Summary: Professor Hotchner's criminal law class has a reputation. Professor Hotchner has a reputation. On your first day, you manage to draw his anger. He seems to hate you. What happens behind closed doors... that's a different story.
A/N: I have a lot to say for myself. Don't have much of an explanation. That'll be at the end. This and chapter 19 were originally one chapter but it was getting to be somewhere upwards of 15,000 words so I split them up. That one is hopefully coming soon. (and by coming soon I mean I'm going to finish it tonight if it's the last thing I do)
Song: "As the World Caves In" by Sarah Cothran, "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars, "Missing Piece" by Vance Joy, "Cosmic Love" by Florence + The Machine
"Hundreds of buildings across the city are out of power as yet another explosion rocks the city. The bomb was reported to have gone off just over an hour ago." The television set rambles on in the background of the crowded police station.
The team bustles around one another, trying to coordinate with the frantic police officers. "Do we have any more information about the location of the bomb?" JJ walks over to stand with Hotch, staring up at the television set.
"It's close. Midtown. That's all we know." Hotch's responses are short, clipped. His mind has already traveled to the worst possible case. He's just waiting for his team to catch up with his thinking. The FBI has made their presence abundantly clear in the city. There's no way that the unsub wouldn't know about the team. They gave a press conference just the other day. Correction. You gave the press conference with him. Your face on that TV. How could he not have thought about this? The press conference clearly made you a target.
"Injuries?" Prentiss looks around at the team, finally taking note of the one missing member. Hotch watches as each member of the team starts to note your profound absence.
"Reports of a car explosion near midtown, right outside the Hotel Pennsylvania. Currently, police have evacuated the area and are looking for the cause of the explosion and any possible victims." The television volume is as loud as it goes but the bustling police station drowns it out.
"Wait, wait. Did they just say right outside the Hotel Pennsylvania?" Rossi speaks loudly, trying to get everyone's attention. The team inches closer to the TV. The precinct is still too loud.
"Hotch..." Morgan trails, glancing over at Hotch. Hotch's eyes are glued to the television. The muscles in his jaw tense and shift under the skin. He told you to stay at the hotel. He wouldn't let you leave. He thought it was safer there. Why would he think that you'd be safe anywhere but by his side? "Please tell me that she's not still at the hotel." Morgan's voice drops low as if speaking too loudly will make it any less true.
"Everyone quiet." Hotch's commanding voice bellows through the station. He ignores Morgan's question. The commotion mellows down to a low-level buzz of walkie-talkies and muttered directives.
Hotch takes a step closer, trying to hear exactly what the reporters are saying. "Firefighters and ambulances have been dispatched to the hotel. The entirety of the block has been shut down so plan on alternate routes. Traffic will be heavy in the area. Officials have relayed that there is no immediate danger, no need to flee the city in a panic. This is an isolated event. Possibly just a faulty gas leak in a car."
"Come on, come on," Hotch mutters under his breath.
"They're not saying anything about injuries," Prentiss says, almost reading Hotch's mind.
"As of right now, there are no reported injuries. The car seems to have exploded at the perfect moment when no pedestrians were close by. We will continue to keep you updated as we hear more from the authorities," The newscaster signs off and the feed cuts to a commercial break. Hotch wastes no time.
He reaches for his phone, dialing your number, pressing it to his ear. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. "Hi! You've reached—" Hotch hangs up. He rings you again. He waits, holding his breath, waiting for the sound of your sleep-ridden voice. He's hoping you went back to sleep, sleeping off the events of the night. He's waiting for you to pick up the phone and groan into it, the way he knows you do when someone wakes you from a nap on the jet. The way you groan and swat their hands away always has him suppressing a small laugh.
He can practically picture it. Even after all these years he still remembers what it was like to wake up next to you, though it wasn't often. You hardly stayed the night with him way back when, but he remembers the way you'd squeeze your eyes shut in response to any light. You'd stretch and moan in that delicious way that had him aching to push into you before you could even mutter a good morning. He wants that with you. He's realizing more and more with each passing day. He wants to wake up next to you. He wants to hold you again. He wants to claim your body, own every moan, and make you come so hard you see stars. He wants to comfort you, wipe your tears, be there every time the world feels like it's collapsing in on itself.
He would dedicate his life to being the one who makes sure your world keeps spinning. You can't be hurt. You have to be okay. He needs to get his second chance with you.
"Nothing?" Reid accepts Hotch's stern, pale visage as a sign of bad news.
"Hi! You've—" Hotch hangs up again, "Fuck," he mutters under his breath. Reid's eyes widen at the curse. Hotch doesn't have a foul mouth and he never, ever curses on the job. "Reid, JJ, Rossi, I want you to stay here running point on the crisis response. Send out every available team. We are catching this son of a bitch, and we are catching him tonight. No one sleeps, no one stops, no one rests until we find him."
