A/N: Just know that I will occasionally go back and make revisions.
Also most of my writing is going to be Plus!Size reader. By plus size I basically mean a size 12-14 and up. There will be descriptions of tummy, hips, thighs, ass and breasts. There will stretchy marks and cellulite. Other wise I will try to be as inclusive as possible by either not including other descriptors or writing a large variety. That is not to say that I won't and don't write for thinner women. I am just writing from personal experience.
Please feel free to provide constructive criticism, I love hearing how I can improve, just don't be mean.
Love Between Shelves: OMC Tai x OFC Ren - Part one, Part two , Part three, Part four
Bucky are still you there? - Bucky Barnes x Reader
Bucky are you there? (No SH related blood) - Bucky Barnes x Reader
Breakfast- Syverson x Reader
Ruined - A poem I wrote
Hot Chocolate - Syverson x Reader. Cavillmas day 2
The Scarf - Henry Cavill x Reader. Cavillmas day 4
Candy Canes- Clark Kent x Reader. Cavillmas day 22
Naughty list - SMUT- Sy x Plus size reader. Cavillmas day 24
So, You Like Big?: Part One, Part Two, Part Three , Part Four , Part Five, Part Six
Ville Vallo X Taurean (Female OC) : This is pure shameless smut. Taurean is home alone and horny as hell. Blasting her favorite song leads to a tall dark and handsome god of music playing her body like a fiddle.
Oblivious and Envy (Jason Todd x Reader) : You are feeling jealous and a little hurt from all the women who have been flirting with Jason recently. He is completely oblivious until you get mad.
this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics arenât monetized. thatâs all.
being a âprofessionalâ writer doesnât mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. Iâve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.
whether or not a piece of writing is monetized has nothing to do with its quality.
Geto asked Gojo are you Saturo Gojo because you're the strongest or are you Saturo Gojo because you're the strongest
And the boys perfectly encapsulates that question - Homelander isn't Homelander because he is John Gillman, he is Homelander because he is the strongest supe
I believe Gojo is the inverse he has legitimate character and a life/personality outside of his powers
Both did not ask for their abilities, both are incredibly powerful in a way that resets the global power scaling, but only one of them has a true sense of self - They're both lonely but go about said loneliness very differently
Gojo builds attachments and finds purpose in his students and (basically) adopted son Megumi
He's secure in himself and his strength and he uses that security to uplift others, he doesn't act out of fear
homelander is the exact opposite And we can see this from how he treats the seven to how he treats his son Ryan
Power without love is reckless and abusive and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice. Justice at its best is love correcting everything that stands against love.
Steve sat against his headboard while you straddled his lap. Both fully naked and him seated deep inside of you. He didnât need to hold you down, you knew better than to move without his permission. Your hands rest on his sides as you stare into each otherâs eyes. Steve reaches up and pushes your hair back over your shoulder before caressing your neck.Â
This started as a guy pulling the old "homosexuality is wrong because it doesn't produce children" and very quickly escalated to his poorly veiled fantasy of becoming Immortan fucking Joe I guess.
when bucky died, steve followed him days later. when the winter soldiers mask fell off, he would have let him shoot him. when bucky was beating him bloody he said to kill him bc he was with him til his heart stopped bleeding. he dropped the shield twice for bucky, and the man had been at the center of his story since he was six years old. in infinity war he watched him die in front of him for a SECOND TIME.
and youâre trying to tell me he spent the snap support group meetings talking about a woman who died of old age instead of bucky or sam? that he didnât mention them once the whole film? that he could leave them as soon as he got them back? thereâs no way. there is NO way
spencer âgermaphobeâ reid is obsessed with messy sex with fem!reader, spit and sweat and cum absolutely everywhere
18+ (smut!)
wc: 1,525
â he first discovers how much he likes cumming on her by accident, sheâs in his lap and grinding on him, and theyâre both naked, and heâs so pleasantly overwhelmed at the sight of her like this:
her lips and nipples are red and swollen and glistening with his spit.
she has wet hickies littered all over her neck and chest.
they both have a thin layer of sweat on their bodies.
he is so so insanely turned on.
so when he sees her lick her palm, and she wraps her hand around him to guide him inside of her, he accidentally cums immediately.
some of it splashes up to her stomach, dripping down her pelvis and through her pubes, some even reaches all the way up to the underside of her breasts.
the rest of it coats her hand.
heâs so obsessed with the sight that he canât even think to apologize for cumming too soon and getting her all messy.
âfuck, baby, look at you.â
and when she starts licking his cum off her hand, heâs already getting hard again.
this sparks a fascination with seeing his cum on various parts of her body.
â heâs fucking her in missionary, and he begs her to let him pull out and cum all over her breasts.
heâs been sucking and licking on them as he fucked her. theyâre all shiny with his spit.
âplease, let me cum on them, baby. please, can i?â he says to her between kisses.
she whines and nods, his thick cock stretching her and leaking hot beads inside of her has her awestruck.
he watches as it flows around the swell of her tits, and he slowly licks the warm and sticky mess off until sheâs clean, thanking her profusely and telling her how hot she is.
âyou look so beautiful and so divine like this, baby.â
â when sheâs on her knees for him, his dick and her lips a deep red and glistening with her saliva, he gets an idea:
he warns her that heâs about to cum and she maintains her pace, knowing that he loves watching her swallow all of him.
he gently pulls her head off of him, âwanna cum on your beautiful face, baby. can i?â
she just nods, breathless from just having him down her throat.
he starts jerking himself off and she swats his hand away to take over.
he doesnât last long at the vision of her kneeled in front of him, her fingers and hand looking so small around his thick cock, eyes wide and shiny, expectantly waiting for him to cum all over her.
heâs entranced with each spurt of his cum that paints her face, dripping from her eyelashes, down her cheeks, some on her nose and forehead, some mixing with the spit on and around her mouth, some even reaches up into her hair.
sheâs completely covered in his cum.
she even opens her mouth for him as heâs cumming, tongue slightly protruding out, so he gets to watch as it lands on her lips and tongue, as well.
âoh fuck⊠such a good girl.â
he still gets to watch her swallow some of him and heâs completely enthralled, groaning at the sight of her.
â and when he has her on her hands and knees for him, a thin layer of sweat on her back from pushing backwards into his thrusts:
her head is turned sideways and he can see the proof of their messy kisses on her mouth, lips shining and red and slightly bruised from his teeth catching on them.
her loves this position so he can watch her ass jiggle against his hips with every thrust.
he asks if he can cum on her asscheeks (still so respectful even after drenching her over and over again with his cum).
she says yes, knowing and loving how much he loves it at this point.
he thinks about marriage as he watches his spend spurt all over her gorgeous ass and lower back, wanting to get to do this with her for the rest of his life.
his absolute favorite is watching his cum drip out of her pretty little hole, though.
seeing it mix with her juices and his saliva thatâs either there from eating her out or spitting on her in the middle of fucking her.
heâll get between her legs to spread her pussy lips with his thumbs to get the best view of it flowing out of her.
he canât stop himself from leaning in to lick her clean once itâs all dripped out.
â he knows itâs respectful to ask her where she wants him to cum, so he does.
and when she responds with, âwherever you want,â his brain short-circuits; he loves her so much.
heâs learned to let himself start cumming inside of her so he can watch it flow out of her, then he pulls out mid-orgasm and paints the rest on any body part he wants.
-
â she tells him that some people like spitting into their partners' mouths off-handedly, thinking he might find it completely disgusting and maybe even laugh at the concept:
until heâs fidgeting in his seat and pulling at the crotch of his pants at the idea.
the next time theyâre fucking, he holds her chin with a thumb on her bottom lip.
âopen up, baby.â
she does, and he slowly lets a long string of spit fall onto her tongue, and the sight of it has his thrusts faltering.
he then experiments (heâs forever a man of science, after all) with watching his spit drip onto her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach, and, of course, her pretty pussy.
â he encourages her to do it to him when sheâs sucking his cock, heâs lying on his back, and sheâs between his legs.
heâs entranced by the look of her spit slooowly stretching down to his tip.
â he asks her to spit in his mouth when sheâs on top, swallowing it with a smile on his face.
â when heâs lying on top of her, and theyâve been messily making out, and he reaches between her legs to caress her clit and finger her:
sheâs absolutely dripping for him, so what he does next is completely unnecessary, but he just canât help himself.
he pulls his hand up to her mouth and asks her, âcan you get âem nice and wet for me, baby?â
he watches in awe as she sucks them between her lips, cheeks hollowed.
the feeling of her warm tongue and mouth around his fingers has him grinding against her hip.
when he pulls them out to get back to pleasing her, he can barely handle the way they look: glistening and shining with her saliva.
a string of spit connects his fingers to her lips, and heâs so painfully hard.
â sheâs not sure if itâs pushing it when sheâs riding him and she puts her fingers on his lips, but she had a feeling he wouldnât object.
he takes three of her fingers into his mouth with absolutely no hesitation, sucking and licking all over and in between them until theyâre completely dripping with his spit.
she reaches down to rub at her clit, and he can still see her fingers shining as she does, making him cum deep inside of her with a groan.
â when sheâs sucking him off and a string of saliva connects her lips to his flushed tip, he has to focus on not cumming on the spot.
-
â the first time she cries during sex, he is sooo conflicted:
he immediately stops his thrusts because heâs worried about her first and foremost.
but, he canât stop the twitching of his dick inside of her.
âshit, are you okay, baby?â
âyeah, spence,â she nods, âfeels too good.â
âoh, fuuuck.â he groans as he continues his deep penetrations.
he kisses her cheeks where her tears fall, and licks his lips between each one.
â when she gets teary-eyed while sucking his cock, he canât stop himself from pushing his hips forward to send himself deeper down her throat.
when he finishes by cumming all over her face, heâs enthralled by the look of it mixing with her tears.
-
â when sheâs all sweaty, he loooves licking it off of her:
in the summer months it acts as a part of foreplay.
he loves it most when sheâs all sweaty after fucking him, though, and the way he licks it off of her after is so so sensual.
-
â oh and heâs so obsessed with pulling her panties off of her and sheâs so obscenely wet that they stick to her folds on the way down.
and when he can see her creamy discharge on them.
he has definitely brought them up to his lips to taste her there, and will suck on her panties until sheâs whining and rubbing her thighs together, so so desperate for him.
-
â god help him the first time he makes her squirt, he almost cums completely untouched at the sight.
and donât even get me started on how he feels about period sex and food play
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak.
Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. Youâd argue, but itâs hard to speak when heâs fixing your posture with his [REDACTED]
Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [â« of glory â«]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack)
Word Count: 6.6k
Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the âDonât write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Secondsâ challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD
masterlist
The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaronâs hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that theyâd be perfect for back massages.
That was probably your second thought.
Because your first was⊠well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.
Still.
Now â naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit youâre trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:
Heâs freakishly good at the massage thing too.
Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.
Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same âYes, thatâs the spot, sweetheart - like that?â murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.
At least this time, itâs his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not⊠well. Other places.
You donât know how he does it.
Itâs awful. Itâs amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear youâve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.
(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)
But instead, you just hum.
And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes youâve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:
âCan you keep doing this forever?â
Also because - small detail, minor point - heâs pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.
And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.
And- yeah. He sort of⊠rocks against you.
Not on purpose.
(Probably?)
(âŠDefinitely.)
Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it werenât for the fact that heâs wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth⊠which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.
Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)
Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.
(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)
(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)
Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.
Itâs the softest thing youâve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.
Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-
âNot to be paternalistic,â he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But youâll allow it. Youâll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason itâs insanely hot when he talks like this.)
â-but you shouldnât have a back like this at your age.â
âWell, thankfully Iâve got your magic hands to fix it, donât I?â You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because youâre an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.
It doesnât.
What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like heâs aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you âcanât just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,â yada yada-
âI know it doesnât feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,â yada yada-
âI just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but Iâd like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.â yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didnât know we were doing that now) yada yada-
âSweetheartâ.
All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice heâs perfected.
The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it werenât currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.
(You would roll your eyes, but youâve just been told thatâs a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)
âBreathe through it,â he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.
Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself â repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.
(You are. Youâre calculating. Youâre the problem.)
âYeah, thatâs a good one. Keep doing this,â he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldnât say. Youâve lost all grip on spatial awareness.
All you know is thereâs a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.
Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-
âYouâre really tight here.â Sir (GN). Be serious. âYou should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.â
And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides itâs going to take what it can get.
If a proper orgasm isnât on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.
It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.
So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:
âCould you go lower?â
âLower?â he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.
Now youâre face-to-face with him.
Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.
Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesnât give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your â probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:
Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)
Still, since profiling is such a complex job â
(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still canât figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)
so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-
So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.
(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama setâs currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)
(You canât turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, heâll scold you. But you know itâs there.)
(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)
And apparently, he does.
Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:
âAgain?!â
Ah. Yes. Again.
Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless âI missed you,â right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.
So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:
Close. The. Curtains.
(You keep forgetting thereâs an entire wing of Aaronâs apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic⊠oh- hi, Linda from 154.)
But itâs fine. Itâs fine.
You fixed it.
You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.
Just the essentials.
Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed manâs lap.
Youâre pretty sure that doesnât count as public indecency. (Itâs basically PG-12. Gleeâs airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that showâs somehow still going. So really, youâre fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)
âŠYou also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.
You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)
Those people didnât see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.
Didnât see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.
Didnât see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered âJesus Christâ he left when your hips started rolling.
They didnât see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldnât decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.
Didnât hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.
And they definitely didnât hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: âBeen thinking about this the whole damn flight.â
Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.
âI missed you,â you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But itâs also starting to feel like the reason youâre so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)
âThatâs what you said in the shower,â he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) âAnd on the bathroom sink.â Ah. Yes. Youâd offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) âDonât you think thatâs enough for tonight?â
He basically looks at you like youâre the most beloved disaster heâs ever encountered.
Fond - yes.
Amused - definetely.
Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.
Veeeery humbling experience.
And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.
âYouâre adorable,â he pities you. âNow please could you turn back over?â
Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. Youâre halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.
Then the other. (Symmetry. Heâs disgusting.)
You brace for his hands on your back, but itâs his mouth instead.
Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like heâs trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.
And he doesnât stop.
Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.
You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.
Could be excitement. Could be the fact that heâs been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because youâre head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)
Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor topâs been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.
One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)
Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.
Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).
Itâs⊠a moment.
You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isnât just the way heâs staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;
Itâs the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.
And still, he manages to outdo himself.
Because Aaron Hotchnerâs greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick heâs somehow just casually lugging around - itâs his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.
âYouâre soakedâŠâ he murmurs. âYou already fucked me and youâre still soaked.â
(Thereâs just something in Aaron saying that you fucked himâŠCall it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)
âShit, say it again.â You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.
You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties âSmug little thing⊠Letâs see how long it lasts.â
Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit â catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.
He doesnât bother teasing â just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.
Mouth open. Tongue flat.
You start cursing everything.
Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasnât moved aside.
Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue â turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.
Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you â mouth hot and hungry â and yanks your hips closer like he canât fucking help himself.
Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until thereâs nowhere for you to go â nowhere for you to run â nothing you can do but take it.
Heâs drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.
Then again. And again.
Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.
Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately heâs taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.
(Thank God.)
âFuck, Aaron-â you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.
You were so fucking wrong.
His real talent isnât stating the obvious.
Itâs the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.
âYou taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,â he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.
He fucks you with it.
Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just⊠goes feral. A combination youâre 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet itâs somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.
You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like itâs oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.
The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-
âAaron- Aaron, please-â
Not your best work. Not ideal.
You should specify - to Mr. Old Manâą - that after please, there was going to be donât stop.
But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.
(Itâs cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)
You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.
(Maybe because heâs strong. Maybe because youâre fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you donât resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)
He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.
And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.
The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throatâŠ
âŠRight as his fingers start to curl around it.
Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now heâs realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, jokeâs on him, it already is).
(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. Thatâd be ideal. Five stars.)
So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.
That first stretch.
That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like heâs carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.
âSorry,â he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. âI couldnât resist.â And another kiss, âI need to fuck you properly so you donât wake me up begging for it again.â
(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, youâre definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)
You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know heâs furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Manâą composure.
âMmm, sweetheart,â he groans, dragging in deeper until heâs finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. âYouâre not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like thatâŠâ
He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because itâs lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.
And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but itâs textbook deflection.
(Hotchner: 1 â You: 0. For now.)
âAaron-â you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, youâre full. Like - canât think, canât breathe, forgot-Aaronâs-home-wifi-password kind of full.
(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)
(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)
(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. Thatâs the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)
(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. Itâs the one with the weird numbers⊠Jackâs birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)
(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)
(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but youâre way too biased.)
âOh fuck-â Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heatâs finally overtaken every vertebrae youâve got.
Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.
He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. âYes, honey? You like that? Is that what youâre trying to say? Or-.â A sharper thrust. âDo you need me to go harder already?â
Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.
White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.
(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists itâs historical. Yes, itâs probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you itâs a collectorâs piece, youâre still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)
âDo you feel it?â he asks.
You know what he means. Doesnât even need to say it.
Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-
âWell- itâs- fuck yes, right th- itâs kind of impossible not to, isnât it?â
Wrong answer, apparently.
Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.
(Or maybe heâs just decided he wonât be satisfied until youâre properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)
âLift your hips,â he instructs.
âWhat-â
âJust do it.â
You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.
(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)
He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty⊠part of you hopes he doesnât bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex⊠but then again, youâre talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.
âThere. Better angle for your back,â he mutters.
âAre you fucking kidding me⊠oh fuck- my back?â You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.
Heâs drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.
Somehow, youâre still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That heâs that deep. That much.
You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.
