, there was nothing you would have rather done… and yet, your brain—your worst critic—told you that was impossible. You’d only hurt him, and get hurt in return if you did. He didn’t deserve that, he deserved so much better…
So much better than you.
His eyes caught yours, and you knew he’d see everything going on inside your head if you didn’t let it go. So you took a deep breath and relaxed, letting the tension leave your body as you surrender to the sensation of him.
His thrust was long and slow, filling you up one inch at a time. A soft whimper fell off your lips, and he caught it with his own.
“You always feel so perfect, pretty girl…” He sighed, dropping his forehead to rest on your shoulder, pressing tender kisses to your collarbone, and waiting for you to adjust to the fullness. “So fucking perfect…”
The adoration in his voice was enough to bring tears to your eyes again, tears that you had no intention of letting him see. So you wrapped your arms and legs around him again, pulling him closer as you threaded your fingers into his hair. Then, compelled by that raw emotion—that you could not seem to give voice to—you kissed his temple and hoped he felt what you wanted to convey.
Taking it as encouragement to move, he set a slow pace, and immediately you knew this time was different. This wasn’t just sex, he wasn’t just fucking you, and though he’d said the words so many times before… he’d never done this.
He had never made love to you…
There would be no coming back from this, you were already too far gone long before tonight began, but until this point—this moment—you’d been able to pretend. That wouldn’t be possible now as your mind finally agreed with what your heart had been screaming for months…
You loved him.
You should’ve stopped him, should’ve warned him away a long time ago… If you had only been less selfish, you would’ve told him a year ago that you couldn’t give him what he was looking for, you couldn’t return his emotions to him, couldn’t reciprocate his feelings in the way he deserved.
You were too damaged.
Now it was too late, because now—no matter how you both felt—you would hurt him, and—in the process—yourself.
Aaron was whispering nonsensical praise into your ear, each word sweeter than the last. The sensation of his slow, gentle thrusts had physical pleasure rising like a tide right alongside the intensity of your emotions. Simultaneously you felt joy and anguish, hope and despair, love—for him—and hatred—for yourself—all of it overwhelming you to the brink of implosion and yet… release.
It was imminent. And then…
“I love you.” He sighed.
And the levy broke.
Your body shook, from both the intensity of an orgasm, and the force of your sobs.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
His voice echoed in the back of your mind, ringing like a church bell, the tone of which you couldn’t identify.
Beginning or end.
Life or death.
Celebration or mourning.
Salvation or damnation.
The intensity of your free fall pushed him over the edge too. He pulled out of you so swiftly that it would’ve taken your breath away, if you’d had any left to take. You felt it on your belly—the warmth of his release—before he rolled to the side and collapsed to catch his own breath.
His ears must’ve been ringing, because it wasn’t until he looked at your face—with the intent to praise or kiss you—that he noticed you were crying. He had mistaken your sobs for whimpers and moan, you knew, because he looked absolutely stricken by the sight of your tears.
“Honey, what’s the matter?” He gasped in a panic, reaching for your face and attempting to wipe away the tears that fell too quickly to be contained. “Did I hurt you? Are you in pain? Why didn’t you stop me?”
But you couldn’t speak, couldn’t draw in the breath necessary, nor could you stop the sobs. You could only shake your head, answering as many of his questions as possible in that motion.
“No?” He murmured softly, his brows furrowing as he tried to decipher it. “No, I didn’t hurt you, or, no, you’re not in pain?”
You nodded. That was all you could give him.
“Yes… to both?”
You nodded again.
“Then why are you so upset?” He asked gently, and there was fear in his eyes.
“Because— I just— I can’t.” It was all you could manage through your sobs. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what, baby?” He murmured, scooping you up into his arms and holding you in his lap, not giving a damn about the mess. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t.” You gasped, those two words telling him everything and nothing all at the same time.
“Okay…” He cooed, stroking your cheek with his thumb, “Okay, that’s okay, I’m here anyway. We’ll talk when you can.”
He didn’t ask you any more questions, he didn’t offer solutions, didn’t try to fix you. No, Aaron only held you, offering his quiet, peaceful, strong presence. He held you until you were too tired to continue crying… and as your eyes grew heavy, you had a single thought.
Loving him would kill you… and it would traumatize him in the process.
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