No one on the team questions that. He doesn't need to give that order when it's one of you in the crosshairs. There's no letting up, no sleeping, no stopping until there's justice.
He grabs the keys to the SUV and nods to Morgan and Prentiss to follow him. "Hotch, we don't know if we're going to be able to get close to the explosion, or even the hotel. The first responders are going to want to clear the area before we go—"
Hotch doesn't let him finish that sentence, "I don't care about protocol. That is one of us. That is a member of my team in danger or stuck in that hotel."
"We don't know that she's in danger—" Prentiss steps between the two men, feeling the tensions rising rapidly.
Hotch turns his piercing gaze onto Prentiss, "So your expert opinion is that the bomber that we've been trying to catch has just conveniently managed to bomb a car right outside the hotel that we are staying in when one of our team members is there alone and vulnerable? Just a coincidence?"
Hotch's tone is sharper than he's ever taken with the team. He never loses his calm composure. But he needs you to be okay. Diplomacy be damned. The world, him included, has thrown challenge after challenge into your path. You've suffered more than anyone ever should.
"Let's just..." Morgan reaches for Prentiss' arm pulling her back a little. Neither Morgan nor Prentiss have been known to be capable of holding their tongues around Hotch. They don't let him boss them around beyond the scope of reason. "Let's just see how close we can get. I'll keep trying her phone."
Hotch knows he's out of line. He's cracking down on his team out of fear. It's unnecessary. Except that it's entirely necessary. He would burn down the world if it meant keeping you safe.
Hotch holds no punches. He drives as fast as possible, white-knuckled and blasting the sirens. He weaves in and out of traffic, catching sight of the way that even Morgan grips the seat tightly. You have to be okay. If you're not okay and he let you stay at the hotel... He shakes his head hoping to rattle away the thousands of hypothetical negative outcomes. It doesn't work. They persist.
————
You groan and open your eyes, your vision blurry. Someone stands in front of you. There are two people, actually. Wait... maybe just one? You can't seem to decipher what is double vision and what is reality. You go to sit up but the hand of the people—person pushes you back a little. The first thing you notice is your headache.
Your head is splintering down the middle, searing with pain when you try to look around and note your surroundings. You're in an alleyway across the street from the hotel. The charred remains of the SUV you were supposed to get into are being doused with water from a firetruck.
Then you feel your lungs on fire. You can't get a thorough good breath in. You begin to assess the damage. Clear concussion from the way your head is pounding. Smoke inhalation. You look at the fiery skeleton of an SUV. Explosion. Did you explode? You shake your head from side to side hoping it'll jog your memory. Your neck is sore. You go to reach your left hand up to touch your neck. Pain shoots up and down your arm. You turn your head. Four—no, two hands are pressing something red against your shoulder. No. Your shoulder is causing the red. You were shot.
"Ma'am please don't try to move." The voice of the double person speaks to you. You try to focus on them but it seems like your body is finally waking up. This means the adrenaline is fading and your arm is searing with pain.
"I need..." You try to speak. Your voice cracks violently and another paramedic with a stretcher comes into view, "Aaron," You stutter out and hiss as they try to get you onto the stretcher.
"This is going to hurt, a lot, but I need to keep pressure on that wound," The female paramedic says softly. "Can you tell me your name? Keep talking to me." She speaks slowly as they lift you onto a gurney and wheel you towards the ambulance.
"You're very cute," You note as the double vision clears a little. The woman smiles and shakes her head.
"The wound looks like it's through and through," She nods before grabbing some gauze in the back of the ambulance and placing the entirety of her body weight onto your shoulder wound.
You let out a blood-curdling shriek of pain as every single nerve in your body lights on fire. Your head goes heavy and your vision spins. You worry you might pass out. Or throw up. Or both.
"Try and breathe through it. I'm sorry," The woman says softly and keeps holding pressure, "My name is May, can you tell me yours?"
"May, you are by far the prettiest paramedic I have ever met," You grit your teeth, hoping to flirt your way through the pain. You give her your name, "I need my credentials, I'm FBI." You look around for your bag. "My bag. My phone." You glance at her and try to sit up, but you're weak, and her weight on your arm keeps you from moving at all.
You get dizzy again and lay back down, your head just barely slamming on the cushioned gurney, but the contact seems to rattle your brain around like a pinball. "You're in the ambulance. We didn't retrieve any belongings at the scene."
That immediately draws your attention, "Son of a bitch," You curse. May's eyes snap to you, looking over your body, thinking the curses flow out as an admission of pain, "He has everything. My files, my FBI badge, my credentials," You fumble at your side, "He has my fucking gun!" You start to sit up again and gather a bit of strength to shift May off of you. It doesn't last long, however, because you screech out in pain as she attempts to push you down.