A nice, shiny, brassy âDeepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012â kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows heâs that good.
So good that as he angles himself even better (you didnât even know that was possible), you donât even hear the bedframe anymore.
(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering âsorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleepâ while trying not to make it creak - youâre gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)
Youâre gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible⊠justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.
âSweetheart, youâre collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.â
You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spineâs gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.
Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. âCome on, sweetheart. Donât make me correct your posture and fuck you⊠engage here.â
(Which is ironic. Because right now? Heâs doing both flawlessly.)
âTrying,â you pant.
âOh, I can see youâre trying,â he mutters, and somehow itâs affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.
He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.
Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isnât even a word anymore.
âPoor thing,â he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. âClenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You canât even hold yourself up, sweetheart. Thatâs adorable.â
âWhy do you have to be such an asshole? Canât you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?â
He kisses your shoulder. âBecause for some reason,â he murmurs, lazy and devastating, âwe both know why this turns you on more.â
Itâs because you watch too much porn when heâs away. Thatâs what it is. Thatâs the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."
Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.
But you never find it. You never find him.
And youâre too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because heâs probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you donât want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (âŠThough, the idea is⊠not bad.)
So instead, you settle. Again.
You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.
And still, it doesnât work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just donât do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jackâs football game. (Sorry, Jack.)
Heâs just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like heâs about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.
Thatâs the reason.
(...Or maybe itâs just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though youâve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoirâs going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)
(Yeah⊠itâs definitely because you watch way too much porn.)
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you lie.
âWhatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that youâre pretty sure started as his name. âOhâŠâ Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. âSo this is what you want?â
âHnnghâŠâ you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, youâre smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) âYes. Yes. Just- just stay there.â
âHere where?â
âShut up.â
Another slap.
Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)
âNo, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, Iâm gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.â
You whimper into the pillow. Your clitâs caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you donât know if youâre closer because of the way heâs choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.
âCould you â fuck â could you just talk more?â (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)
He hums behind you. âOh, now you want feedback?â Then he leans down, and suddenly youâre wearing him â coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.
âYou want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?â he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.
Youâre not really in the conditions to answer.
Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-
âGod, look at you,â he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. âMaking a mess all over my cock. Youâre dripping. Absolutely soaking me.â
And oh⊠you feel it.
The soaked patch youâve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didnât even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.
âYouâre doing so well, sweetheart,â he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. Heâs close. Good. (Thatâs so hot.) âTaking me so well. Still gripping me like itâs the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-â (Amen.) âI can feel every goddamn pulse-â
His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.
And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like heâs done it a thousand times (youâre still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.
The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isnât quite a moan, or a cry, or-
It almost slips out.
That thing.
The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when theyâre either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, youâre dangerously close to being both.
âF-fuck, Aaron-â
âIâve got you. Let go, sweetheart.â
And you do.
You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaronâs too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat
You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then heâs there too.
Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.
He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.
He doesnât pull out.
Doesnât move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if heâs trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.
His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.
Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead itâs just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that donât quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.
"You're okay,"
"Got you,"
"So good, baby..."
Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.
Your chest hurts.
Because he means it.
Heâs not thinking about it, heâs just being. And itâs the most terrifyingly beautiful thing heâs ever done to you. You need to ruin it.
âFUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!â
He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.
You roll onto your side, gasping. âNo, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?â
You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound youâve ever heard.
âPlease donât call anyone.â
These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.
But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?
The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.
He doesnât hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.
You donât even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly theyâre on his face and youâre on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.
You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest heâs mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.
Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.
âSorry,â he says, settling back against the headboard. âIâve just got a few chapters left⊠do you want to pretend to be reading with me?â
Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.
Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.
âWearing those,â you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, âyou can do anything youâd like.â
He shakes his head - fond. Touched.
Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.
He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like heâs savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.
You watch in awe.
Reverence.
âŠHorniness.
So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.
âWow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.â
He doesnât even flinch.
Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.
Occasionally hums.
If youâre lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like heâs sealing something in.
Or if he just does that because heâs an old fuck and thatâs how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.
He looks so⊠peaceful. Way too peaceful.
Which is immediately suspicious.
You open your mouth, just about to ask, âCan we do it again?â when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.
Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.
Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.
Not even the question. Heâs already answered it.
He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.
Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like heâs got all night. (He probably does.)
(You canât even moan yet. Youâre too busy trying to process the fact that heâs still reading.)
And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.
He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.
âYou think I donât know the real reason youâre always staring at my hands?â
[Aaron Hotchner x Reader] [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]
Itâs supposed to be the last carefree night before your new job begins - just a drink, maybe two, and a chance to forget the nerves waiting for you in the morning.
Instead, you meet him. Aaron Hotchner. Calm, controlled, and devastatingly handsome, intense in a way that makes your skin itch to find out whatâs hiding behind that commanding shell.
And before the night is over, you do find out exactly what happens when he lets go of all that careful control.
OR:
Aaron puts the hot in Hotchner and makes you obey
A/N: This has been in my drafts embarrassingly long...so I figured it's time to finally finish it. I may have gotten completely carried away lol
To be honest, you are not sure why you are here - here, of all places, in a bar thick with low murmurs and the clink of glass.
Tomorrow is your first day with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. A fresh start. A career people would kill for. And yet tonight, instead of preparing or sleeping or doing anything remotely sensible, youâre sitting beneath warm amber light with a drink in your hand.
Maybe itâs nerves. Maybe itâs the uncertainty curling in your stomach every time you think about tomorrow. Maybe you just needed one last night of being no one important yet.
At least you chose well.
The bar has the kind of charm that canât be fabricated. Age settled into the dark wood panels and worn floorboards, into the brass fixtures dulled by time, into every nick and scratch left behind by years of strangers passing through. It feels lived in, familiar, like a place that has seen a thousand stories and kept every one of them.
The lighting is low and golden, casting everything in softness. It catches on framed photographs lining the walls, on polished bottles behind the counter, on the edges of glasses raised in quiet toasts.
And the varied crowd reflects just that. A few play darts with quiet intensity, while others linger at the bar, absorbed in conversation that hums rather than roars.
Behind the counter, the bartender moves, pouring drinks with careful precision. Ice knocks softly against glass, laughter rises and fades, and the room vibrates with the easy comfort of a place suspended somewhere between celebration and escape.
A quiet sigh slips from your lips as you study the depths of your glass, where the scotch rests in a pool of amber fire, gathering and releasing the low light of the room. It was a good choice. Itâs something warm, expensive enough to feel indulgent, strong enough to quiet the edges of your thoughts.
The tumbler sits heavy in your hand, its weight oddly reassuring, as though anchoring you in the sea of uncertainty that youâre afloat in.
When you tilt the glass, the liquid clings for a moment to the crystal walls before slipping downwards in thin golden rivulets. You watch them with more attention than they deserve, grateful for the distraction, however brief, from the shape of tomorrow waiting just beyond midnight.
âA beautiful woman like you shouldnât be here alone.â
The voice arrives like a stone through still water, disturbing the fragile calm you had so carefully constructed around yourself.
You lift your gaze to find a man standing beside you, perhaps near your own age. His eyes are a washed and uncertain blue, curious in a manner that feels less charming than practised. Angular features are softened by an uneven stubble, and brown hair falls untidily to his ears.Â
He is not unattractiveâŠonly uninteresting. Too young, too eager, and possessed of that particular energy, you have no patience to entertain tonight.
You offer him the kind of smile civility demands and nothing more.
âSometimes being alone is rather nice,â you reply evenly. âBesides, Iâm not alone.â
Demonstratively, you lift your glass a bit - the whiskey is your company.
He grins, entirely untroubled by your refusal, âFair enough. Mind if I join you? The nightâs still young, and good company is hard to find.â
For a moment, you let the silence linger between you, hoping it might accomplish what politeness had not.
âI appreciate the offer,â you say at last, measured and clear, âbut I was rather enjoying some time to myself.â
You hate men who just donât get it. How broad should the hint be, you ask yourself.
His expression does not so much as flicker. With the confidence of a man long accustomed to mistaking persistence for charm, he draws the empty stool beside you and settles onto it as though invited.
âNo harm in a little company, is there? Nameâs Sean, by the way.â
You give your own name with a restrained inclination of the head, the sort of courtesy you extend to strangers and endures.
âNice to meet you, Sean.â
It is, in fact, not.
Jesus, youâre not in the mood to deal with someone like him today.Â
Sean continues on, filling the air with the easy, thoughtless chatter of someone entirely content to occupy more space than he has been given. You scarcely hear the words. Your attention has already turned elsewhere, your gaze moving over the room in quiet calculation, searching the dim corners and crowded tables for some means of escape from the tedious siege of unwanted conversation.
And then you see him. Dark, serious, and older.
He takes a seat at the counter with the quiet assurance of a man who never needs to announce himself. One hand settles around a glass of amber liquor, the other resting loose beside it, every movement economical, precise. There is nothing ostentatious about him, and yet the room seems to bend, almost imperceptibly, around his presence. He is magnetic, drawing you in and captivating you.Â
Dark eyes, brown, you think, though the light keeps their true colour half-concealed, view the room from beneath a stern, thoughtful brow. There is intelligence there, sharp and watchful, the kind that misses very little and forgives even less.Â
His hair is black, neatly kept, touched by the faintest suggestion of silver at the temples. It frames a face cut in decisive lines: strong jaw, straight nose, a mouth made severe by habit rather than nature.
His dress shirt is charcoal, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, collar open just enough to suggest the night has coaxed some small concession from discipline. Broad shoulders strain the fabric in a way almost indecently distracting. Everything about him speaks of control - careful, practised, absolute.
He is all sharp lines and silent strength.Â
His gaze rests now on you and Sean with calm, unblinking attention. Not intrusive. Not idle. Merely observant. But there is a flicker in those unreadable eyes. Interest, perhaps, or disapproval, or the private consideration of a man already deciding what to do next.
You decide to use a subtle diversion tactic, seizing the opportunity, offering Sean a polite smile, âI appreciate the conversation, Sean, but Iâve just spotted someone I need to catch up with. Perhaps another time?â
Before Sean can gather himself enough to object, you slip from the stool, leaving him in a brief and well-earned silence.
You cross the short distance to the stranger and offer him a small smile.
âMind if I join you?â
The mysterious stranger glances towards the empty stool beside him and gestures to it with a quiet inclination of his hand.
As you settle onto the chair your initial impression is confirmed: He is, indeed, remarkably handsome.Â
The dark dress shirt fits almost too well, stretching lightly across broad shoulders.Â
Your gaze lingers on his hands; large, capable hands. The fingers are long and precise, the nails neatly kept, each detail suggesting a man who values order, control, and competence. Yet there is nothing delicate about them. They look built for command.
Your eyes trail upwards, and you canât help but notice the soft shadow that graces his cheeks and chin. You wonder whether you would feel the gentle prickle of stubble if your fingers were to trace the contours of his face?Â
And then there are his eyes.
Exactly as you suspected: dark brown, deep-set and observant. Yet up close, they are warmer than expected, touched by an intelligence that feels almost tangible. They hold yours with calm steadiness, and in their depths a warmth that draws you in.
Youâre interrupted when Sean returns a moment later, his expression sharpened by annoyance, as though your leaving had been less a choice than a personal affront.Â
âItâs not very nice to just walk away, you know,â he remarks, his tone laced with irritation. A cringe creeps over you at the edge in his voice, but before you can respond, the man beside you speaks first.Â
âWalk away, Sean.â
His voice is deep and level, not raised in the slightest, yet it cuts cleanly through the room and through Seanâs indignation with equal ease.
Sean lets out a humourless laugh. âOh, fuck off, Aaron. Stay out of it. I wasnât talking to you.âÂ
Wait, they know each other? They seem so different: Sean all noise and entitlement, this man all restraint and consequence.
Aaron.
The name suits him. You turn it over once in your mind and find you like the sound of it far too much.Â
Sean, determined to prove himself a fool in every possible manner, places a hand upon your shoulder as though to reclaim the conversation. Irritation flares hot and immediate. You knock his hand away without hesitation.Â
Before he can speak again, Aaron repeats himself.
âWalk away, Sean.â
This time, the words arrive colder. A warning stripped to its essentials. His expression scarcely changes, yet the faint furrow between his brows deepens, and the air about him seems suddenly sharper, charged by something carefully leashed.
Sean scoffs, though less convincingly than before.
âWho the hell do you think you are, Aaron? She doesnât need you fighting her battles.â
Aaron turns his gaze fully upon him then, and it is remarkable how much force can exist in stillness.
âShe doesnât need anyone harassing her either.â He pauses only a beat. âWalk away.â
Aaronâs words, a silent warning, hang in the air.Â
You feel both discomfort and an undeniable relief, as though someone has finally spoken aloud what should have been obvious from the start.
âIâm not taking orders from you,â Sean says, but the bravado has thinned. Uncertainty frays the edges of his voice.
Aaronâs reply is calm, almost courteous, which somehow makes it more threatening.
âYou should. It would be in your best interest.â
Silence stretches between them. Then, with the sulky resentment of a man who knows he has lost but cannot bear to admit it, Sean steps back.
âFine. Have it your way.â
He casts you one final bitter glance before disappearing into the shifting dimness of the bar.
Aaronâs gaze turns back to you once Sean has vanished into the crowd, and with the shift comes a subtle but unmistakable change. The severity that had sharpened his features moments ago eases; the hard line of his mouth softens, the tension at his brow loosens. It is as though some private switch has been thrown; the man who had stood like a blade now becoming something quieter, steadier.
âAre you alright?â he asks.
The question is simple, but there is nothing careless in it. His attention settles on you fully, deliberate and searching, as though he intends to make certain of the answer rather than merely hear it.
You nod, still feeling the remnants of adrenaline fluttering beneath your ribs.
âYes,â you say, then with greater sincerity, âThanks to you.â
For a moment, he only inclines his head, accepting the gratitude without ceremony.
âNo problem.â His glance flicks briefly towards the direction Sean disappeared. âSome people require a clearer message.â A pause, almost dryly amused. âMy brother especially.â
You blink. âYour brother?â
Something like resignation passes over his face before he sighs, âUnfortunately, yes. Younger brother.â
The revelation rearranges the scene in your mind: The hostility, the familiarity, the confidence with which he had intervened.Â
âWell,â you say slowly, âfamily dynamics can be... complicated.â
A low sound escapes him, half breath, half laugh. He leans back against the counter then, one elbow resting on the polished wood, glass turning idly between long fingers.
âComplicated is one word for it,â he says. âSean has a talent for finding trouble wherever he goes.â His eyes lift to yours. âAnd I have a talent for getting him out of it.â
You laugh despite yourself, the image too fitting not to.
âThat sounds exhausting.â
âIt is.â
The answer comes at once, dry and honest enough to surprise another laugh from you. A faint smile touches his mouth in response, brief as light on water.
âBut Iâd rather not spend the evening discussing my familyâs flaws.â He tilts his head slightly, studying you now with that same measured attentiveness. âWhat brings you here tonight?â
The question turns the light back onto you, and under his gaze, you find yourself answering more openly than you intended. You tell him about tomorrow: Your first day at your new job, the weight of beginnings and expectations pressing against your thoughts. You speak of wanting one quiet evening before life becomes something faster, louder, and more demanding.
Aaron listens without interruption. His eyes remain on you, dark and steady, reflecting understanding without pity, interest without intrusion.Â
When you finish, he glances around the room - the clatter of glasses, the murmuring crowd, the dartboard thudding softly in the distance.
âWell,â he says at last, voice touched with dry humour, âyou chose an interesting space for peace and quiet.â
You laugh aloud, genuinely this time, and the sound appears to please him more than he lets on.
Then he smiles.
It changes him.
Until now, you had admired the stern architecture. But a smile dismantles all of it in an instant. Warmth spills suddenly through features once guarded. The lines of tension vanish from his brow; his eyes brighten, revealing a softness you would not have thought possible in them.
There are dimples, faint but unmistakable, appearing at the corners of a mouth that seems built more for command than delight. They lend him an almost dangerous charm, because they humanise what was already striking.
You stare a moment longer than politeness allows.
He notices, surely. A man like this notices everything. Yet he says nothing. And somewhere, with startling clarity, a thought forms.
You want to see that smile again.
Even want to be the cause of it. You want to peel back every careful layer of restraint he wears so elegantly and discover what lies beneath the discipline, beneath the severity, beneath the immaculate control.
All in all you want, quite suddenly and quite seriously, to be the making of his undoing.
You chat a little longer, conversation flowing with surprising ease over the slow passage of drinks and borrowed glances. There is something effortless in it now, the earlier reserve worn away until words pass between you as naturally as breath.Â
After a while, you excuse yourself to the restroom.
As you slip from the stool, your phone happens to fall from your hand, striking the floor with a sharp little sound. You bend to retrieve it, slowly, deliberately, so that the hem of your skirt rises just enough to flash more of your thigh and ass than appropriate. You linger there longer than necessary, arching your back a touch more.Â
From above comes the low, rough sound of a man losing patience with restraint.Â
You glance back only briefly, catching the dark heat in Aaronâs eyes, and give your hips the faintest sway as you straighten. Then, with a look of playful innocence that fools neither of you, you turn and make your way towards the corridor.Â
Footsteps follow behind you - swift, purposeful, leaving no doubt as to their owner. Then strong hands find your waist, firm and certain, turning you in one smooth motion until your back meets the wall and Aaron stands before you.
He is close enough now to feel rather than simply see. The breadth of him blocks the narrow hall, his body a wall of warmth and solid strength, every line of him commanding space with effortless authority. His chest rises beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, close enough that you feel the heat of it through your own clothes. His thighs, thick and unyielding, bracket yours, making escape impossible even if you wanted it.