"I'm sure that your team will track down whoever it was. Aaron? Is that who did this?" May's face is full of concern. She calls out something to the other paramedic as they hop into the front of the ambulance and start driving.
"No," You correct through gritted teeth. You slam your eyes closed as nausea rolls through the pit of your stomach at the pain, "He needs to know I'm okay." You pause and correct the line of thought, "My team needs to know I'm okay. Please radio the police, anyone you can get in contact with. I'm an eyewitness and I need to help the team."
A small laugh erupts out of the tiny paramedic whose strength is insane for the way she presses on your shoulder, "You are one stubborn woman." She shakes her head, "What needs to happen is that you let us take care of you. You're losing a lot of blood and if you keep trying to move you might permanently damage that arm. I don't think you want that, do you?"
"No ma'am," You grumble, eliciting another small laugh from her.
"Good, now the authorities worry about catching the person who did this and you let us worry about fixing you up. Put all your mental energy into staying with me. Can you do that?" She removes one hand from your shoulder to gather up a few more gauze pads and press them into the wound. Every rock and bump of the ambulance sends waves of splintering pain from your head down into your neck and your shoulder down your entire arm. You close your eyes, the lights inside the ambulance aggravating the pounding in your head.
You rack your brain for the memories of what happened after you left the hotel. It was raining. You remember sticking your palm out to feel the rain. You were happy. You love the rain. Hotch was... Where's Hotch? Oh god is he hurt too? Your eyes shoot open and you go to sit up but the paramedic's weight keeps you pressed firmly down. You don't have enough strength to get up anyway. Your memory is terrible.
Start over. Go back. You let your eyes flutter closed again.
The nightmare. Hotch had a nightmare. You comforted him. You told him about your past. And then... Then Hotch seemed to want to admit something to you. He was going to tell you that... What was he going to tell you? And then he left. Why did he leave?
Deep breath. Reset.
He left because of the case. New information in the case. Why didn't you go with him? Your neck. Your neck was sore. He choked you. By accident. You stepped out of the hotel into the rain. You love the rain. You were happy. It's raining. Hotch was safe with the team following a lead. You remember the heat on your face. That must of been the explosion. Then why does only your shoulder feel like it's in searing pain?
A gun. You stumbled. The ground shook. The explosion blew you back into the building. You hit your head on the brick. You were slumped on the ground when he approached. Someone in a hood... who? He raised his gun. You didn't have time to think. He shot you. But that was in front of the hotel... right?
The details get fuzzy. You start over. Walk through every step over and over again.
He shot you. He bent down in front of you. His breath was hot on your face. You remember that clearly. He said something... something about breaking rules? The gun at your face again. He hit you with it. Your good hand instinctively goes up to your temple. You wince feeling a large bump forming on the side you remember he hit.
The details get blurry again but you try to implement your own team's tactics. Focusing on the other qualities of the moment. What did it smell like? Smoke. Smoke and blood. What did you hear? Distant sirens. The crackle of the fire consuming the SUV. And his voice. You knew his voice. You weren't scared, you were angry. But you couldn't move. Everything was in slow motion. Sluggish. Two hits to the head inhibited you, slowed you down.
You got up and collapsed in the alleyway... no, that's not right. You were dragged. Your legs. That's the itch and ache in them. They must be scratched and scraped from being dragged. He grabbed you by your collar and dragged you along. He said one last thing before dropping you to the ground. It was weird... poetic maybe? It sounded like a riddle. Or maybe it just sounded like nonsense to your clearly concussed brain.
You repeat the details over and over to yourself. You can't forget them. You won't. Your team is relying on this information. This is to catch your unsub. Even after the ambulance comes to a stop. Even while the doctors poke and prod you. Even after they cut your clothes from your body.
You hardly listen to the doctors treating you. Running over the memories from the scene. Memory of an event degrades as the retention interval increases. You need to continue to recall the memories as much as possible without changing the details.
For every minute you sit in the hospital, the adrenaline rush has worn off. You've been given something for the pain but your brain still feels like it's been dropped into a blender and then poured back into your skull. It's hard to maintain a coherent line of thought.
A small knocking on the frame of your bed pulls you from your retrieval of the memories. The paramedic from earlier gives you a warm smile. "Hi," She nods at you, taking a step closer surveying your injuries. The bleeding from your shoulder has slowed but the doctors are still discussing whether or not it necessitates surgery. "May, remember?" She points at herself, "I was the one sitting on top of you inflicting maximum pain to keep you awake and alive." Her tone is light and teasing.
Your lips are cracked and your mouth feels dry as you open it to speak, "I remember. Thank you."
"I'm off shift for the night but I just wanted to check on you." She takes a small step closer, treating you as if you're a cornered animal ready to bolt at any quick movements. She thinks you're scared. She thinks you're traumatized. She thinks this is the worst thing to ever have happened to you. "I also hear you haven't been speaking or cooperating with the doctors much. Well, when I heard that I thought it had to be a lie since you were so friendly and cordial as I was smothering your body into the gurney."
Your lips twitch in a small polite grin that disappears just as quickly as it's formed, "I need a pen and paper."
"I'm pretty sure that's not great for your burgeoning concussion," She clucks her tongue at you in disapproval, leaning her hands on the railing on the side of your bed.
"Please, May," You croak, "I need to remember everything."
She removes her hands and leans into her hip a little, crossing her arms over her chest. "If I get you a pen and paper, will you at least give the hospital someone to contact for you?"
You nod in agreement. May steps out of the room and returns with a few blank sheets of printer paper and a hospital-branded pen. You look at the name: Mount Sinai Hospital. You lapse into silence, frantically writing down the entire account, exactly as you remember it. There are few blank moments. You can't really describe your attacker's face. You vaguely remember his voice. You can't remember what he said to you.
Realization dawns on you as you continue writing. It was him. He muttered something about rules, about breaking rules. You think back to your conversation with Hotch in the hotel room. You told him how close you were with Ace. You told him about the explosion.
You go back to the statement, crossing out any identifying information about Ace. You can't tell your team about him. It's clear from your hospitalization status that he won't hesitate to retaliate. He makes good on his threats.
As you write your statement, you see the doctor and a few others step into the curtained-off area you are temporarily calling a room. They start to say a few things about prepping you for surgery. It's minimally invasive. The surgeon says the word arthroscopy and you almost write that down on the paper instead of your memories. You fold up the paper and hold it out to May so that the nurses can start prepping you for the surgery.
She glances down at the paper, confusion evident on her dark features, "I'm going to need you to write down that emergency contact."
"I told you who to contact." You wince as the nurses remove the small bandage from your shoulder, getting ready to shave a small area for the surgery.
"Was I supposed to call every police station hoping to get in contact with the FBI?" She teases, "Plus you weren't very coherent."
"I wasn't?" You could've sworn you were speaking clearly to her in the ambulance.
"No," She says sadly, "Who can we call for you?"
You open your mouth but pause, "The 14th precinct. Tell them to send over an officer to pick up that written statement. Assure them that I'm fine and that the team needs to stay on the case. Tell them I don't need anyone to come here."
May raises an eyebrow and you let out an exasperated sigh, reaching forward for the papers. You scribble down a note on the front of them.
Stay on the case. I'm okay. Promise. Just some scrapes and bruises. Catch this motherfucker.
You hand the papers back, "14th precinct. Tell them to send an officer. Not anyone on my team."
May nods and takes a few steps back, letting the nurse flit around you, checking the machines, unplugging you from them, and setting up the bed to be transported. "Stay safe, firecracker," She teases playfully and pulls the curtain aside to leave.
You lay your head back against the pillows just as the nurses start to move the gurney. More faces surround your bed. You keep your eyes up at the ceiling. Through the doors. Into the operating room. The last thing you see is the gas mask being placed over your face. You don't bother counting backward from ten as they instruct. There's no shot you'd get to one anyway.
———————
"...tell Morgan I'm giving him authority...the investigation..."
You want to open your eyes but they feel crusted shut. You're just on the edge of consciousness. That in-between feeling where everything feels like you're dreaming. You try to track all the sounds in the room. There's a mechanical whirring noise coming from somewhere outside the room. The machine to your right beeps in time with what you think is your heartbeat.
"...shouldn't be alone right now..."
You keep your eyes shut, giving your brain a chance to catch up with the current situation before introducing the possibility of overwhelming visual stimuli. You start to catch more than bits and pieces of the conversation next to you. Hotch is pacing back and forth in a small section of the room. The sound of his suit shuffling as he moves his arms. His shoes click against the tile for a few seconds before stopping. A pause. Click click click. In the other direction. A pause. Click click click. Back the way he came.
The door opens. Someone steps in. "I need to check the wound dressings and her vitals."
"Of course. Thank you," You assume he nods in response. "Dave," Hotch lowers his voice as he speaks to Rossi, "I can't..." He lets out a breath, clearly searching for the words, "I don't want to leave her here to wake up alone. You and I both know the team can do this without me. You guys have done it before."
You can just faintly hear Rossi on the other end. "Without you? Sure. Without both of you? That's more challenging. Low morale here, Aaron. We're down two team members."
"I'm not going anywhere," Hotch's tone communicates finality. There's nothing up for discussion. "She's... She's going to be okay."