His eyes hold yours, dark and intent, searching your face for something deeper than permission.
âIâll stop,â he says quietly, voice lowered to a gravelled murmur, his breath warm on your lips, âif you donât want this.â
But you just smile, tilting your head up in invitation.Â
It is all he needs.
He crashes his mouth to yours, hard and demanding, his full lips claiming you with a force that steals your breath. His tongue pushes past your teeth, stroking deep, tasting you like heâs starved.Â
One massive hand cups the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to angle you just right, while the other slides down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, tracing the broad expanse, and he responds by pressing his hips forward, letting you feel how hard heâs getting. His hand dips lower, cupping your ass and lifting you slightly against the wall, his thigh wedging more between your legs to rub against your aching pussy.Â
The friction makes you moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, kissing you like he never wants to stop, his stoic mask shattered by the raw need in his eyes.
You tease him by grinding your hips forward, feeling the thick length of his cock strain harder against his jeans, rubbing right along your thigh. He groans low into the kiss, his big hand squeezing your ass tighter, fingers digging in to pull you closer, while his other palm slides up to cup your breast fully, thumb circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it peaks stiff and sensitive.
He breaks the kiss just enough to nip at your jaw, whispering hot against your skin, âYou like that, donât you? Getting all worked up in a hallway where anyone could walk by.âÂ
You whimper in response when he captures your lips once more. His touch turns bolder, hand slipping under your skirt to trace the edge of your panties, fingertips brushing your damp pussy, making you whine and buck against him.
But then it hits you- the distant hum of voices from the bar, the risk of someone rounding the corner. Youâre in public, exposed in this dimly lit hallway of a busy bar, and the thrill mixes with a sharp jolt of reality. You pull back, breathless, your lips swollen and tingling from his assault.Â
âNot here,â you murmur, eyes locking on his darkened gaze. Youâre almost surprised how strongly youâre reacting to him, but canât find it in yourself to care, so the next words tumble our breathlessly, âMy place.â
For a moment, he says nothing. Then Aaron gives a single nod, sharp and decisive. Desire has coloured the stern planes of his face, though discipline still holds him in check by sheer force of habit. A fleeting smile touches his mouth, rare enough to feel like a private reward, before he reaches to smooth the hem of your skirt back into place with a touch that is both practical and unmistakably possessive.
He grabs your hand, enveloping it completely and leads you back through the crowd.Â
When you near the counter to settle your tab, Sean notices at once.
He is leaning against the bar with the sullen posture of a man still nursing his humiliation, and the sight of you beside Aaron sharpens something ugly in his expression.
âWell, look at that,â he drawls. âGuess playing hero worked out for you after all.â
A few nearby heads turn, sensing conflict with the vulgar instinct of crowds everywhere.
Aaron does not so much as glance at him at first. He sets payment on the bar, calm and precise, as though Sean were no more than background noise. Yet the line of his jaw tightens.
Sean mistakes silence for permission once again.
âWhat was it this time, huh?â he continues, bitterness creeping into each word. âFlash the badge, give the big speech, scare everyone into line?â
Aaron turns then. Slowly.
âYouâve embarrassed yourself enough for one night,â he says, voice low and controlled. âDonât continue.â
Sean scoffs, but there is uncertainty beneath it now. âYou always think you know best.â
âNo,â Aaron replies evenly. âI usually just happen to be right.â
You cannot help the small laugh that escapes you. Sean hears it, flushes, and glares.
Aaron merely offers him one final look. Cold, steady, final enough to end the matter without another word. Then he takes your hand again and guides you toward the door.
Outside, the night air cools your heated skin as you hail a cab. It pulls up quickly, and you both slide into the back seat, Aaronâs massive frame taking up half the space, his arm immediately draping around your shoulders to tug you close.Â
The driver glances in the rearview, muttering about the address as you rattle it off, but you barely register. The second the cab lurches forward, Aaronâs mouth is on yours again, kissing you fierce and unyielding, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours.
You tease him relentlessly, straddling his lap despite the cramped space, your skirt bunching up as you rock against the hard bulge tenting his jeans. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, while you suck on his lower lip, then trail bites down his neck, feeling his pulse thunder under your teeth.Â
âFuck, youâre killing me,â he rasps, voice rough, one hand shoving up your top to palm your bare breast, pinching the nipple until you gasp.
You grind down harder, the friction against your soaked pussy making you slicker through your panties, and he thrusts up to meet you, the cabâs motion adding to the rhythm.
The driver clears his throat loudly, eyes flicking to the mirror with clear irritation. âHey, folks, keep it PG back there! This ainât a motel on wheels.âÂ
But you ignore him, moaning softly as Aaronâs fingers dip between your legs, rubbing your clit in firm circles over the fabric. He kisses you deeper, swallowing your sounds, his free hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back for better access.Â
The cab swerves a bit, driverâs dismay obvious in his grumbled curses, but neither of you cares, lost in the building heat, Aaronâs cock throbbing insistently against you as the city lights blur past.
It screeches to a halt outside your building, the driverâs final grumble fading as the door swings open. Aaronâs hand is already fumbling for his wallet, tossing bills onto the front seat without breaking eye contact with you. His gaze is dark and predatory, promising everything youâve been building toward.Â
âKeep the change,â he mutters to the driver, who shakes his head in disbelief but doesnât say anything anymore.
Before you can slide out on your own, Aaronâs grip clamps around your wrist, strong fingers wrapping like a vice as he hauls you from the back seat. He almost drags you across the sidewalk, your heels scraping the pavement, his other arm snaking around your waist to steady you or maybe just to claim you outright.Â
The cool night breeze does nothing to temper the fire raging between you; your thighs are slick with arousal, panties soaked from the ride, and his cock presses insistently against your hip as he pulls you close to his side.Â
âInside. Now,â he growls low, voice gravelly with restraint barely holding. You donât even register the cab driving off with screeching tyres.Â
You fumble with your keys at the front door, fingers trembling from the adrenaline and his proximity. His massive frame looming behind you, chest brushing your back, one hand splayed possessively over your stomach while the other cages you against the doorframe.Â
He teases you mercilessly, lips grazing your ear as he whispers, âLook at you, shaking already. Bet that pussyâs dripping for me, isnât it? Been thinking about how tight youâll feel clenching around my cock since that hallway.âÂ
His free hand dips lower, thumb pressing just above your cunt through your skirt, circling slow and firm enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, keys jingling as you finally slot the right one in, twisting the lock with a click that echoes like permission.
The door swings open, and you barely cross the threshold before Aaron kicks it shut behind you, the sound sharp and final. He spins you around in one fluid motion, his shoulders blocking out the dim hallway light as he shoves you back against the door.Â
Solid wood meets your spine with a thud. His body crashes into yours, pinning you there, those muscular arms bracketing your head, biceps flexing under his shirt sleeves. Up close, his stoic mask is shattered; sweat beads along his jaw, dimples flashing in a wicked half-smile as his hips grind forward, letting you feel every inch of his thick erection straining against his zipper, right up against your belly
âFuck, Iâve wanted this since you bent over in that skirt,â he rasps, voice dropping to a dangerous timbre, his breath hot on your neck as he nuzzles in, teeth scraping your pulse point.Â
One hand fists your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat, while the other yanks your top up in a rough tug, exposing your tits to the cool air. His mouth descends immediately, latching onto one nipple, sucking hard and wet, tongue flicking the peak until it throbs.Â
You arch into him, moaning, but he doesnât let up. His free hand shoves your skirt higher, fingers hooking into your panties teasingly.
He straightens just enough to meet your eyes, his own burning with raw intent, that captivating smile twisting into something feral.Â
âIâm gonna take you apart, piece by fucking piece,â he promises, voice thick and commanding, his thumb tracing your lower lip before pushing inside your mouth for you to suck.Â
His hand slides between your thighs now, two fingers plunging into your slick cunt without warning, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. He pumps them slowly and deliberately, thumb grinding your clit, while his mouth claims yours in a bruising kiss, tongue fucking in rhythm.
âYouâll cum on my fingers first, then my mouth, then my dickâŠover and over until your voice is hoarse and your bodyâs shaking. I wonât stop until youâre ruined for anyone else, dripping with my cum, marked everywhere.âÂ
He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, his palm slapping lightly against your pussy with each thrust, the wet sounds filling the entryway. His cock twitches against you, desperate for release, but he holds back, eyes locked on yours, watching every gasp and shudder as he edges you closer. âSay it. Tell me you want it. Want me to fuck you senseless right nowâŠâ
Your moans spill out uncontrollably, body arching into his touch as his fingers drive you wild, that relentless rhythm building the pressure inside you until youâre teetering on the edge. But his words hang there, demanding a response, and in the haze of pleasure, you canât form the words fast enough. Just more whimpers, your lips parting around his thumb earlier, now gasping against his mouth.
He pulls his fingers free with a slick pop, the sudden emptiness making you whine in protest. Before you can catch your breath, his hand comes down in a sharp, light slap against your soaked pussy, the sting sending a jolt straight to your core.Â
You yelp, thighs clenching, but it only makes you wetter, heat flooding your cheeks as his eyes darken with approval. âAlready speechless, huh?â he growls, voice low and mocking, his free hand gripping your jaw to force your gaze to his. âThatâs fine for now, but listen up: When I ask you something, you answer. Clear and quick, or Iâll make you wait even longer for what you need. Understand?â
You nod frantically, biting your lip, the lesson sinking in amid the throbbing ache between your legs. He smirks, satisfied, and without another word, he yanks you away from the door by your wrist, his grip iron-tight as he drags you down the hall.Â
He doesnât hesitate, kicking open the first door he finds. Your bedroom, like he already knows the layout of your life, and hauls you inside, slamming it shut behind him.
The room spins for a second before his mouth crashes back onto yours, rough and demanding, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as he backs you towards the bed. His tongue invades, while his hands roam possessively, squeezing your ass, pinning your arms when you reach for him. Heâs in complete control, growling into the kiss when you try to touch him too freely, batting your hands away.Â
âNot yet,â he murmurs against your lips, voice gravelly. âThis is about you learning to take what I give.â
He breaks the kiss just long enough to shove you down onto the mattress, your body bouncing once before he follows, caging you beneath his weight. His hands are everywhere now, rough and impatient as he tears at your clothes. Yanking your top over your head in one swift motion. He doesnât waste time, palming one roughly while his mouth descends on the other, sucking hard enough to make you cry out.Â
âFuck, these tits are mine now,â he rasps, biting down just enough to leave a faint mark, his tongue soothing the sting before he switches sides. âGonna suck bruises into them, bite you until everyone knows you belong to me.â
Your skirt gets hiked up and ripped away next, his fingers hooking into the fabric and tearing it with a sharp rip that echoes in the room. He doesnât bother with finesse, shoving your panties aside before stripping them off completely, leaving you exposed under his hungry stare.Â
âLook at you, all spread out and dripping for me,â he says, voice thick with lust as he kneels between your thighs, forcing your legs wider with his knees. His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. âIâm gonna mark every inch. Hickeys on your neck, handprints on this ass, my cum leaking out of your pussy so you feel me for days.â
He leans down, capturing your mouth again in a bruising kiss, his cock, still confined in his pants, grinding against your thigh, hard and insistent. You buck up instinctively, but he pins you harder, breaking away to trail bites down your neck, sucking dark spots into the sensitive skin.Â
âSay it now,â he demands between nips, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his dominance. âTell me you want me to mark you, to fuck you until youâre covered in me.â
âYes, Aaron, mark me, fuck meâŠplease, make me yours,â you gasp out, your voice trembling with raw need as his hand tightens just enough around your throat, his eyes burning into yours with that feral intensity.
A low growl rumbles from his chest, satisfaction flashing across his face. âThatâs my good girl,â he murmurs, releasing your throat to shove himself up from the bed.Â
He stands there for a moment, towering over you, his shirt already half-unbuttoned from the frenzy at the door. With quick, impatient yanks, he strips it off, revealing his body. Lean and powerful, the kind of trained dad bod thatâs all honed muscle under a layer of soft give, his arms thick and corded from years of lifting and holding control. His chest rises and falls heavily, a light sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin.Â
He kicks off his boots, then shoves his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, his cock springing free. Hard and thick, veins bulging along its length, the head already slick with pre-cum.
You canât tear your eyes away, your breath hitching at the sight of him, so ready to claim you. He steps closer, grabbing his discarded belt from the floor with a deliberate snap that makes you flinch in anticipation.Â
âHands up,â he orders, his voice like gravel. You obey instantly, lifting your arms towards the headboard, wrists together. He loops the belt around them, threading it through the sturdy wooden post and pulling it tight. Not enough to cut circulation, but firm, unyielding, pinning you in place.Â
The leather bites into your skin just right, a constant reminder that youâre his to use, spread out and helpless on the bed.
âThere,â he says, testing the bind with a tug that jerks your arms higher. âNow you take every fucking inch of what I give you. No escaping, no hiding.âÂ
He climbs back onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs, his strong hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. His cock brushes against your inner thigh, hot and heavy, but he doesnât enter you yet. Instead, he slides one hand down, his fingers finding your soaked pussy without hesitation.
He pushes two fingers inside you roughly, no teasing warmup, just a deep thrust that stretches your walls and hits that spot that makes your back arch.Â
âFuck, youâre dripping for me,â he grunts, curling his fingers to drag against your inner walls, pumping in and out with a brutal rhythm. His thumb circles your clit, pressing hard, building the pressure fast and relentlessly.Â
You moan, your bound hands straining against the belt as pleasure coils tight in you. He watches your face, his expression dark and focused, adding a third finger to scissor inside you, stretching you wider, his pace unyielding.
But just as the edge rushes up, your body tensing and breaths coming in sharp pants, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing.Â
âNot yet,â he says, smirking at your whine of protest.Â
He slaps your pussy lightly once again, the sting sending a jolt through you, mixing pain with the ache of denial. Then heâs back in, fingers plunging deeper, faster, his free hand pinning your thigh down to keep you from bucking too wildly. He edges you again and again. Thrusting hard until youâre right there, sobbing with need, then withdrawing, spanking your slick cunt to heighten the torment.
âPlease, Aaron,â you beg finally, your voice breaking as he works you towards that peak once more, his fingers relentless inside you. âI need to cumâŠplease, let me cum on your fingers. Iâll be good, I swear, just... fuck, please!â The words tumble out desperate and raw, your hips grinding against his hand.
He chuckles darkly, leaning down to bite at your collarbone. âCum for me, then. Soak my hand like the needy slut you are.â His fingers slam home one last time, thumb grinding your clit, and the orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clamps down hard around him, waves of heat pulsing through you as you cry out, body shaking against the restraints
As the aftershocks ripple, he doesnât let up.Â
Instead, he yanks his fingers free and brings his hand down in a sharp spank right on your throbbing cunt. The slap echoes, fresh sting blooming across your sensitive skin, making you yelp and twitch.Â
âThatâs for making such a mess,â he says, his voice laced with approval, already positioning himself closer, his thick cock nudging at your entrance. âBut weâre just getting started.â
He drags the thick head of his dick along your slick pussy, pressing just inside your entrance before pulling back out, repeating the torment a few more times. Each shallow thrust leaves you aching, your hips bucking up desperately to chase the fullness you crave. A pathetic whimper escapes your lips, your bound hands straining against the belt looped around the bedposts.
Aaron tsks, his dark eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as he withdraws completely, his cock bobbing heavy and glistening with your arousal. âNot desperate enough yet, huh? I can see it in those pretty eyesâŠyou need to beg like the filthy little whore you are before Iâll fuck this greedy pussy.â
He shifts up your body, his rough palms cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples before pinching them hard enough to make you gasp. He leans in, sucking one into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive bud while his stubble scrapes against your skin, sending sharp tingles racing down your spine. His other hand kneads your flesh roughly, twisting and tugging until your back arches off the bed.
âRemember what I promised?â he murmurs against your tit, his hot breath fanning over the wet skin. âAn orgasm with my mouth. Time to deliver.âÂ
He releases your nipple with a pop and trails his lips downwards, nipping at your ribs, your stomach, until he settles between your spread thighs. His strong hands grip your hips, pinning you in place as his mouth descends on your soaked pussy.Â
His tongue lashes out flat and broad, lapping up your juices in long, firm strokes that make your clit throb. He doesnât hold back. Sucking it into his mouth, nibbling the swollen lips with just enough edge to sting, his stubble rasping against your inner thighs and the tender skin around your cunt like coarse sandpaper, heightening every sensation.
You moan, the roughness of his face grinding into you as he devours your pussy, his tongue plunging deep to fuck you with wet, insistent thrusts.Â
âYou taste like sin,â he growls against your flesh, the vibrations humming through your core. âDripping all over my faceâŠsuch a perfect, needy hole for me to ruin.â He slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot again, pumping in and out with brutal precision while his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard.
The pressure builds fast, your body coiling tight as his fingers stretch and stroke your walls. Youâre teetering on the edge when he presses his thumb against your asshole, circling the tight ring before pushing in knuckle-deep.Â
The sudden intrusion overwhelms you. Fullness in both holes, his stubble scraping, tongue flicking relentlessly. âCome on, cum for me now,â he demands, voice muffled but commanding. âMilk my fingers with that tight ass and pussy. Show me how much you love being my dirty fucktoy.â
It hits you like a freight train, somehow more intense than the first. Your orgasm rips through, pussy clenching around his fingers, ass fluttering against his thumb as waves of ecstasy crash over you. You scream, body convulsing, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity, every nerve alight as you gush against his mouth. He doesnât stop, lapping up your release greedily, drawing out the shudders until youâre a trembling mess.
Finally, he pulls back, lips shiny with your cum, a smug grin splitting his face. âThatâs my girl. So fucking responsive. But donât think weâre done. Your ass is next, and Iâm gonna make you scream even louder.â
Your body is still quaking from the orgasm, every muscle twitching uncontrollably as overstimulation sets in, your nerves raw and firing on edge.Â
Aaronâs fingers remain buried deep in your pussy, and he starts scissoring them wide, stretching your slick walls with deliberate, ruthless pulls and twists that make your hips jerk involuntarily. At the same time, his thumb rotates inside your ass, circling the tight ring with firm pressure, grinding against the sensitive inner walls and sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain shooting up your spine.
You thrash against the belt thatâs binding your wrists to the bedposts, the leather biting into your skin as you yank desperately, your back arching off the mattress in a futile bid to escape the overwhelming sensations.Â
Whimpers spill from your lips. High-pitched, broken sounds that mix with your shaking breaths. Your thighs are trembling around his hand, pussy is fluttering erratically around his invading fingers.
âLook at you, thrashing like a wild thing,â Aaron growls, his voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on your face as he watches every twitch and gasp. âAlready overstimulated and shaking like a leaf, but your holes are sucking me in deeper. You love this, donât you? Having both your pussy and ass filled up, clenching so greedily around my fingers and thumb,â He scissors harder, spreading you open wider, the wet squelch of your arousal filling the room, while his thumb twists deeper into your ass, rotating with unyielding insistence.
You whimper louder, tears streaking down your cheeks from the intensity, your body a live wire of too much, too soon. But he shows no mercy, his free hand pinning your hip down to keep you from bucking away.Â
âOh no, baby, Iâm not done with you yet. Not by a long shot. Youâre gonna take everything I give until youâre begging for my cock in every hole. See how your bodyâs betraying you? Fuck, itâs a shame I donât have two cocks to pound this pussy and ass at the same timeâŠstretch you out proper, make you scream until you canât think straight. But donât worry, Iâll fill you up anyway. Gonna wreck you with what Iâve got until youâre ruined for anyone else.â
Aaronâs eyes gleam with wicked intent as he pauses his relentless assault on your holes, his gaze flicking towards the bedside table. On a hunch, he reaches over and yanks open the drawer, rummaging briefly until his fingers close around the smooth length of your vibrator. He pulls it out, holding it up with a slow, predatory smile curling his lips, the toyâs silicone shaft glinting under the dim bedroom light.
He withdraws his fingers from your pussy and thumb from your ass in one slick motion, the sudden emptiness making your holes flutter desperately, clenching around nothing as a fresh wave of need cramps through your core. A soft whimper escapes your throat, your body still trembling from the overstimulation, hips twitching in protest at the loss.
He wraps his hand around the vibratorâs base, stroking it slowly from tip to hilt as if it were his own throbbing cock, the motion deliberate and teasing. His real dick twitches visibly against his thigh, hardening further at the sight, pre-cum beading at the slit as he watches you squirm.
âOpen your mouth, slut,â he commands, his voice rough and unyielding, leaning in close enough that his stubble scrapes your cheek. âGet this ready for your greedy little cunt. I want it dripping before I fuck you with it.â
You part your lips obediently, and he pushes the vibrator past them, sliding the thick head over your tongue and deep into your mouth. You whimper around the intrusion, the silicone filling your mouth with its unyielding girth, your saliva coating it as he rocks it gently in and out.Â
All the while, his free hand roams your body. Fingers tracing your hardened nipples, pinching them sharply to draw out more muffled cries, then dipping lower to stroke your inner thighs, brushing feather-light over your fluttering pussy lips without giving you the pressure you crave.Â
âThatâs it, suck on it like you wish it was my cock,â he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. âYouâre such a filthy girl, arenât you? Tied up and whimpering for more, even after Iâve already made you cum so hard. Bet youâve used this toy thinking about a man like me ruining you.â
After a few teasing thrusts that make your jaw ache, and your whimpers vibrate along the shaft, he pulls the vibrator free with a wet pop, strings of your spit trailing from your lips. He drags the slick toy down your body deliberately.Â
Over your chin, between your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebble tighter, then lower across your quivering stomach, teasing the sensitive skin just above your pussy.
Finally, he positions the tip at your entrance, rubbing it up and down your soaked cunt to coat it further in your arousal. âTime to fill that needy pussy,â he growls, and with a firm push, he drives the vibrator deep into your cunt, the vibrations coming to life on a low setting as it stretches you wide, buzzing against your overstimulated walls and sending shockwaves through your bound body.
The vibrator hums steadily inside you, its girth splitting your slick walls as Aaron grips the base and starts thrusting it in and out with deliberate, shallow pumps.Â
Youâre already so overwhelmed. The orgasms have left your pussy raw and throbbing, every nerve ending screaming from the overload, but he doesnât stop. He leans over you, his free hand pinning your thigh wide open, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.
âFuck, look at how that toy stretches your greedy little cunt,â he rasps, his voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on where the vibrator disappears into you. âGonna fuck you with it slow, make sure itâs soaked through. Canât have my second cock going in dryâŠneeds to be dripping with your slutty juices so it glides right in later.âÂ
He twists the base slightly on one thrust, angling it to grind against that swollen spot deep inside, and a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shoots up your spine, your back arching off the bed as you gasp and clench around it.
He pulls it back almost all the way out, the tip catching on your entrance before plunging in again, deeper this time, the hum intensifying the stretch as it bottoms out. Your walls flutter helplessly, trying to adjust, but the overstimulation has you trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the relentless buzz against your clit indirectly through the pressure.
âThatâs it, squeeze it like you mean it,â Aaron growls, pumping it faster now in short, teasing strokes that keep you hovering on the edge without mercy. âFeel how itâs buzzing right up against those overworked nerves? Youâre gonna beg for it to stop, but I know you wonât. Not when itâs prepping that tight hole for more.â
Sweat beads on your skin, your breath coming in ragged whimpers as the toy fucks into you rhythmically, coating itself thoroughly in your arousal with each wet slide. He reaches down with his thumb, pressing it firmly against your clit in slow circles that sync with the thrusts, amplifying the vibrations until your thighs quake and your bound hands yank at the belt. The build-up coils tight in your belly, heat flooding your limbs, but just as youâre teetering on the brink, he yanks the vibrator free with a slick sound, leaving your pussy clenching around nothing, aching and denied.
âNope,â he chuckles darkly, holding the glistening toy up so you can see how itâs drenched, strings of your cream clinging to its length. âWeâre just getting started. Your ass is next, and I want it ready to take us both.â He trails the buzzing tip along your inner thigh, teasing the puckered ring of your asshole without entering, watching you squirm and whine from the denied release, your body a quivering mess of need.
Aaronâs cock throbs heavily between his legs, bobbing with each shift of his hips as he kneels between your spread thighs, the thick shaft veined and leaking pre-cum from the tip.Â
He circles the tight ring of your asshole with the rounded head again, pressing just enough to make the sensitive pucker twitch and flutter under the teasing pressure. Your body jerks from the overstimulation, pussy clenching emptily after the denial, every nerve fried and begging for relief that he wonât grant.
âHas this virgin ass ever had anything shoved inside it?â he demands, his voice a rough command laced with hunger, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he rubs the vibrating tip insistently against your hole, coating it in the remnants of your pussy juices for lubrication. The vibrations send unwelcome sparks through the untouched entrance, making your hips twitch away instinctively, but his free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you steady.
You're too far gone to form words right away. Your mind is a haze of buzzing need, breaths heaving as the toyâs hum echoes in your core, your clit pulsing from the earlier denial.Â
The question hangs, unanswered, and Aaronâs jaw tightens. Without warning, his hand cracks down on your soaked pussy with a sharp smack, the wet slap echoing in the room as pain blooms hot and sharp across your swollen folds, jolting you back to focus with a cry, reminding you that you are to answer his questions.
âSpeak up, slut,â he growls, rubbing the sting in roughly with his palm before pulling back. âAnswer me: Has anyone ever fucked this tight little backdoor?â
âN-no,â you gasp out finally, voice breaking on a whimper, the smack leaving your cunt throbbing anew, heat flooding the abused flesh. âIâve never... never had anything back there.â
A wicked grin splits his face, dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he notches the vibratorâs tip right at your resistant entrance.Â
âGood girl. Means I get to break it in first.â He pushes forward steadily, the buzzing length breaching your asshole with a slow, unyielding pressure that makes the ring stretch and burn around the invading girth. Inch by inch, it sinks in, the vibrations rattling deep into your untouched ass, forcing your walls to yield as they clamp down in protest.
You whine high and desperate, the fullness overwhelming. Your ass is so tight and unaccustomed, every buzz amplifying the stretch until tears spill down your cheeks. Aaron pulls it back out halfway with a slick drag, your hole gaping slightly before he thrusts it in again, deeper this time, twisting to work it around and loosen the clenching muscles.Â
âFuck, feel that? Your poor neglected holeâs gripping it like a vice,â he rasps, pumping the toy in shallow strokes now, in and out, the wet sounds mixing with the hum as he coats your inner walls with the lube from your pussy. âGotta prepare you rightâŠstretch this virgin ass wide so it can take my cock later. Canât have you tearing when I split you open.â
His free hand wraps around his bobbing cock, stroking himself lazily as he watches the vibrator fuck into your ass, the sight making his length twitch and harden further.Â
The dual sensations, the toyâs relentless buzz stretches you from behind while your overstimulated pussy aches, untouched, have you thrashing against the belt restraints, body a trembling wreck of denied pleasure and building intensity. He doesnât let up, driving the vibrator deeper with each pass, rotating it slightly to widen you, his dirty words pouring out like gravel. âThatâs it, take it deeper for me. Your ass is gonna be ruined for anyone else after tonightâŠgaping and hungry for cock, just like your sloppy cunt.â
Aaron eases the vibrator out of your ass with a deliberate slowness, the buzzing toy dragging against your clenching walls until it pops free, leaving your hole stretched and gaping slightly in its wake. A raw, puckered ring that twitches and winks open, exposed and vulnerable under his hungry gaze.Â
The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, your body shuddering from the lingering vibrations that echo through your core, your ass muscles fluttering helplessly as cool air kisses the abused entrance.
âFuck, look at that,â he murmurs, voice thick with lust, his eyes locked on the way your hole refuses to close fully, quivering from the preparation. âCanât wait any longer. Gonna bury my cock in that dripping cunt now. Been teasing you long enough.â
He sets the slick vibrator aside on the bed, the toy still humming faintly, and grips his throbbing shaft at the base, the thick length heavy and flushed, veins pulsing as he lines it up with your soaked folds. The broad head nudges your entrance, parting the swollen lips with a teasing rub, smearing your arousal along the underside before he presses forward.
He doesnât rush it. Oh no, Aaron savours the stretch, inching his bare cock inside you with controlled pressure that makes your pussy walls yield around the invading girth. Youâre so wet from the earlier torment, but the fullness hits like a shock, his thickness splitting you open as he sinks deeper, the bare skin of his shaft gliding against your sensitive inner flesh without any barrier.Â
âFeel how youâre sucking me in? This greedy little pussyâs been begging for it,â he growls, hips rolling in a shallow grind to work himself further, the head bumping your cervix with a jolt that has you arching off the bed.Â
He teases you, pulling back just enough to let the ridge of his dick catch on your entrance before thrusting in again, stretching you wider with each pass, your body trembling as it adjusts to the raw, unyielding intrusion.
Once heâs fully seated, balls-deep and grinding against your clit, he starts thrusting. Hard, deliberate strokes that punch into you, his hips snapping forward to fill you completely. The rhythm builds quickly, his cock pistoning in and out with wet, obscene slaps, your pussy clenching around him in desperate pulls.Â
It doesnât take long; the overstimulation from before has you teetering on the edge, and after just a few deep, punishing thrusts, the coil snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, walls spasming wildly around his buried length, milking him as waves of heat rip through your core, a broken cry tearing from your throat.
âTsk, tsk,â Aaron chides, his voice a low rumble even as he doesnât stop, pounding through your climax with unrelenting force. âCumming already? I didnât give you permission, did I?âÂ
But thereâs a dark thrill in his tone, and as your body convulses around him, mind fracturing into a haze of white-hot bliss, thoughts scattering like ash, he reaches down with one hand, snatching up the abandoned vibrator. Youâre still lost in the throes, barely registering the world beyond the pounding in your pussy, when he angles it back toward your ass.
The tip presses against your gaping hole without mercy, and he shoves it in deep in one firm push, the buzzing girth reclaiming the stretched passage while his cock continues to fuck your cunt.Â
The dual penetration hits like lightning: the immense stretch overwhelming, your ass walls clamping down on the invading toy even as they burn from the renewed fullness, vibrations rattling through the thin barrier separating it from his thrusting shaft.Â
It feels impossible, too much, your body locked in a vice of sensation as he holds the vibrator buried to the hilt, twisting it slightly to amplify the buzz against your most sensitive spots. You gasp incoherently, hips bucking wildly against the restraints, the combined assault dragging out your orgasm into something endless and shattering, every nerve screaming from the intensity while Aaronâs grin widens.
He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you back onto his shaft with every thrust, the dual invasion making your walls flutter and spasm around both the thick toy and his bare length.Â
âThatâs it, take it all,â he snarls, voice rough and commanding, leaning over you to pin you down further against the mattress, his weight pressing you into the sheets as he rutted like an animal. The vibrator stays lodged deep, its base flush against your skin, and he twists it occasionally with his free hand, grinding it against your inner walls to heighten the vibrations that rattle your core, making your ass burn and pulse around the intrusion.
He teases you through the haze of your shattered mind, slowing his pace just enough to drag his cock out to the tip before ramming back in, the head battering your cervix with each punishing stroke.Â
âLook at you, so fucking wrecked already. Pussy squeezing me like it never wants me to stop, even with your ass stuffed full.â His words drip with dominance, a low chuckle escaping as he feels you tremble beneath him, your bound wrists straining against the belt, body arching involuntarily into the relentless pounding.Â
Sweat slicks his chest, dripping onto your skin as he picks up speed again, thrusts turning erratic and savage, balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks that echo the obscene squelch of your soaked cunt gripping him.
The pressure builds unbearably, the vibratorâs merciless hum amplifying every slide of his cock along your sensitive nerves, pushing you toward the edge once more despite the exhaustion ripping through your limbs.Â
Youâre a mess of gasps and whimpers, mind blank and floating in a sea of sensation, every nerve ending raw from the onslaught. Aaron senses it, growls low in his throat, and redoubles his efforts: fucking you harder, deeper, the friction between the toy and his shaft creating a friction that has you seeing stars.Â
âCum for me again, slut. Milk my cock while I fill you up.â His command shatters the last of your control, and your fifth orgasm rips through you like fire, pussy convulsing violently around him, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that drag a guttural moan from his lips.
He doesnât stop, pounding through your climax with savage grunts, the way your body seizes around him tipping him over.Â
His cock swells inside you, thrusts stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding against your clit. Hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, thick ropes painting your inner walls as he roars his release, holding the vibrator steady to prolong the torment. You feel every pulse, the warmth spreading deep as he empties himself, your wrecked body quaking from the aftershocks, ass still clenching around the buzzing toy while his seed leaks out around his softening shaft.
Finally, he stills, breathing ragged, but doesnât pull out yet, but rather lets you lie there utterly spent, limbs limp and trembling, mind fractured into pieces from the endless pleasure. Your pussy throbs around his cock, ass stretched and vibrating faintly, every inch of you marked and claimed, completely wrecked.
Aaronâs breaths slow from ragged pants to steady draws, his body finally easing off the frantic rhythm as the haze of his orgasm clears. He shifts his weight carefully, one hand still resting on your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the red marks heâs left there.Â
âShh, easy now,â he murmurs, voice dropping to a low, soothing rumble, all traces of the snarling dominance gone, replaced by a gentle tenderness that surprises even in the afterglow.
He reaches back first, fingers wrapping around the base of the vibrator still humming faintly in your ass. With deliberate slowness, he eases it out inch by inch, the toy slick with your arousal, popping free with a wet, obscene squelch that makes your oversensitive nerves twitch.Â
Your ass clenches instinctively at the sudden emptiness, the ring of muscle gaping slightly, raw and fluttering from the prolonged stretch, a dull ache throbbing in its wake. You whimper high and broken, body jerking faintly against the restraints, the overstimulation hitting like a wave now that the relentless buzz is gone.
Aaron hushes you softly, âIâve got you, just breathe,â as he sets the vibrator aside on the nightstand with a quiet click.Â
Then, he grips the base of his cock, still half-hard and slick with your combined fluids, and pulls out gradually, dragging along your swollen walls until the head slips free. The withdrawal drags a lewd, sucking sound from your pussy, followed by a thick gush of his cum spilling out, warm and viscous, dripping down your folds and over your ass to pool on the sheets beneath you.Â
Your pussy gapes too, stretched wide and pulsing, the inner lips puffy and red from the rough fucking, every tiny movement sending sparks of sharp pleasure-pain through your core.
Youâre a trembling mess, whimpers turning to soft whines as the dual emptiness leaves you feeling exposed and achingly hollow, your body too wrecked to do more than quiver under his gaze. Tears prick at your eyes from the intensity, limbs heavy and boneless, mind foggy with the overload of sensations that wonât quite fade.
He unties the belt from your wrists with careful fingers, gently rubbing circulation back into them, then gathers you against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady. âThere you go, sweetheart, youâre safe,â he whispers, pressing soft kisses to your temple and forehead, his free hand stroking down your back in slow, reassuring circles.Â
He shifts you both slightly, pulling a blanket over your cooling skin, his touch light and protective now, letting you sink into the warmth of his body as the whines quiet to shaky breaths.