"You know as soon as she wakes she's going to kick you out. Tell you to get back to the job. Tell you to go catch this son of a bitch with us. She told you not to come."
A scoff from a bit closer to your bed. Hotch's foot pattern has changed. He's changed location in the room, "Yeah and the whole team was going to fight over who was going to come and stay with her."
"Riiiight. What was it you said? I think it was something like 'You all stay on the case. I'm going to her. That's an order.' Explain that to me, Aaron." You can hear the smile in Rossi's tone.
A sound to your left. You feel the nurse gently touching the tube that comes out of your arm, and adjusting the pulse monitor on your finger.
You start to open your eyes. The room would be entirely dark, except the bright lights of the city come through the open blinds, bathing the whole room in blue and yellow hues. Just that small amount of light is too much. Splitting pain behind your eyes. A strong throbbing sensation starts in your temple and grows with each second your eyes stay open. You let out a completely inhuman groan/whine of pain, squeezing your eyes shut again.
"The team can handle this." Hotch moves away from your bed. From the glimpse you catch, he has his back to you, looking out into the hallway through the doorway on your right. "She needs someone right now, Dave."
"She doesn't need someone, Aaron. She needs you."
You start to open your eyes again. Slower. Letting the light in a little bit at a time. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I need her mor—"
"Well look who's awake." The nurse coos softly and moves further into your line of vision. She adjusts your left arm so that it lies more solidly across your abdomen.
"Ow." You attempt to speak but it comes out as a squeak.
"I have to go. She's awake," Hotch murmurs into the phone. You want to turn your head to look at him but your neck feels like it's wooden. He tucks his phone inside his jacket. He steps into your line of vision. He has that deep crease in his brows and the top button of his shirt is undone. The tie is loosened and his hair looks like he's run his hands through it just about two dozen times.
You open your mouth to speak again but you can hardly manage a croak. Hotch reaches for the small pink plastic cup and pitcher by the bedside, pouring you a glass. He holds the straw up to your mouth. You can barely lean your head forward to sip from it. You lay your head all the way back on the pillows so he can set the cup aside.
There's a long pause as he looks at you expectantly, clearly waiting for you to say something, "Well you look like shit." You can finally communicate something other than strangled groans of pain. You grin at him, as much as you can manage with the ongoing pain, and you swear you see just the corner of his mouth turn up a tiny bit.
"Yeah, you've looked better too," He teases you right back. Just as quickly as that smile appeared on his lips, it disappears. He mutters your name, almost reverently, and you see something like guilt flit across his features, "I'm sor—"
"I swear to God if you apologize right now," You cut him off before he can even finish the sentence. The nurse who has been tending to you stifles a small laugh and glances between the two of you with a knowing smirk. Knowing in the sense that there's so much more that lies beneath the surface of an employee/boss relationship.
Hotch mutters your name under his breath again, yet this time it comes out more like a warning than a whisper, "You're a member of my team. I gave the order for you to stay at the hotel. This wouldn't have happened if—"
"Aaron." It's your turn to carry an air of finality. You're making it clear to him that this is not a point you will debate. It's not his fault. If anything, your injuries are your own fault. You shouldn't have spoken to him about Ace. You shouldn't have broken the rules. Who knows who could be next? Garcia? She's all alone in Quantico right now. Anyone could attack her.
You don't realize how panicked you are until you notice the frantic beeping of the monitor next to you. Hotch's eyes flit from you to the monitor. He takes a step towards your bed and raises a hand to your cheek but stops himself before his hand makes contact. He puts the hand back to his side. He says your name softly, "Look at me. You're okay." His voice is low and steady but there's a low level of panic and concern in his eyes.
"I'm okay," You affirm, "I'm okay." You repeat it again but he seems unconvinced.
Something unspoken passes across his features and just as you think he's about to vocalize whatever thought is bouncing around in his head the doctor steps into your room. "Glad to see you're awake." She gives you a warm smile, two residents trailing in behind her. "I just need to take a look at your surgical wounds."
Her gaze darts to Hotch and back to you, looking for approval, "He can stay." You nod before looking over at him, a slight hesitation in your tone, "You'll stay... right?" Your right hand fumbles to reach for his.
Hotch steps as close to the bed as possible, taking your hand in his. He intertwines his fingers tightly with your own and gives a gentle squeeze. It's a small show that he won't leave you.
The doctor steps around the other side of the bed. She looks over the small insertion wounds from the surgery and the sutures along the gunshot wound itself. You wince a little and look away. Hotch squeezes your hand again, silently encouraging you to look at him instead.
You look over, expecting him to be focusing in on your wounds as well but your eyes solidly meet his. You don't expect a smile or reassuring words, but his subtle nod is enough. One of the doctors replaces the bandaging over your shoulder, telling you to take it easy for the next few weeks. The surgeon reaches for your chin, gently tipping it back to assess the bruising on your neck.