Your breaths even out gradually, the whines fading into soft sighs as Aaronâs steady presence anchors you, his hand still tracing lazy patterns along your spine. The overstimulation lingers like a low hum in your veins, every nerve ending raw and tingling, but the exhaustion creeps in heavier now, pulling your eyelids down despite the ache between your thighs. Youâre drifting, words too far away to grasp, body limp and heavy in his arms.
After a few quiet minutes, Aaron presses one last kiss to your hair and carefully disentangles himself, easing your head back onto the pillow with a murmured, âStay right there, Iâll be quick.â The bed dips as he rises, his footsteps soft on the floor as he pads to the bathroom.Â
The sound of running water filtering through the door. Moments later, he returns carrying a small ceramic bowl steaming faintly with warm water and a soft white washcloth draped over his arm. His expression is calm, attentive, all sharp edges softened in the dim light.
Kneeling beside the bed, he dips the cloth into the water, wringing it out with careful squeezes until droplets cease falling. Starting at your face, he dabs lightly over your cheeks and forehead, wiping away the streaks of dried tears and sweat with feather-light strokes that make you sigh. âGood girl, just relax,â he says softly, his voice a low anchor.Â
You manage a faint hum, too sleepy to form anything more, your eyes fluttering half-closed as the cloth moves down your neck, tracing the curve of your collarbone with feather-light pressure. He avoids the tender spots at first, dipping the cloth back into the water to refresh it, then works lower, cleaning the sweat and spit from your breasts, circling each nipple with careful swipes that make you twitch faintly from the sensitivity.
He works methodically lower, parting your thighs with gentle hands to access the mess between your legs. The cloth presses tenderly against your inner thighs first, cleaning the sticky trails of arousal and cum that have cooled there.Â
You flinch slightly at the initial contact, your nerves still raw and buzzing, but he pauses, blowing a cool breath over the area before resuming, the warmth seeping in to ease the hypersensitivity. He folds the cloth to a fresh side and wipes along your swollen folds, careful not to press too hard on your puffy clit, though the mere brush sends a faint echo of pleasure sparking through you.
He dips it just inside to scoop out the thick globs that linger, each pass drawing a soft whimper from your lips. Your pussy twitches under the attention, gaping slightly as he works, but his touch remains patient, thorough, without overwhelming. He shifts to your ass next, lifting your hips with one steady hand while the other guides the cloth over the tender ring, washing away the slickness with slow circles that make your muscles flutter in response.
You squirm a little, too worn out to protest, just a soft whine escaping as sleep tugs harder at you.
Once satisfied, he rinses the cloth in the bowl and repeats the process, ensuring every inch is tended to until your skin feels clean and refreshed.
âAll done, sweetheart,â he whispers once youâre fresh and the bowlâs water is murky, setting everything aside and drying you off with a soft towel from the bathroom. He tucks the blanket back around you, pulling it up to your chin, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. You barely register him standing, your mind already slipping into that fuzzy space between wakefulness and dreams.
The shower starts up in the bathroom, a quick rush of water that lasts only a few minutes. Enough for him to rinse off the sweat and scents of your encounter. When it shuts off, he emerges, skin damp and towel slung low around his hips, the air carrying a faint clean scent.Â
He dries off swiftly, then slides into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you back against his warm chest, his breath steady and even against your neck. âSleep now,â he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder, and you do, sinking into the safety of his hold as darkness claims you.
You sleep dreamlessly and utterly exhausted when morning comes softly.
At first itâs just light slipping through the curtains and stretching across the bed in quiet lines. It brushes over your closed eyelids, warm and insistent, until you stir.
Youâre aware of him before you even open your eyes.
The weight of his arm is still draped over your waist, heavier now in sleep. His chest is solid against your back, rising and falling in a slow rhythm that feels almost grounding. One of his legs is hooked loosely over yours, keeping you there without effort, like even unconscious he hasnât quite let you go.
You shift the smallest amount.
Behind you, he makes a low sound, half breath, half murmur, still lost to sleep, merely reacting to the disturbance. His arm tightens instinctively, drawing you nearer by an inch.
The movement sends a dull ache through your body.
Right. Last night.
Your muscles protest in tender places. Your skin feels strangely sensitive, as though it remembers every touch with greater clarity than your mind yet does. There is a lingering heaviness low in your body that sends embarrassment and something softer, deeper, curling together through your stomach.
You open your eyes fully and lie still for a moment.
The room is quiet, washed in the pale morning light that slips through the curtains in narrow bands. Dust drifts lazily in it. Somewhere outside, traffic murmurs at a distance, softened by glass and height. Inside the room, there is only the warmth of tangled sheets, the faint scent of sleep and skin, and the steady presence of the man behind you.
It is almost strange how peaceful it feels.
Not awkward. Not hurried. Not like a mistake waiting to be regretted or an encounter from which one ought to make a graceful escape before daylight can expose it. Merely quiet. Merely still.
Carefully, you tilt your head enough to glance back at him.
His face is relaxed in sleep, all sharp edges softened. Hair messy, a little damp at the ends. Thereâs something unexpectedly gentle about him like this, nothing like the version of him from last night.
Your chest tightens, just a little.
Then you glance toward the bedside table and your eyes lock onto the clock. Your eyes widen at once. Panic strikes so suddenly it feels physical. You jerk upright too fast, a sharp breath catching in your throat as every part of your body objects to the abrupt movement.Â
âFuck,â you whisper to no one in particular, already clawing your way out of sheets that seem determined to hold you hostage.
Behind you, he stirs properly this time.
ââŠwhat?â His voice is roughened by sleep, deep and disoriented, dragged reluctantly into consciousness.
âIâm late,â you blurt, pushing hair from your face as you scan the room in mounting horror. âIâmâŠI have my first day today, I..â
Words abandon you. You reach for your shirt from the floor, snatching it up with frantic hands.
There is a brief pause behind you. Then the mattress shifts with his weight. A hand closes gently around your wrist. Not hard. Not restraining. Simply enough to stop the frantic motion for a moment.
âHey.â
You turn, breath still uneven. Aaron is sitting up now, sheets low around his waist, eyes half-lidded with sleep yet already focused, already gathering himself into alertness with that unnerving speed some people possess.
âItâs okay,â he says, voice quieter now, steadier. âWhat time do you start?â
âNine,â you answer, the word coming out thinner than you intended.Â
Aaron shifts slightly beside you, leaning toward the bedside clock with the lingering heaviness of someone only recently dragged from sleep. He narrows his eyes at the display for a moment before speaking, voice still roughened by sleep and entirely too calm for the crisis you had just convinced yourself was unfolding.
âItâs eight ten.â
You stare at him.
For a second, your mind refuses the information outright, as though it has already committed itself so thoroughly to catastrophe that reason can no longer gain entry. Then, slowly, reality catches up. You are not late. You had never been late. You had simply panicked yourself into believing it.
The realisation moves through you all at once. The rigid tension in your shoulders collapses, leaving behind a dizzy mixture of relief, embarrassment, and the near-hysterical urge to laugh at your own foolishness.
âOh my God,â you breathe, dragging a hand down over your face. âI thought - I genuinely thought it was nearly nine.â
âClearly,â he murmurs.
There is amusement in his voice now, though it is subtle, restrained by the same natural control that seems stitched into every part of him.
You sink back onto the edge of the bed, your heart still pounding from the rush of alarm, clutching your shirt in one hand as though it were evidence in some private case against your dignity. Morning light spills across the sheets, across the floor scattered with clothing, across the broad line of Aaronâs shoulders where he sits half-turned toward you.
Then you feel it.
His hand, warm and fully awake now, settling lightly at the small of your back. The touch is gentle enough to surprise you.
âYou okay?â he asks.
It is such a simple question, asked without teasing, without smugness, without any attempt to make light of your brief unraveling. He is not laughing at you. He is only checking.
You glance at him, momentarily thrown by the sincerity of it.
âYes,â you say after a pause, softer now. âJust⊠first day nerves, apparently mixed with temporary insanity.â
He gives a small nod, as though that explanation accounts for everything. Perhaps, to him, it does.
âCome here.â
The words are quiet, lacking any of the command they might have carried the night before. There is no force in them now, only invitation.
You hesitate for scarcely a heartbeat before shifting back toward him.
His arm slips around you once more, slower this time, deliberate in a way that feels almost careful. He draws you against him - not tightly, not with the consuming urgency of last night, but just enough that you settle easily beside him, your shoulder against his chest, your temple brushing the warm line of him.
âYouâve got time,â he murmurs near your hair.
Your body still aches in small, lingering ways, every muscle aware of the night behind you, yet held like this the soreness feels less sharp, less startling. It becomes something softer. Something grounded.
You allow yourself to remain there for longer than you probably should, listening to the measured rhythm of his breathing, feeling the quiet steadiness of him beneath your cheek.
Eventually, reality returns in the practical form of needing to get ready, and the two of you move around one another in that peculiar space shared by strangers who are no longer strangers, but not yet anything clearly defined either. There is a slight awkwardness to it, though not an unpleasant one. Something intimate and uncertain at once.
The bathroom mirror fogs as you wash your face, and when you glance at your reflection, you scarcely recognise the woman looking back. Your hair is unruly, your mouth still faintly swollen, your cheeks touched with leftover colour. There is a softness to you that had not been there yesterday.
When you step back into the bedroom, Aaron is pulling on his shirt. He does so with easy, efficient movements, fastening buttons as though mornings after unexpected nights are either common enough not to trouble him, or rare enough that he has learned not to show it.
âCoffee?â he asks, glancing over.
You nod at once. âPlease.â
The kitchen is small, the sort of space that was never meant for two people moving through it, and yet the quiet between you remains strangely comfortable. He moves with competence there too, finding mugs, measuring grounds, setting water to boil with the calm assurance of a man who prefers order wherever he can create it.
A minute later he hands you a mug. Your fingers brush as you take it, and a faint spark passes between skin and skin, something of last night returning in gentler form.
You lean against opposite counters, sipping in companionable silence for a while. It is not awkward. It is merely new.
âSo,â you say at last, blowing lightly across the surface of your coffee, âis this how your mornings after usually go?â
He lets out a low breath that might almost be called a laugh and shakes his head.
âNo.â
You look up.
He is already looking at you.
âThis isnât really my thing,â he adds after a moment, voice quieter now. Then, as if unwilling to let the confession grow too serious, he reaches into his pocket. âBut.â
He steps closer and sets his mug aside. From his pocket, he produces a receipt and a pen, scribbling something quickly before taking your hand and pressing the folded paper into your palm.
You unfold it. His number.
When you look back up, he is wearing the faintest crooked smile. It transforms him again, softening the severe lines of his face into something unexpectedly warm.
âIâd like to take you out properly,â he says. âSomewhere that isnât your bedroom.â
Your lips curve despite yourself.
âProperly?â
âYes,â he says, and there is something in the steadiness of the word that makes your chest tighten. âProperly.â
A pause settles between you, though this one feels different from the earlier uncertainties. It is not tense or awkward. It feels open, as though something has quietly begun without either of you naming it.
He glances toward the door, then back to you.
âI should head back. Need to change before work.â
âOkay,â you reply.
Neither of you moves immediately.
Then he steps nearer one final time, lifting a hand to brush an errant strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so small, so ordinary, and yet it lands with surprising force.
âGood luck today,â he says softly.
âThank you.â
He leans in then, pressing a brief kiss to your lips, gentle, warm, and far more affecting than the fiercer ones that came before it.
And then he is gone.
The door closes with a quiet click, leaving the apartment still once more.
You remain where you are for a moment, coffee warm between your hands, his number folded in your fingers. Outside waits your first day, your new life, the sharp unknown of everything ahead.
After a long breath, you set the mug down and begin to move. The day, after all, is waiting.
You arrive at the building with a curious mixture of anticipation and unease, around ten minutes later.Â
The structure itself rises with an austere authority, all clean lines and guarded entrances, as though it were less a place of work and more a vessel for serious, unspoken things.
Inside, the air is cool, almost clinical. Your footsteps echo faintly against polished floors as you are directed forward, deeper into the heart of it.
You find her soon enough.
Erin Strauss stands waiting her posture impeccable, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She greets you briskly, her words precise, and without delay begins to guide you through the corridors. As you walk, she speaks of procedures, of expectations, of names that pass you by too quickly to properly anchor themselves in your mind.
You try to listen. You truly do. But there is something about the place, a quiet tension beneath its order, that unsettles your focus.
At last, she leads you into a wide, open office.
Desks stand arranged with a peculiar neatness, papers stacked, screens dark or idling. Yet the room feels⊠absent. As though its occupants have only just departed, leaving behind the faint impression of movement and thought.
âThere you go,â Strauss says, gesturing with a measured hand. âThis is the BAU.â
Her voice carries easily in the stillness.
She turns slightly, indicating a door at the far end of the room - closed, yet not entirely concealed. The blinds are open, and through them, a figure may be glimpsed.
âAnd this,â she continues, âis where your Unit Chief, SSA Hotchnerâs office is. Iâll get him for you.â
Your attention, already drifting, settles fully upon that door. There is something almost involuntary in the way your gaze lingers.
Inside, you see him.
A man, tall even in repose, seated behind his desk, his form bent slightly forward in concentration. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. The quiet intensity of someone wholly absorbed in his work. Papers are spread before him, and though you cannot hear him, you can almost imagine the faint scratch of pen against page, the steady rhythm of thought made visible.
There is something strikingly familiar about him. In the stillness he seems to command, as though the room itself conforms to his presence.
Strauss moves away from you, her heels marking a deliberate path across the floor. She knocks. The man looks up and rises.
You look away then, perhaps too quickly, your attention shifting across the empty desks, searching for signs of the rest of the team Strauss had mentioned. It is a small, instinctive act, an attempt to steady yourself, though you cannot quite say why.
Fragments of the morning return unbidden: tangled sheets warmed by sunlight, the pressure of an arm around your waist, the low roughness of a sleep-heavy voice, the brush of fingers against yours over a mug of coffee. The softness that had followed the storm of the night before.
You push the memories aside with some effort.Not quickly enough.
You do not hear the office door open. You do not notice footsteps crossing the floor. But you are aware only of a subtle change in the air beside you. A presence close enough to alter the space itself.
You turn.
And in that instant, the world seems to contract violently around a single, impossible fact.
Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
Your mouth goes dry.
Because you know him.
Not as a superior waiting to be introduced. Not as a stranger glimpsed through office glass.
But as the man whose hands had been on you only hours ago. The man who had kissed you goodbye this morning. The man who had fucked you within an inch of your life, who had stood half-dressed in your kitchen making coffee as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The man who had pressed his number into your palm and said, with quiet certainty, that he wished to see you again.
Aaron.
Only now -
Aaron Hotchner.
He stands before you immaculate in a dark suit, every trace of the night before hidden beneath the severe authority of his position. The shirt is crisp, the tie exact, his expression composed to the point of austerity. He looks every inch the unit chief people speak of in lowered voices.
If he feels even a fraction of the shock that you have just gone through, he does not show it.
Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his gaze betrays that he, too, is affected.
He extends his hand.
âItâs a pleasure to meet you.â
The words are smooth, measured, impeccably professional.
As though nothing at all has passed between you.
And yet, standing there with your pulse hammering and the memory of his mouth still far too vivid, you know with sudden certainty that everything has.
oh my god i have read this like four times already. Hail Buzzy toys full of Grace and the authors of fanfic both sweet and smutty may they long grace us with their talent.
Summary: A beautiful sunny day at a park is beginning to turn stressful when your toddler shows the telltale signs of a tantrum. Spencer tries a magic trick to soothe her; it does not go as he intends.
Contents: 1.6k words, FLUFF, girl dad!Spencer, fem!reader, no use of y/n, fussy toddler, Beatrice is an indoor kid lol, magic tricks
a/n: yeah hi again lol. I've got no self control. this anon sort of requested it. Other requests are still being worked on, though I've no idea when they'll be posted. Thank you for sending them and your love for Honeybea!!!
It was a miserable cold night when Spencer first showed off his magic tricks to you.
You remember it with clarity, like a film you've seen to the point of memorization. It happened during that weird period where neither of you knew where you stood, hovering between the pretense of your arrangement and the terrifying truth of your feelings.
You are in his apartment strictly to make use of his library had been the lie you told yourself at the time, regardless of how much time the two of you spent decidedly not doing any research. He just has a more extensive theory collection. That last part was true, at least.
Still, it hadn't escaped your attention how he'd started offering you a pair of warm, fluffy slippersâin exactly your sizeâafter you'd spent one too many evenings researching there. You never called out the fact that he suddenly kept a jug full of your favorite brew of black tea, stored neatly beside a ceramic octopus mug named Mildred, a mug you insisted on using just to prove a pointâhe'd said the unconventional shape was unusable, better kept on the shelf safely as decor.
You told yourself, like a stubborn fool, that those things meant nothing. And like a fool, you kept track of them anyway.
But that night, you were completely focused. No, the veins on Spencer's forearms were not distracting you at all, thank you very much. You had so much more important things to worry aboutâsuch as the returned draft of your dissertation. There were so many highlighted lines and comments on the document that the word application begun to lag, a fact that promptly made you even more edge as it kept you on loading purgatory, waiting and praying that your last edits were saved.
Spencer noticed your distress. He had grown very good at reading you at that point, though you were convinced it's only because you wore your frustration so openly.
He's supplied you with a plethora of snacks and tea, placed a blanket over your shoulders as you hunched on the floorâmore space for all the opened reference booksâperfectly settled for a long night of editing and working. He sat beside you on the floor, cross-legged and casual, as if his knees weren't pressed against your thigh, reading The Songs of Maldoror in its newest translation.
When your laptop inevitably did that dumb loading screen again, Spencer's book was instantly abandoned alongside the multitude references littering his floor. He took you by the shoulders before the grumbled curse could even leave your lips, and guided you to his couch with a soft, reassuring murmur.
"Take five minutes," he said, rubbing his large palm on your back, "You don't want your annoyance impacting your work."
"It won't impact my work." you insist, mostly just to argue. "I'm focused."
"You are, but your laptop is not." he replies. One of his hands moved in slow circles on your back while the other reached up to run over your cheek. You leaned into it, exhausted and regretting every single decision you've made, and when his hand tangled into your hair, you thoughtâand admittedly, hopedâhe would kiss you.
Instead, he made some flourish and, with a self satisfied grin, held up his fingers. A quarter tumbled in between his knuckles, glinting every time a perfect angle hit the light.
"Whatâ"
"Wait, and there's more!" he says, and with his other hand, somehow pulled your favorite highlighter from behind your ear.
The absurdity of it made you burst out laughing. Loud and unrestrained and slightly unhinged.
"How'd you do that?"
"A magician never reveals his secrets."
And you laughed even harder. Crash out averted. And ever since, distraction by magic trick has never failed to bring a smile on your face.
Today could not be further from that night.
It's sunny, for one, the perfect temperature where the world seems gilded and fresh with vitality. The skies are cotton candy, the grass is so green it looks artificial, and even the city seems to breathe easier. You're done with your PhD. by now, and your relationship with Spencer isn't fake anymore.
And, most notable of all, you have your daughter with you.
Beatrice had been fussing before you even left the house, making loud wails of protest as you applied sunscreen all over her chubby arms and legs. It seemed like she didn't like the texture of the lotion, if her constant raspberries were any indication. She only blows raspberries when her dramatic nononos don't work.
It continued while Spencer strapped her into her car seat, but this time accompanied by steady, kicking legs. She almost got Spencer's forearm at some point, but you managed to placate her with Disney songs on the radio.
Beatrice seems determined to dislike everything. When you got to the park, you set her down so she could burn off some of her energy, but the started screaming when the grass fluttered past her sandals and tickled her ankles.
You lift her into your arms, cooing and bouncing her on your hip, but she squirms in discontent.
"No, no, no, no, no!" she squeaks, shaking her head to punctuate every no.
Spencer watches from where he's arranging your picnicâunder the shade of a large treeâgrinning in sympathy.
"Have we figured out what's upsetting her yet?" he asks as you walk over to him with an armful of squalling, indignant toddler.
"I think she just hates nature." you groan, plopping down and letting Beatrice crawl on the blanket.
She looks around with a suspicious pout, but relaxes when she realizes that the grass can't get to her from the safety of the gingham.
"Why don't we give mommy a break, huh?" he cooes, gently lifting her into his lap. Beatrice, normally such an easy child, shakes her head and squirms in his arms.
"She wants to do her own thing." you say, sprawling on the picnic blanket with a happy groan. The sun feels delightful on your skin, perfectly warm without being too humid. "Preferably away from the grass."
"So she's an indoor kid," he chuckles and concedes, propping her up on a little pillow instead, "There you go, honeybee, do you want some fruit?" he places a small tupperware full of grapes and strawberries in front of her.
"No, no, no fruit! Dada no!" Beatrice squawks at her father, then swings her hand and hits the container. It topples sideways. Her face crumples as the fruits escape, rolling all over the blanket. One of them touches her pillow and she shrieks.
Spencer tuts, "No, no, baby, what's wrong?"
You gather the fruits before they roll onto the grass as Spencer bounces Beatrice on his knee, his brows furrowing in concern. And then, his eyes light up, a clear sign he's got an idea.
He returns Beatrice on her pillow, scrunching low to be more on her level. "You want to see something cool?"
Beatrice's lower lip trembles, but Spencer cups her chubby cheeks with his large hand, shushing her sweetly.
"Oh, honeybee, don't cry, look!" he reaches behind her head, and with an exaggerated flick of his hand, produces a coin from behind her ear. He does the same with his other hand, pulling out a flower this time, pure white with a yellow center. "And another one! What else are you hiding in there, little honeybee?"
You understand his instinct, why he did this. It works on you, after all, so why shouldn't it work on your daughter? Besides, from hisâadmittedly quite limitedâexperience, kids love magic. It's a whimsical distraction.
But your daughter doesn't giggle, or even pause her fussing.
Instead, Beatrice stares at the items in his hands, grabs at her ears in confusion, and her face crumples. Fat tears bead in her eyes and roll down her chubby cheeks, as she shrieks.
You swear you've never seen Spencer look so crestfallen before.
He stares, so obviously distraught that his magic trick didn't work, that he made things worse. He looks helplessly at Beatrice like every single sob is an earth shattering betrayal, too dumbstruck to even make a move to soothe the upset toddler.
And you?
You laugh.
Loud. So loud it cuts through your daughter's sobs and makes your husband blink in surprise. Twin hazel eyes turn to stare at you, one dripping tears, the other seemingly on the verge of it.
You laugh even harder.
"Oh my god, the look on your faces," you manage to wheeze, bending over at your waist.
"You don't need to cachinnate." Spencer frowns. Pouts, actually, looking so much like your daughter it seems he'd simply copy pasted his features upon her smaller face.
His choice of word only serves to heighten your amusementâalways so precise with his language, wielding his intellect in defense any time he feels indignant.
However, at the sound of your voiceâthe familiarity of your laughterâBeatrice's sobs melt into giggles. Imitation is a big part of a child's skill acquisition, you remember from the countless childhood development and parenting books you've read.
Your laughter seems obnoxious now, dramatic, but for the first time that day, Beatrice's lips are smiling, as bright as the sun in the sky, gap toothed and gummy.
She laughs, copying mommy.
Spencer, equal parts distressed and relieved, heaves a sigh. Soon though, he's laughing as well, shoulders shaking as he hugs Beatrice close, pressing his face to the top of her head. Your daughter giggles in delight now, melting into Spencer's arms, her earlier grumpiness forgotten.
Half hidden from her curls, Spencer peaks up and smiles at you, so soft and adoring you lose breath all over again.
"Well, at least I know my tricks still make you smile." he says. You swear your heart turns to goo under that bright, sunny sky.
read more honeybea HERE | read more about her parents here
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like heâs so desperate and touch starved in this itâs not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
â° masterlist
You taste metal before you realise youâve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin youâve been gnawing at since you got into the car. Itâs a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.Â
âQuit that,â Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. Itâs meant to be a reprimand, but thereâs no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
âAre you hungry?â he asks, making a turn onto the main road.Â
âYou think Iâm biting my nails because Iâm hungry?â
âNo. I know you only bite your nails when youâre overthinking. And I know youâre more inclined to talk when youâre not running on an empty stomach.â
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.Â
âThereâs a diner about half an hour up the road,â he tries again. âGood coffee. Bad pie.â
You consider it, and on any other night youâd say yes without thinking, like youâve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, youâre not heading home. Youâre heading back to the hotel room youâre sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadnât realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
âCanât we make the drive back home tonight?â you ask, shifting to look at him. âI can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.â
âI think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldnât be a wise choice.â
âWhatâs wrong with my driving skills?â
âYou once reversed into a mailbox.â
You scoff. âYou werenât even in the car when that happened.â
âNo,â he says, unbothered, âbut I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.â
You glance out again and heâs right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. Youâd sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.Â
âYou did well,â he offers obligingly, and you know heâs trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadnât imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldnât even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but youâd insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.Â
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
âYouâre lying. I barely got him to talk.âÂ
âYou did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.â
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. âYou managed to get a name,â you correct.Â
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. âIt was a team effort.â
âWell, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.â You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
âDo you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?â
âYes, actually.â You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if youâre going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, youâre not doing it sober. âPretty sure thereâs a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldnât mind?â
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station youâve ever seen.
âDo you need anything?â you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. âYou can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.â
âSo nothing, then?â
âCoffee. If they have it.â
âSure.â You pause, then grin at him. âIâll get you a drink.âÂ
Youâre out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rainâs turned into that annoying misty kindâso light it shouldnât count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like itâs been cleaned. You donât bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, youâre not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at youâthe kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once youâve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentionsâsomething heâs clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
âSorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.â
âPlease tell me there's at least water in there.â
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. âHave a little faith.â
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way heâs perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.Â
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotelâs car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me thatâs not going in your body. đđ·
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yesâkey, not card, because itâs that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
âAny time today would be nice.â
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. âYou could always help.â
âSure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.â
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, âYou know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.â
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.Â
âWould you look at that,â you say as you brush past him, âyou can find the spot.â
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.Â
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenlyâthough not surprisinglyâyour eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.Â
âYou want the shower first?â he asks, and you glance at him, pretending itâs the first time youâve looked at him since walking in.
âNope. I want alcohol.â
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
Youâre about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise thereâs a slight problem. Itâs a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.Â
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.Â
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.Â
âHotch?â
Water is running. He does not answer.Â
You try again, louder. âHotch!â
âWhat?â he calls through the door, voice muffled.
âAre you decent?â
Thereâs the faintest pauseâlong enough for you to smile to yourself because you canât help but imagine himâŠnot decent.Â
âYes,â he says cautiously. âWhy?â
âI need help.â
âWith what?â
âAlcohol-related emergency.â
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. Heâs a belt off first kind of guy.Â
He looks at the bottle, then at you. âYou bought wine without a corkscrew.â
You hold it out to him. âLet me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.â
He doesnât argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity ofâŠeverything else.Â
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.Â
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and youâre just standing thereâuseless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.Â
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and youâre pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.Â
âHappy now?â
âMhm. Ecstatic. Guess youâve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.â
âYou know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.â
âGo ahead,â you say, scanning the room for glasses. âKnock yourself out.â There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
âYou want to take your wine so I can go shower?â he asks flatly.
âYouâre not joining me?âÂ
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. âHow much was this?â
âFour ninety-nine.â You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. âCome on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.â
He lets out a slow breath. âYou want a toast?â
âYes.â You nod. âOr you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.â
âFine,â he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. âOne toast.â
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.Â
âTo the fact you never did anything halfway,â he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. âCases, paperwork, people,â he continues. âYou were all in. Always.â
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldnât stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.Â
âThatâs awful,â he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you canât help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. âGodâthatâs fucking vile.â
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. âTold you.â
âNow you have to help me finish it. Otherwise Iâll die, and youâll have to do the paperwork.â
âThatâs manipulative.â
You shrug. âIs it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.â
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile heâs trying so hard to suppress itâs making him look constipated. âYou have a foul mouth,â he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.Â
âIs that the first of the five things you like about me?â
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. âWe are not making a list.â
âSo thatâs a yes?â
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.Â
âFine. No list. Iâll just assume itâs implied.â
âIt isnât.â
âIt is.â
âIt really isnât.â
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.Â
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
âAre you still beating yourself up about earlier?â he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
âA little,â you admit with a sigh. âI wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.â
âYou softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.â
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. âBet youâre going to miss using me as bait.â
He shifts his head to glance at you. âYouâre only moving two floors down.â
âAnd what if my new boss doesnât like to share?â
âYou were always mine first,â he says it so casually, youâre not entirely sure heâs processed his own wording.
âYours?â you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.Â
âOurs,â he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. âThe BAUsâ
Youâre fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you donât see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.Â
âWhat are you thinking?â he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.Â
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. âNever mind.â
âI think you need a shower.â You spare him your real thoughts.
âThanks,â he mutters. âI donât think I could even get my tie off right now.â
âDo you need a hand?â
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. âI might.â
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.Â
âWhatâre you doing?â he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
âHelping you get your tie off because you need to shower.â
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like heâs unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. âYouâre on top of me.â
âWe can do this standing if you prefer?â
His eyes close for half a second, like heâs silently begging for patience. âNo. Justââ
You catch the speed of that no and canât help but smile, settling yourself against him. âOkay,â you breathe, leaning in. âHold still.â
Youâve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why itâs going so badly. You yank at the knot once⊠twice⊠and somehow make it worse. âWhy is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?â
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. âPlease donât ever say that sentence again.â
âHave we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? Itâs fine, Iâm very accepting.â
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. âItâs called a Windsor knot.â
âWell no wonder youâre so grumpy all the timeâthis Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.â
âYouâre making it tighter,â he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because youâre too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. âBecause youâre moving.â
âYouâre on top of me.â
You tug at the fabric again. âI gave you the option to do this standing, didnât I?â
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. âSlide the narrow end through the loop,â he says, showing you.Â
Fuck. Heâs talking you through it. And youâre pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.Â
 âNoâother side.â
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.Â
âNow loosen it,â he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. âPull there.â
You do as youâre told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. âWould you look at that! Youâre tie-free.âÂ
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. âOh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?â
His hands are back on your waist again. âIt was on sale.â
âYou couldâve asked me,â you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. âI wouldâve done it for free.â
âYouâre wearing it backwards.â
âWell,â you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, âyouâre the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.â
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably notânot through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.Â
âYou want it to lie like this,â he says softly. âOtherwise it twists.â
You donât breathe. âMhm.â
âNow it goes over and underâŠâ His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.Â
âYou can pull the longer end through here,â he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. âSee? Not that hard.â
You tilt your hips forward. âI donât think thatâs entirely true,â you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. âDo you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?â you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where youâre straddling the hard line of his cock. âYouâre going to tell me either way, arenât you?â
âMm,â you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. âI donât have to.â
âBut you want to.â His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. âI was thinkingâŠwhether youâve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.âÂ
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldnât be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. âI think you already know the answer to that.â
âTonight doesnât count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?â Thereâs no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. âYes,â he grunts out.
âThatâs it?â
âYou asked a yes or no question.â
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. âYou could elaborate.â
âYou really want me to do that right now?â
âAbsolutely.â Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. âWould it help if I took this off?â
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. âThatâs notââ He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.Â
âHow about this,â you offer with a smile, âevery time you tell me when youâve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, donât you think?â
âAnd if I donât want to partake in this game?â
âThen I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.â You really, really hope thatâs not the option he picks. âThe choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.â
He goes quiet, thinkingâthough with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, youâre not convinced heâs capable of coherent thought. Youâre hardly better. Youâre fucking soaked, and technically the two of you havenât even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your bossâs lap counts as the worldâs most effective form of foreplay.
âRossiâs birthday last year,â he reveals.Â
âI remember,â you nod and begin working your buttons down. âWe stayed behind to help him clean up.â
âAnd you insisted on putting away the wine glassesââ He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. âYou climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.â
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. âI recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.â
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. âNot as good as the view I have now.â
âThatâs one.â You toy with the strap of your bra. âNext.â
âThe jet.â
You light up instantly. âThisâll be good.âÂ
âWe were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.âÂ
âDo continue.â
âYou move a lot in your sleep,â he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. âKept shifting⊠sighing⊠dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasnât just making sure you were covered. I was⊠staring.â
âOh, you poor thing,â you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
Thereâs a dark patch on his groin, and you donât know if itâs from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.Â
But apparently you enjoy sufferingâor making him sufferâespecially when heâs looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, âDid you like the tights I wore?â
âWith the seam at the back,â he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadnât planned on playing stripâor confessionalâpoker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
âI donât think I can keep going,â he says, his voice hoarse.
âYou canât last two more rounds?â you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. âI wonât count the tie as clothing.â
His eyes drag over you like heâs in pain. âI mean if you keep this up for any longer, Iâm going to finish in my pants like a teenager.â
You try very hard not to preen. âIâll do you a deal,â you say, taking a slow step forward until youâre standing between his legs. âMake this one really goodâŠâ You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. ââŠand Iâll take everything off.â
He swallows.
âThe last Christmas party.â His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. âYou were my ride.â
âYou had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.â He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. âAnd then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.â
âThat zip was very flimsy.â
âI put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didnât even realise you did it. But I did.â His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. âAll I could think about was how easy it wouldâve been to push that dress the rest of the way down⊠bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.â
Heat pools low in your stomach. âAnd you didnât.â
âYou were tipsy and said youâd had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.â
âSuch a gentleman.â Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. âWellâŠa deal's a deal.â You take your timeâpartly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like heâs afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. âYou okay?â
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. âYou know Iâm not.â
âWill it make you feel better to do the honours?â Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.Â
He looks up at you, and you donât think youâve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone whoâd do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, youâre certain youâd win.
âGo on,â you whisper softly. âYouâve earned it.â
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that heâs not the only one soaking his undergarments.Â
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotchâs hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
âI want you on my tongue.â
âYeah?â
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, youâre not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You donât lower yourself down just yet.
He doesnât touch you right away. JustâŠlooks.Â
âYou need instructions?â you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.Â
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then heâs lifting his head, and all you can do is watchâlips parted, hand still tangled in his hairâas his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.Â
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.Â
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process whatâs happening before heâs hauling you down until youâre sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like heâs been dying for this. He absolutely has.
âFuck!â you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the manâs airway with the way youâre practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise heâs the one thatâs pulling you down against him.