"This bruising is a bit more advanced," The doctor notes, prodding gently.
You see hurt flash over Hotch's features and now it's his turn to flinch, however, unlike you, he doesn't look away. You know why. He's punishing himself. Forcing himself to look over what he's done to you. He does so the entire time the doctor examines you.
No intense physical activity. You'll need a sling for a week or so. You can resume desk job activities but no going out into the field for strenuous activities for at least a month. They want you to remain for another 24-48 hours to monitor your concussion. The doctor places a small pamphlet on your bedside table, something with some guidelines and rules for recovery. You thank her in a soft tone and Hotch does the same.
"I have some more questions for your surgeon," Hotch moves to follow the doctor out but you keep your hand firmly in his, keeping him locked in place. "I have to know how to keep you safe, get you better, how to help you."
"You can help me by staying," Your voice sounds uncharacteristically weak.
Hotch hesitates, turning to the door and then back to you. He nods and tries to pull away again. You squeeze his hand tight in yours. A low chuckle erupts from his throat, "I'm just getting the chair." He lifts your knuckles to his lips, "I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."
He pulls the chair to the edge of the bed. Silence overtakes the both of you. Hotch clears his throat in a way that has you knowing that there's no stopping what will come out of his mouth next. "I am... truly sorry. I should've been there to protect you." His voice has a rough edge to it. It crackles a little as he starts the next sentence, "I know that we have a tumultuous history, but please, believe me when I say this. I care for you, more than you know. Seeing you hurt... I've already hurt you so much. I can't bear it." He opens his mouth to speak again and you gently place your fingertips over his lips.
He tries to speak around them but you cut him off. "As much as I appreciate what you're saying, I can't focus on a goddamn word out of your mouth with this much light in the room." You shut your eyes unable to even find the energy to laugh softly.
Hotch's hand slips away as you keep your eyes closed. You hear him stride towards the window, pulling the blinds before crossing the room and shutting the door to the hallway. He takes his position in the chair next to you and takes your hand in his again, "It's as dark as I can get it in here."
You open your eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the low light so you can make out Hotch's features again. "It's not your fault this happened to me, Hotch. It's part of the risk of our job. We put our faces out there during that press conference. We knew that we were making ourselves targets."
"I know that," He agrees with you but shakes his head as he does it. "I don't have to like it, though. I keep hurting you and I want to stop." His eyes track over your whole body, taking in the extent of your injuries before looking at the purple and yellow bruising on your neck. He winces. But again, never tears his eyes away. "I don't know what... what's going on here. Between us. All I know is I have you here, in front of me again, and I know I don't want to let you go again."
The admission rattles you. Your mind fractures into a million separate lines of thought. You can't tell if that's just Hotch's effect on you or a result of the concussion.
"God I thought—" Hotch sucks in a shaky breath, "I thought I was going to get to the hotel and find your lifeless body on that sidewalk. I thought I was too late. I thought I was going to see them zipping you up in a body bag."
You don't know what to say. The two of you have been dancing this fine line. Just edging over the line into dangerous territory. Both of you have come so close to vocalizing this rekindled attraction. This rekindled care for the other. Something has always gotten in the way. A call, a case, a threatening note. Nothing is stopping Hotch now. There's no more veiled, double meaning, statements of affection. No small gestures that mean more than what they really are.
He's laying it all out. Explicitly.
You don't think before reacting. If you do, you're sure you will overthink it, talk yourself out of doing what you really want to. You wince and reach your injured arm across your body to tip Hotch's chin back up so he's looking at you, "But you didn't. I'm right here. It's not that easy to get rid of me, Hotch."
Instead of easing his worry, he just frowns and moves your injured arm back across your chest. "Aaron." He murmurs, rubbing the skin on the back of your hand lightly.
"What?"
"Please, just call me Aaron again," Aaron tips his head in a slight nod and you smile a little.
"Aaron." You test the name on your tongue and lay your head back against the pillows resting your neck.
His warm hand slides between your neck and the pillow, prodding his firm fingers into the spasming muscles, kneading and massaging out the tension. You bite your lip to stifle a groan as he does it. "I'm waiting for the part where you argue with me and yell at me to go back to help the team."
You let your eyes flutter closed as he continues to ease the stiffness in your neck. You hum contentedly, "Would you listen to me if I did?"
"No," His answer is quick and final. You can't help but grin with satisfaction.
"Seeing as I was shot, I don't see the point in using my energy on that argument then," You taunt him, letting a cheeky smirk drift onto your lips as you say it.
Aaron's fingertips hesitate on your neck before continuing, "You need to get some rest. You can sleep. I'll be here the whole time."