âSo sweet for me,â he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where youâre most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like itâs trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And thatâs when he slows. Doesnât completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.Â
âReally?â you pant, trying to catch your breath. âIs this your first time?â You lift yourself enough to look down at him.Â
âAsk me nicely.â
âWhat?â
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. âYouâre used to demanding things.â His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. âI think itâs time you learnt to be polite.â
Asshole.Â
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. âPlease,â you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then heâs lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of youâcreative ones too, the kind you donât even usually say out loudâtripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.Â
And then he pulls back. Again.Â
âPlease what?âÂ
Correction: heâs a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what heâs doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now heâs returning the favour. Heâs a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.Â
âSadist,â you hiss.Â
âMm.â He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. âNow be specific.â
You give him a dry humourless smile. âPlease make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.â You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. âIs that specific enough for you?â
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.Â
âJesusââ you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.Â
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like heâs trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.Â
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds heâs making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.Â
âHotchâfuck!â
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.Â
âOkayâokayâslow downââ you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
âYou asked nicely,â he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. âI didnât thinkâahânicely would get me this.â
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. Youâre close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.Â
You gasp, head tipping back. âIâIâmââ
âYou can come,â he says headily, tugging you closer. âGo on.â
You tense and wither against him. âSay it,â you pant. âSay you want me to.â
âI want you to.â
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.Â
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.Â
The first thing you register is the way Hotchâs thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.Â
âHi,â you croak.Â
He raises a brow, amused. âHi.â
âYour face is shiny.â
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. âThat would be your fault.â
âI can help with that,â you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and thatâs when you realiseâthis man has had his tongue inside you, yetâŠyou donât know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.Â
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like heâs puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. âWhat is it?â
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. âWe havenât even kissed.â You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.Â
âYou want to?â he asks like itâs a reasonable question, like he didnât just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
âAaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?â
âAaron,â he repeats.
âThatâs your name isnât it?â
âMm.â His hands tighten at your waist. âSay it again.â
âAre you going to kiss me, Aaron?â
For a second, he just stares up at you, like youâve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long heâs almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
âCome here.âÂ
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then youâre kissing him again, deeper, tasting something youâve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.Â
âYouâre wearing too many clothes,â you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
âWhich ones are bothering you?â
âAll of them,â you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. âSit up.â
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You donât bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
âArms up.â You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this timeâbringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You donât get the chance to tease him for it. Youâre too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.Â
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm thatâs embarrassingly close to a pant.Â
âChrist,â he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
âWant me to stop?â you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. âKeep going.â
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.Â
Thatâs when you take pity.Â
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotchâs eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, youâre already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips againâquicker and needierâas you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.Â
And then heâs bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.Â
âYouâre beautiful,â he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether heâs allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didnât get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. Heâs painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.Â
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
âSweetheart,â he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. âIâm close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I donât think Iâll be able to last if you keep doing that.â
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. âYou will,â you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. âFor me.â
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallowâand you canât help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Mondayâs briefing wouldâve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldnât even wait until he was inside you to come.
âYouâre enjoying this way too much,â he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.Â
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.Â
âI think youâre enjoying this far more than I am,â you murmurâright before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.Â
âSlowââ he manages, voice breaking around it. âGo slow.â
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. âSlow?â you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. âI donât know⊠you werenât exactly slow with me.â
His hands clamp down on your hips. âThat was different.â
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.Â
âDifferent how?â you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.Â
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like heâs fighting the urge to thrust into you. âDifferent,â he repeats, âbecause Iâve been wanting this a long time.â
âHow long?â you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.Â
âTwoâyears,â he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.Â
You still for a second. âTwo years?â
âYouâre surprised?â
âI mean⊠yeah? You donât exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.â You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound heâd absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
âAaron,â you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. âLook at me.â
He does instantly.Â
âYouâve been wanting this for two years?âÂ
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. Heâs deepâtoo deepâin a way youâve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.Â
âDonât move yet. JustâŠgive me a second,â he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. âWhy didnât you tell me? Or do anything about it?â
âBecause I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.â
âYouâre telling me you waited two years because of HR?â
âBecause it was the right thing to do.â
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. Youâd imagined him like thisâGod, probably longer than two yearsâbut it still doesnât compare.Â
âYou feel so fucking perfect,â he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. âSo, so perfect,â he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.Â
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.Â
âThatâs it,â he grits. âJust like that.â
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But itâs his other hand, the one thatâs still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You donât even realise what heâs reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
âThere she isâŠâ he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. âSo pretty and vocal for me.â
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.Â
âAaronââÂ
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesnât stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as heâs sliding towards his own.
âSweetheart, slowâslow downââ
You donât. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
âFuck!â he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough youâre almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than youâve ever heard him breathe.Â
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes openâtries to keep watching you on top of himâbut his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.Â
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
âAre you close?â he rasps.Â
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
âOkay, baby⊠okay.â His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.Â
âAaronââ Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
âIâve got you, sweetheart. Iâve got you. Come on.â
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.Â
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but heâs too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.Â
âSweetheartââ he gasps, âI needâyou have toâpleaseââ
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.Â
Your release slams into you like a freight train.Â
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.Â
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotchâs arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.Â
âEasy,â he murmurs. âEasyâŠIâve got you. Just breathe.â
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies havenât quite figured out how to separate yet.Â
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. âThere you go,â he whispers. âThatâs it.â
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. âDonât pull out just yet,â you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure whenâifâyouâll ever get this close to him again.
âIâm not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.âÂ
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.Â
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. âTwo years, huh?âÂ
He lets out a soft laugh. âTwo years.â
âWhatâs the right thing to do now?â you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.Â
âYou need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.â
You groan into his neck. âGee, way to ruin a moment.â
âAnd then,â he adds, kissing your temple, âwhen your transfer is official⊠I can take you out to dinnerâŠIf youâd like that?â
âA date?â you ask quietly.
âIf you want it to be.â
You pull back to look at him properly. âIâd like that.â
âGood,â he says with a smile, voice warm. âThatâs what I was hoping.â
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, brat taming, rough sex, multiple orgasms (m), f orgasm, dom/sub dynamics (Dom!Hotch and Sub!Reader), deliberate disobedience, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, light bondage, reader being gagged, creampie, cum everywhere, possessive!Hotch, aftercare. L/N used twice.
Summary: You deliberately try to undermine and piss Hotch off in the field so he'll be rough with you behind closed doors.
A/N: If this stinks I'm sorry. I wanted to try and write a fic that wasn't completely in past tense to challenge myself.
But alsoâŠ. OH MY GOD MY PANTIES ARE SO WET AFTER WRITING THIS đ€€đ€đ„Ž
Youâre pushing it today, and you fucking know it.
Every time Hotch opens his mouth to give an order, you directly disobey him, already moving in the opposite direction of what he wanted. Every time he says âhold position,â you take three deliberate steps forward. And every time he shoots you that warning look, the one you know all too well, the one that makes your knees weak and your mouth dry, you smile back like youâre daring him to do something about it right here, right now, in front of God himself and the entire Kansas field office.
He doesnât. Not yet.
He just keeps that muscle ticking in his jaw that clicks every time he's trying to keep himself professional and his voice clipped, low, and lethal. He knows what you're doing and is mentally tallying every single disobedient act you decide to display for later score.
Morgan keeps glancing between the two of you like heâs waiting for the detonation. Prentiss pretends to be fascinated by the geographic profile. And Reid, poor oblivious Reid, has (actually) backed all the way up against a filing cabinet, as if distance might save him from whateverâs coming when Hotch finally blows.
Rossi, of course, is enjoying the show.
Youâre leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.
âYou trying to get fired, kid?â he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.
You donât even look at him. âJust keeping him on his toes, David.â
He hums, unconvinced. âHeâs gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.â
You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. âWeâll see.â
Hotchâs voice cuts across the bullpen. âL/N. My six. Now.â
You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. âYes, sir.â
You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.
The rest of the room pretends theyâre suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.
âYouâre off the raid,â he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.
You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. âExcuse me?â
âYou heard me. Youâre staying here with the locals.â
You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. âNo, Iâm not.â
âThat wasnât a request.â His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.
âAnd this isnât a negotiation.â You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. âYou want me on a leash, Aaron, youâre gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.â You cross your arms over your chest.
His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, âFine! Youâre with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.â
You lick your bottom lip. âPromise?â
He turns on his heel before he does something he canât take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.
The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.
Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. Youâre already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.
âJesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?â He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.
You spin, grinning up at him. âOnly if youâre the one pulling the trigger.â
He looks like heâs two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.
Morganâs voice crackles over comms. âHotch, weâre set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?â
You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. âWeâre coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chiefâs just having a little performance anxiety.â You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.
Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.
You whistle, low and a little playful. âThatâs destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.â
He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until youâre nose to nose. There he is. âYou do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.â
You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.
He releases you like youâre radioactive.
The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.
He hisses your name, barely audible.
You ignore him.
You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. Heâs reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.
You raise your weapon before you step into the open.
Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but youâre already talking.
âFBI! Drop it!â
The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.
You donât flinch.
Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. âCome on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.â
The unsubâs finger tightens on the trigger.
Hotchâs arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.
You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.
Heâs shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â he snarls into your face.
You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. âYouâre welcome.â
Another shot pings off metal above your heads.
Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. âStay. Down.â
This time, you finally listen.
He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.
Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.
Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where youâre pushing to your feet.
You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.
The unsub is down.
The cuffs are clicking.
And Aaron Hotchner looks like heâs deciding exactly how long itâs going to take to make you cry tonight.
The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.
Everyoneâs exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.
Youâre leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, âTwo singles.â
You donât miss a beat. âSeparate rooms,â you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. âHow very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldnât want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.â
The night clerkâs eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.
Hotch doesnât flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.
âRoom 312,â he says, voice flat. âIâll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you wonât sit for a month.â
He walks away before you can answer.
You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.
He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator whoâs finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.
âStrip!â
You arch a brow at him. âPlease?â
Heâs on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.
âDonât push me any further tonight,â he warns. âYouâve used up every last ounce of patience I have.â
âGood.â You smile slowly up at him.
He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until youâre gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.
His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.
âYouâve been begging for this all day,â he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. âEvery smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like itâs a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.â
He drags your hips back until youâre bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.
You push back, greedy for him to enter you.
He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.
âStay still,â he growls. âYou move when I tell you to move.â He leans over you, mouth at your ear. âColor?â
âGreen,â you breathe, already trembling. âSo fucking green.â
He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.
He doesnât enter you. Not yet.
Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.
âBeg!â
âPlease, Sirââ
âLouder.â
âPlease fuck me, Sir, I needââ
He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.
Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.
He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.
âLook at you,â he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. âActing like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didnât notice? You think I didnât see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?â
âMaybe I wanted them to know,â you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. âMaybe Iâm tired of pretending I donât belong toââ
He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.
He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.
âSay it,â he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. âFinish that sentence.â
âI belong to you,â you sob, clenching around him. âOnly youâfuckâAaronââ
âThatâs right.â He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. âYouâre mine. And tomorrow, when you canât walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, youâll remember exactly who you answer to.â
He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where youâre swollen and aching for him. He doesnât move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.
You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.
âStay,â he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. âYou take what I give you.â
Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.
Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until youâre sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.
He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.
âCum,â he orders, voice cracking with restraint. âCum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.â
The command rips through you.
You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.
He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.
You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like heâs trying to fuse himself to your skin.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You canât help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.
A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.
Hotchâs chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you canât move an inch further than you've already wiggled.
âYou think weâre done?â he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. âOh, sweetheart. Youâve had your fun. Now itâs my time to play.â
He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, heâs already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.
In seconds, heâs gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.
He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.
Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.
âHands up,â he orders.
You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.
A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.
He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. Youâre so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.
âGood girl,â he praises, voice rough. âStay just like that.â
He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.
It doesnât take long before youâre writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.
âPlease! Sir, Iâm close,â you whimper.
He pulls out completely.
You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isnât there.
âShh.â He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. âCalm down a little. Weâre nowhere near done.â
He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.
He does it four times.
Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until youâre sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.
The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining âPlease, please, I canâtââ spilling out over and over.
Hotch clicks his tongue. âToo noisy, baby.â He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. âOpen.â
You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.
He arches a brow. âOpen that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.â
Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.
âThere we go,â he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. âMuch better.â
He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.
Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.
Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess heâs made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. Youâre a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.
Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.
He kisses you softly. âUp,â he murmurs.
Youâre boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.
He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.
When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.
But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.
âNo.â His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. âYou donât clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until weâre wheels-down at Quantico and youâre standing in my shower at home. Youâre going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. Youâll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?â
You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.
âYes, Sir.â
He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.
âSleep, trouble,â he whispers into your hair. âYouâre going to need it.
Youâre already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.
âNext time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I wonât wait until weâre in a hotel room.â
You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.
âNext time,â you mumble, âIâll be worse.â
He bites your shoulder in warning.
You wake up to the alarm on Hotchâs watch at 5:47 a.m. Heâs already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.
He glances back, eyes satisfied.
âUp,â he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. âWheels up in forty.â
You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.
He watches you struggle into yesterdayâs jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.
The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.
By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.
âDamn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?â
You flip him off with the hand that isnât clutching your go-bag strap for support.
Hotch doesnât say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.
On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesnât jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didnât wreck you so thoroughly that youâre still tasting him through your pussy.
He starts with the profile review. Youâre supposed to contribute. Instead, youâre hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.
Hotchâs eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what youâre feeling.
âAgent L/N,â he says smoothly, âcare to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?â
You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. âUh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted withinââ
Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.
Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotchâs gaze keeps drifting to your lap like heâs cataloging every squirm.
Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotchâs hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.
You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. Youâre praying no one notices the way youâre walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.
Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesnât even bother lowering his voice.
âAtta boy,â he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.
Hotch doesnât answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.
You flip Rossi off behind Hotchâs back.
Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, âFeel better, kid.â
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotchâs feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first.
content/tw: brace yourself, itâs a long one! established relationship, bethâs coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something!
word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible)
a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this oneđđȘœ
dividers by @uzmacchiato
masterlist
The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.Â
Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up âDidnât have time to make coffee.â he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.
âArenât you at least a little bit embarrassed?â you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it â following your suggestion â and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.
He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders âNot really, no.â you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.
Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadnât created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.
You were so focused on your task you didnât realize he was taking too long. It wasnât until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didnât come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.
Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriendâs brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip â something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper â you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.
Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face âHey, you chattyâ you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee âWho was it?â your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.
âBeth!â
Oh.
âOhâ
âYeah.â he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses âShe called me to say sheâs coming back. From Hong Kong.â
Oh (but harder).
âThatâs⊠good?â
âItâs great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.â he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.
âShe rocks.â you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.
âRight?â fortunately â or not, thatâs up to the eye of the beholder â he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. âJackâs going to lose it when he hears it.â he said, chuckling to himself.
You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.
âYâthink Jack remembers her?â you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope heâs not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.
âHe does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.â he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side âThatâs on me.â he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didnât feel the sound of your heart breaking.
They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?
Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldnât be so blunt about it. And heâs probably the most loyal person you know.
So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?
Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise youâd probably end up locked in a mental asylum.
.ă»ă.ă»ăâă».ă»â«ă»ăă»ă.
It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.
As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Bethâs arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely werenât now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.
When it wasnât the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.Â
And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.
You felt like an outsider.
The worst part was that it wasnât even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didnât feel like a knife in your gut.Â
When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.
Hotch insisted that youâd tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.
It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.
You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.Â
When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.
Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.
One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasnât. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.
Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasnât around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.
When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasnât her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.
You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.
You wanted her gone.
The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed â almost yours by now â and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didnât see it?
It was maddening. It had to stop.
It wasnât going to stop. You had to get out of this.
When the thought came, it stayed. You havenât thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still havenât had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70âs.
Truth to be told, you wouldnât even be with him if she hadnât moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.
You werenât dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldnât settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.
Besides being younger than Aaron â and Beth â you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldnât make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.
But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasnât doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her âif it meant not making you insecureâ, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didnât want it to end with a fight, and you didnât want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didnât deserve that, and neither did him.
So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaronâs life.
.ă»ă.ă»ăâă».ă»â«ă»ăă»ă.
You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.
It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroomâs cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.
You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.
âOh, I saw you ran out of them.â he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting âYou didnât restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.â he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didnât just shatter your whole world.
Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.
.ă»ă.ă»ăâă».ă»â«ă»ăă»ă.
After a while, youâd spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.
âHey, you scared me.â you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.
âI miss you.â he said, simply. He wasnât whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan â not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.
Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldnât comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.
âCan I take you out for dinner tonight?â he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug âItâs been a while since we left the house.â
You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering âIt has. But I have plans.â you grimaced âGirls night.â you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.
Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. âOh.â He wasnât the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea âI can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.â not seeing you immediately jump with joy â as you usually do when BLT is mentioned â he suggested âOr we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.âÂ
Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.
âOh that sounds lovely. But the bar weâre heading itâs the one across the street from my building. Weâre walking there.â you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasnât sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didnât sit right.
âText me when you get there. And when you get home.â he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.
âI promise!â and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.
Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, whoâs just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze â knowing youâd crumble at the first couple minutes â, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.
.ă»ă.ă»ăâă».ă»â«ă»ăă»ă.
After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words âDavid Rossiâ engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.
When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.
âYou wanted to see me?â it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasnât enough of a tell.
âYes. Come in.â he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware â or, most probably, choosing to ignore â your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.
Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.
âHow was girls night?â Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didnât even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.
Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along âIt was fun.â
He nodded âI see.â You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didnât work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.
âDave, whatâs going on? What is this?â
âYou know,â he started, completely ignoring your question âPeople may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That itâs about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.â
âAnd it isnât?â you blinked, drowned by his speech.
âOh, definitely. But itâs not just that. Itâs about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.â
And thatâs when it hit you: he knew.
âWe have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.â he began, turning his body to face you.
âSo why are you profiling me?â you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.
âYouâre breaking up with him.â Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. âI know what this is about. Who this is about.â your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.
âPlease, donât try to talk me out of it.â you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.
âI wonât.â he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly âIâm here to encourage you.â
You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together âWhat?â
âYes. You really should break up with him. You know, if youâre in such an unbearable relationship.â You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.
âStop.â
âNo, seriously. Do you think heâs what? Cheating on you with Beth?â
âWhat? Thatâs not what this is about. I know heâs not cheating.â you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.
âThen what is it?â
âIâm justâŠâ your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing âIâm not her.â
âYou sure? Under this specific light I couldâve sworeâŠâ
âDave!â you whine, and he chuckles.
âYes, youâre not Beth.â you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore âWhy are you saying this as a bad thing?â
âBecause it is. Sheâs back now andâŠâ you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate âShe just fits. She gets him.â
âAnd you donât?â
You sigh âYou must think I sound really stupid.â
âOh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.â you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, youâre laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way âLove does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us intoâŠâ he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but youâre not crying anymore âI have three divorces, so youâd think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isnât one of them.â
âYouâre just saying this because youâre his best friend.â
âIâm saying this because I love you.â he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. âAnd it'll kill me to see you do something I know youâll regret later.â he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy âHotch loves you, kid. Donât try to assume things. Let him know.â
âItâs hard.â
âI know it is. It has to be, donât you think?â he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject âOr else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but Iâm pretty sure youâre seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.â he nod his head in a knowing gesture âFrom what I see, youâre out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.â
You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.
âSorry.â you mumble, and he shakes his head.
âListen, if it doesnât work out, it doesnât. Itâll be fine too. Youâll be fine. But just donât let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.â
.ă»ă.ă»ăâă».ă»â«ă»ăă»ă.
It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your â Aaronâs â front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.
Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.
When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. âWe need to talkâ he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didnât actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you werenât being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you werenât, in fact, leaving.
Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch âYeah, we do.â
Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly â as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.
You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.
âBefore we start,â he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing âI already know. So thereâs no need to lie.â you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You werenât being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud âWhen exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?â
Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didnât matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.
âI donât know.â you answer weakly.
He blinks. And then chuckles.
When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft â looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? â thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.
âHotch,â you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.
âJesus! Stop calling me that.â he spat, frowning.
âYour name?â
âThatâs not my name. Not to you. Not in here.â he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.
You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him âDo you think this is easy for me?â
âIt must be!â he says, barely containing himself, âYouâre doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.â and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. Itâs a plain silky pajama shirt. Itâs the only piece of clothing because itâs matching short you â he â ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.
âI left you instructions.â you point to the paper in his other hand.
âI donât want to learn.â he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him âIâm not learning how to use it.â he emphasizes.
You try again âItâs not that hard.â
âI wonât.âÂ
That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject âListen, itâs nothing with you. Itâs me.â you snort at that, because itâs that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But itâs the truth. âIâm justâŠâ itâs all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.
His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. âI noticed that you werenât being yourself, but I figured youâd tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didnât think it was this. It was us.â his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing âArenât you happy anymore?âÂ
âI⊠thereâs a lot going on.â you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.
âTell me what I did.â his demeanor changes, and he doesnât look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together âTell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. Iâll do it right. Iâll do it better.â
Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you donât even try to wipe them away.
âYou did nothing wrong. Nothing. I donât want you to change. I justâŠâ a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. âI shouldnât feel this way in a relationship.â
He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. âSo thatâs it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.â and itâs not a question anymore.
âIâm doing this for you, I want nothing more than whatâs best for you.â
âBullshit.â he snapped, his words startling you âWhy are you doing this? Is it the job? You said itâs not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility ofâŠâ
âWhat? Of course not!â your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame âI love Jack. I love our⊠this life.âÂ
He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation â or lack thereof. âIs it someone else?â you stop, and blinks. This is it. You wonât lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesnât need another word from you to understand. âWho is him?â
âHim?â you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. âWhat do you mean?âÂ
âYou said there was someone else.â he squinted his eyes at you.
âI didnât, you did.âÂ
âYou didnât deny it. Who is he?â he insisted, his jaw tensed.
âWho do you think I am?â you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations âI would neverâŠâÂ
âWho is he?â he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.
âThere's no he. Itâs Beth.âÂ
Hotchâs jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. âWhat? You and⊠Beth?â
âHuh?â you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didnât feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him âNo. You and Beth.â
âWhat do I have to do with this?â he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again âYou donât like our friendship? Thatâs why you're breaking up with me?â
Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. âI realized you and her fit more together than me and you, andâŠâ your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression â...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. Youâre all happy that sheâs coming back. I just figuredâŠâ
âWhat?â he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy âThat iâd break up with you to be with her?â asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose âJesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?â he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.
âNo. Actually I don't know if youâd break up with me. Thatâs why I saved you the trouble.â you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.
âJesus fucking christ.â he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise âAre you even hearing yourself?â
âStop talking like I'm insane.â you snapped, losing your patience âYouâre the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.â
The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth⊠Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you couldâve talked to him sooner. But you shouldnât have felt like that. No one should.Â
When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasnât a fight. It wasnât sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didnât make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.
You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didnât see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldnât believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.
A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.Â
âIâm sorry,â he said, simply. âI shouldâve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. Iâm not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.â he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance âThe thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didnât even considered her a âthreatâ. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didnât see the situation as something that couldâve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.â
âShe knows you in a way that I canât.â
âYou know me in a way no one can.â he argued âYou were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now youâre my best friend and my family. Youâre the woman I love.â he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldnât hold back. âI donât want you going back to being less than that.â
Your posture didnât show any kind of surrender. But he didnât see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didnât keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.
âThereâs nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend Iâve had outside of the job for a long time, thatâs all. I donât know if it will help to hear this,â he tried, hesitantly â...but her leaving wasnât the only reason why we broke up.â seeing your questioning expression, he kept going âWe came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.â he shrugged.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument âYes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.â
Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.Â
How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasnât hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.
âHoney,â he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldnât wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. âI love you so much. I know this isnât ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, thenâŠâ he gulped â...Iâll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, donât go. Please, give me a chance to show you how youâre the only one I want.â
You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable âI feel really immature.â
He laughs, but it doesnât sound like heâs making fun of you. It sounds like heâs gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.
âNo.â he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second âNow that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I mightâve murdered your ex.â he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. âIâm really sorry, I shouldâve been more careful with the situation.â
âI shouldâve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.â you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you werenât already seated, you wouldâve fell.
âDid you change your mind?â you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you âTell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.â His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. âPlease, give me a chance to make things right.â
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again âI feel stupid.â you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.
âDonât say that ever again.â he leans in hesitantly, and when you donât flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly âYou were protecting yourself, as you shouldâve. Thank you.â
âWhat for?â you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.
âThank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.â
After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.
He didnât see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you werenât going anywhere.
Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, âDonât you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. Iâm so sorry, sweetheart.â and itâs the only moment his lips leave your skin âIâm sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I wonât, I want youâŠâ
âDonât say it.â you cut him off. He ignores, once again.
â...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.â
You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly âDude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.â he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.
âDude? Who do you think youâre talking to?â he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.
When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.
âPromise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.â
âI promise.â you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and itâs just then that he realizes heâd been crying all along âPromise me that if your feelings for me change, youâll communicate.â he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like theyâll hit the back of his head âPromise.â you insist.
âI promise.â he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. âMatter of fact, my feelings just changed.â you squint your eyes at his playful tone âA few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, Iâve decided youâll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.â he says, leaning â without moving you away from his lap â to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.
âI have to get at least underwear.â you argue.
âIf you behave, Iâll let you borrow a couple boxers.â
âJack will see it.â
âHeâs a kid. And theyâre the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt heâll notice the difference.â he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.
âThatâs rude. And humiliating.â
âThatâs what you get for stealing.â
Your mouth hangs open for a second âI didnât steal! I didnât take anything from your house but my clothes.â
âThis house is ours.â he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing âSo is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.â he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.
âIâm sorry for stealing.â he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily âCan we stay like this forever?â Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.
âIâll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.â he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt âGo change while I make us breakfast. Now that Iâve learnt how to use the coffee pot.â
You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. âYou can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.â
Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when youâre upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, youâll be okay.
taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna
hi! would you be able to write a hotchxreader smut with a mix of praise and degradation.. maybe even size kink? LOVE LOVE HOW U WRITE HIM thank u for ur service
love the way youâre screaming my name
pairing: aaron hotchner x reader
summary: you decide to send aaron a dirty picture while heâs at work, youâre counting on the fact that heâll come home to punish you
word count: 1.8k
content warnings: smut! dom!hotch x sub!reader, daddy kink, unprotected p in v (have safe sex!!), sexting mention, praise kink, degradation kink, size kink, hotch is kind of a mean dom but not really, humiliation kink, not proofread
authorâs note: hi angel!! thank you so much for requesting and for reading! iâm so glad you like my previous work, that means so much!! i hope you like this <3
Youâd known exactly what you were doing sending that picture to Hotch.
Clad only in his t-shirt with a pair of lacy pink panties that you knew heâd be dying to rip off.
It was a strategic decision, youâd been so bored at home without him.
Why not give him a little incentive to get home earlier? It was rare enough that youâd ever see Aaron home before 8.
You hear the door slam closed whilst youâre laid out on the bed, sprawled over the covers with your legs spread as you hear Hotch stomp up the stairs.
Pleasure curls in your gut as you feel yourself leak slick between your legs.
Hotchâs eyes are dark and predatory when he steps into the room, dragging his gaze down your body to commit the sight of you to memory.
He never has been a very patient man.
âFuck,â He curses, jaw clenching as he watches you spread your legs invitingly for him.
âMissed you,â you pout, smirking at your act as you watch Aaronâs nostrils flare as he stalks towards you on the bed.
He wrangles his tie off his neck before shrugging off his suit jacket.
His slacks look unbearably tight over his cock and you refrain yourself from leaning forward to mouth at it over the material.
âYouâre such a fucking tease,â He grunts, undoing his belt before unzipping his pants just enough to release some of the pressure.
âI was in the middle of a meeting, hard in my pants because you just couldnât fuckin wait until I got home huh?â Aaron laughs without humour.
His face is hard with tension and you canât help but whimper, canting your hips upwards and displaying the dampness of your panties to Aaron.
âNeeded you,â you whine, peering up at Aaron imploringly as if youâre pleading your case.
Aaron tsks, âOh I know sweetheart, you just needed Daddy to fill up your greedy little cunt didnât you baby?â He croons condescendingly.
You pout, frowning up at him in displeasure.
While yes, that had been why youâd pulled that stunt, it didnât make you feel any better to be mocked about it.
You huff, âI was gonna do it by myself!â You insist with a whine.
âJust didnât feel as nice,â you mumble.
Aaron softens, âThatâs because your fingers arenât big enough baby, you need Daddy to stretch you out nice and good dontchaâ bunny?â
You nod hastily, pleading with Aaron to just give you what you want.
âNeed it,â you agree. âNeed you to fuck me, please Daddy, want your cum.â
Aaron groans guturally, squeezing his cock harshly before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss.
You squeal into the kiss, feeling as Aaronâs cock grinds against your covered cunt.
Your hips jerk upwards and you both groan into each otherâs mouths at the feeling of your lower halves meeting.
âFuck me,â you demand, tugging at your own panties to pull them down your legs to throw them off.
Aaron growls when he catches sight of your wet pussy, glistening from your slick and you feel your clit throb from raw hunger.
You lunge, tugging at Aaronâs dress shirt until his buttons snap off as you pull him down into a heated kiss.
âNaughty girl, just couldnât wait could you?â Aaron murmurs, shrugging himself out of his shirt and leaving him clad in his pants and boxers.
Your hands run themselves over the expanse of Aaronâs biceps and upper back as he licks into your mouth, groaning and growling as you grind against one another.
You bite down harshly on his bottom lip when you feel his cock grind against your clit.
âDaddyâs gonna take such good care of you,â he promises, his voice husky as he dips his neck to press wet kisses against your neck and collarbone.
You pant as you stretch your hand to push half heartedly against Hotchâs pants, indicating him to take them off.
He detaches from you to do just that and you take your own chance to slip out of his old Harvard t-shirt, leaving you bare against the sheets.
Hotchâs cock is red and bobbing against his abdomen when he drops his pants.
He grits his teeth, snarling as he runs his hand up and down the veiny members, his tip glistening from the steady leak of precum that dots his boxers.
You lick you lips, your gaze never straying from his erection.
âYou wanna give it a kiss honey?â Aaron coos, a devilish smirk on his face as he stalks towards you on the bed.
You nod dumbly, sitting up as Aaron walks towards you.
His cock aligns perfectly with your mouth as you sit on the bed.
You lean forward to kitten lick his tip which leaves him hissing in sensitivity.
You hum from the taste of his skin, something to purely Hotch.
You drive yourself forward to suck softly at his tip, dragging your tongue over the underside to softly stroke the nerve that you know drives him insane.
Aaron chokes on a growl, âFuck, yeah keep doing that angel. Câmon baby I know you can take it deeper.â
You moan around his cock, letting it sink deeper into your throat with little warning to Aaron until you feel the wiry hair of his pubes brushing against your nose.
Aaron moans, loud and guttural as he humps your face, âShit! Shitshitshit, oh thatâs good baby, yeah thatâs so fuckinâ good.â He groans.
You swallow around him, your throat constricting as you fight back the urge to gag.
You lift your hand to softly roll his balls in your hand, adding to the stimulation as forcing Aaron to pull you off his cock.
âShit,â he gasps with a wince, lurching forward to grab the base of his cock in a tight grip.
He laughs shakily, âAlmost came down your throat with that move, fuckkkâgotta give me a warning next time sweetheart.â
You smirk softly, âJust wanted to make you feel good.â You shrug.
Aaron rolls his eyes fondly, âlie on the bed, letâs see how much of a smartass you can be with my dick in you.â
You hide your smile as you crawl back onto the bed, lying on your back and spreading your legs for Aaron to crawl inbetween them.
âOh honey,â Aaron murmurs as he crawls over to you from the end of the bed.
âYour little cuntâs practically drooling for me angel, youâre making a mess all over the sheets.â He tsks.
âWhatâre we gonna do about that?â He frowns contemplatively.
You huff a small laugh, âGonna fuck me sâwhat.â You affirm.
Aaron smirks down at you, âSuch a dirty mouth.â He reprimands, his hand coming up to drag a thumb over your bottom lip thatâs still glistening from your own spit.
âIs that why you suck cock so good baby? Cause you got a dirty little mouth?â Aaron asks.
You peer up at him and blink owlishly as you nod, nipping at Hotchâs thumb with a smile.
âShouldâve known,â he murmurs, leaning down to kiss softly at your neck, bracing one hand against the pillow at your head as his other lines up his cock with your cunt.
âYou want Daddy to stretch you out first baby? Or you want it straight?â Aaron whispers, gazing into your eyes with full transparency.
Youâre too riled up to wait for Aaron to stretch you out, youâve spent so long toying with yourself before he came home that youâre basically a puddle of slick and loose enough that it will barely even hurt.
âNuh uh,â you disagree. âI can take it.â
Aaronâs smile is fond if not a little exasperated, âMy brave girl,â he concedes.
His cock slips through your labia, basically gliding through your own fluids as you and Aaron both moan and jerk when his tip kisses your clit in perfect precision.
Aaron huffs, his eyes dilating when the spongy head of his cock catche at your hole, thrusting in softly that it just pops right in.
You feel your own cunt clench down on the intrusion harshly as your breath feels like itâs stolen right from out of your lungs.
âDaddy,â you whine, shaking against the pillows.
You want to be filled, you need to be filled. Hotch promised.
âI know, I know,â he consoles you quickly, pressing a quick kiss to your parted lips as he lets himself sink further into the tight, wet heat of your cunt.
âOh fuck baby,â He chokes out. âYour cuntsâ strangling me baby, Daddyâs not gonna last.â
You squirm, your breath hitching from how stretched Aaronâs cock makes you feel.
You feel like heâs in the back of your throat.
âHaahââ you whine out breathily.
Aaron smiles, ââS my cock too big for you sweetheart? Is it making your cunt all achy baby?â
You shake your head fruitlessly, lifting your legs to wrap them around Hotchâs waist to pull him further into you.
âOh?â Hotch sounds amused, one hand coming up off the bed to cup at your waist to settle you.
âYou want me to move? That it?â
You nod, mouth still open in pleasure as you feel Aaron thrust out and into your cunt.
âFuck,â you curse when you feel him hit that spot inside of you that brings stars to your vision.
Aaron is dedicated, youâll give him that.
Youâre well aware heâs more than compensating as he switches between tweaking your nipples and clit to bring you closer to an orgasm due to the fact that he knows heâs seconds away from filling you.
He will make you cum first though, thatâs one thing heâll never compromise on.
âYeah babyâkeepâkeep fuckinâ clenchin on me like that. Good girl, fuckinâ tightest little cunt Iâve ever had.â Hotch groans, eyes closed in pleasure as he fucks into you without thought.
The veins of Hotchâs cock drags against your inner walls, further stimulating the feeling of your cunt being stretched.
âSo big,â you warble as you attempt to grasp at any piece of Hotch that you can hold on to.
âI know angel, I know itâs big,â Hotch soothes, âbut you can take it canât you baby? Youâre taking it so good for me.â
Hotch releases a sound low in his throat, ââS like youâre fuckinâ milking my cock baby.â He groans.
You whimper, feeling your orgasm fast approaching as you hump upwards into Aaronâs cock.
His jaw clenches tightly as he feels himself nearing his own orgasm, he leans down to pinch and rub at your clit as he feels you clench rhythmically down onto him.
âIâm gonnaââ you babble, your eyes dilated and unfocused as Aaron fucks into you like a feral beast.
âCum,â Hotch orders, âmake a mess on my cock baby, sâgonna feel so good.â He promises.
Your breath hitches as you let out a high pitched whine, orgasming sporadically on Hotchâs cock.
You feel your wetness soaking Aaronâs thighs and your own as Hotch continues to thrust into you wildly.
You hear him curse from above, roaring out as he cums and you feel the hot spurts of his seed fill your womb.
âUhnmfâthank you, thank youââ!you babble deliriously from the feeling of Hotchâs cum filling your hole.
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