You burrow deeper into the thin sheets on the bed. Your body aches all over and the shitty hospital bed mattress isn't easing a bit of it, but the methodical way that Aaron's fingers continue to work over your tired muscles has you feeling woozy.
"I won't leave you." He says a bit softer. The statement holds more weight than it seems, especially coming from Aaron.
The next few hours are a blur of you drifting in and out of sleep. When you're awake, you try your best to catch bits of every phone call Aaron takes. You try to catch a glimpse at his tablet as he continues to work the active case. Aaron, however, does his best (which is pretty fucking good) to keep it all away from you. You don't know if it's because he just wants you to focus on getting better instead of working, or if he thinks you're not mentally stable enough to jump right back into the action.
The nurses pump you full of pain meds and Aaron practically forces glasses of water down your throat nearly every time you're awake. His insistence to keep you hydrated leads you to need to use the restroom often. The first time you pull the sheet back and lean your weight on your good arm to step out of the bed, Aaron comes quickly to your side. "Where are you going?" He asks confused.
You stammer a little and attempt to brush him off, "I can get up on my own." You insist on doing it on your own, though you can feel how weak and wobbly your legs are as soon as you put more weight on them. Aaron holds you tighter. "I need to go to the bathroom." You glance up at him.
He continues to walk you to the bathroom door, "Leave the door open a crack."
"Aaron," You sigh frustratedly, "I can go to the bathroom on my own. I have a concussion and had minimally invasive shoulder surgery."
"And if you close and lock that door and something happens, how am I supposed to get in there to help you? How am I supposed to hear you?" He opens the door but takes note to leave the light off. His attention to detail sends warmth radiating out from your heart to the rest of your body.
"I'll scream as loud as I possibly can," You pull away from his grip and walk into the bathroom. "I have no difficulty being loud," The joke slips out before you can stop it, and you feel your cheeks heat a little at the underlying, unintended innuendo of it. You're quick to close the door to hide your burgeoning flush but you leave the smallest crack just as Hotch asked. You do your business and wash your hands. When you step out, Aaron is, no surprise, waiting for you just inches away from the door, his focus down at the phone in his hand. He looks up at the sound of you stepping out, walking you back to bed and helping you into it.
The next time you need to use the restroom, you fight Aaron a little less on the way there. You don't protest when he reminds you to leave the door cracked.
The third time, you have simply surrendered to Aaron's overprotective nature and just let him support you much more fully. Admittedly, your body is still weak from the whole ordeal and the aches and pains when you walk are lessened when he helps you. Right before you close the door (only partially closed) you glance at Aaron's worry-stricken face, "You know, Hotchner, I'm starting to think this whole crack the door thing is a little ploy to get a glimpse of me."
Aaron doesn't even indulge your ridiculous taunt but rolls his eyes. He reaches forward and closes the door for you. He helps you back into bed and pulls the sheets back up to your chin as you let out a slow yawn. He pauses for a second, eyes trained on your face. You can't tell if your face is cut and bruised since you haven't turned on the lights in the bathroom and his intense scrutiny has your fingers fumbling onto your face to feel for something. He doesn't say anything, simply brushing strands of wiry hair out of your face, letting his fingertips ghost over your skin a little too long.
He steps back and settles back into his chair by your bed, taking your hand in his again, giving you the opportunity to get rest again. You let your eyes close and feel the weariness deep in your bones as you start to completely relax into the mattress. You just barely feel the press of Aaron's lips on your hand. You just barely him whisper against your skin, "Get some rest, sweetheart."
Hi, lovelies. Long author's note here. I don't have much to say for myself. I think part of me just lost the inspiration to write in general. It's not that I don't like this story (though upon coming back to it I think there's so much I would add to part 1 and change about it. so maybe in another life I'll do that). I just lost the passion for writing it. I don't know how many of you follow me on other social media platforms but I've found my love for reading again. So much so that it's really thrown my whole life plan off (oops). And a life that involves literature is something I need. So writing has been a thing that's entered my life again. I've been writing a lot recently, though not this story, clearly. I needed to remember how to write and why I love writing.
All that said, I realized I've put too much love and thought and time into this story to leave it unfinished. I would change so much. I want to change so much. But right now I'm going to work on finishing this. I don't have much of a vision for the last few chapters, it's all loosely planned. But I hope this and the next chapter help give y'all some relief. If any of you are still there.
Anyway. Here's to hoping I get the next chapter done tonight. I swear I really am trying. Life is hard. School is hard. Being an adult is hard. Please take care of yourselves. You deserve it :)
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader
Word Count: 6,979 (what is wrong with me??)
Tags: 18+, NSFW, Best Friend's Dad Hotch, Confident reader, Flirting, Oral sex, Protected sex, Dirty talk, A little angst with a happy ending
Summary: Your best friend stands you up at the bar, but it actually turns into the best night you've had in a long time—maybe the best night of your life. Unfortunately, things don't stay uncomplicated for long... *Requested by @hotforhotchner11
Link to A03 or read below!
“I can’t believe you stood me up to have sex with a frat boy,” you hiss into your phone from your seat at the bar. Your best friend Julie—better known as Jay—is on the other end, and she’s completely ruining your plans for the evening at later than the last minute. She’s never on time for anything.
“He’s not a frat boy… yet. He’s rushing.” You pick up your gin and tonic to take a sip, but her comment makes you pause.
“He’s rushing? How old is he?” The breath she blows out before she answers tells you everything you need to know. Goddamn cradle robber.
“Twenty? Or, almost twenty.”
“Oh, you nasty girl. He’s nearly ten years younger than us.” At 28, you literally could not imagine being interested in a 20 year old. Anyone under 25 is practically an infant; what would you talk about?
“The pussy wants what it wants, babe. It’s more fun when they barely know what they’re doing.” Then again, you figure, she isn’t exactly doing much talking.
“That’s gross, Jay.”
“Is it any grosser than your thing for older guys? You’d fuck my dad if I let you anywhere near him, which is exactly why I don’t.”
“I would not fuck your dad—actually, what does he look like?” She groans down the line and you laugh. “I’m kidding. I’m trying to fuck someone’s dad tonight, but not yours.” You hear a choked laugh from beside you and you glance over at, objectively, one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen: he’s Black, bald, muscular, with a neatly trimmed goatee and a killer smile, and apparently your thirst for older men amuses him. You smile back. “Jay, I have to go; I’m embarrassing myself in public.”
“Okay, and what else is new? Bye!” When she hangs up, you lock your phone and turn to face the man at the bar.
“Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget people are actually listening in places like these; there’s so much talking it’s all kind of white noise to me.”
“It’s kind of my job to listen to what no one else does, but I forget to turn it off sometimes,” he says, and no, that’s not intriguing or anything. “So you’re into older guys?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and you lean in with your chin in your hand, elbow on the bar.
“Almost exclusively. You don’t look old enough to be someone’s dad, but I’d probably make an exception.” He laughs again; he doesn’t have a drink, so maybe he’s waiting for the bartender, but you sip yours.
“I’m flattered, but taken. I have a friend who’s probably your type; he doesn’t do one night stands, though. He doesn’t really do anything. We’re trying to loosen him up.” You hum thoughtfully, take a cursory glance around the room.
“I happen to be great at loosening older men up. Is he here?” He shoots you a smile, looks at you like you kind of amaze him.
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Would you, if you weren’t taken?” He nods a little, like you’ve got a good point, and you both laugh. “Yeah, it’s a double standard. If you can walk up to a woman and ask her if it hurt when she fell from heaven, why can’t I walk up to an older man and ask if he believes in love at first sight, or if I should walk by again?”
“That tired line would not work on my friend,” he says, and you grin.
“I think you’d be surprised. But, you know him better, so why don’t you just invite me back to your table, since I got stood up by my friend and I’m all alone, and let me do my thing?” You swirl your straw in your drink, try to look flirty, and he leans in on his elbow like you did before.
“You know what? What the hell. If nothing else, he gets some attention from a pretty girl and maybe it boosts his confidence.” You smile—you like this guy already.
“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” He rolls his eyes, and then the bartender presents him with his drinks. You take two—one is a neat bourbon, that has to belong to the older man friend—and follow him to his table while he just shakes his head.
“Looks like you brought back more than drinks,” a pale woman with dark hair and bangs says with a smile when the two of you approach the table. He hands her one of the beers, takes the cocktail from your hand and gives it to a petite blonde with fair skin.
“Her friend bailed on her and we got talking at the bar, so I invited her to come sit with us.” You introduce yourself to the group, and the friend Derek mentioned might be your type? Egregious understatement.
He’s everything you like in an older man: polite, well-spoken, handsome, clean shaven, with a great head of thick, dark hair—he’s wearing an expensive watch, a goddamn suit, a tailored suit that fits him perfectly, and if Jay were here, you’d be catching her attention and panting like a dog, with your hands up near your face.
To someone without your more refined palate for older gentlemen, he may look like an average white guy in his early fifties, but you have to look down to make sure your panties haven’t dropped involuntarily. Just in case.
“Is this seat taken?” you ask, gesturing to the one next to him, and he shakes his head, pulls it out for you before he sits back down—yes, he stood when you approached the table. Manners, check. You’re trying not to drool.
You smooth out your skirt before you take your seat—you always dress for the man you want to attract, and tonight is no exception, so you’re wearing a black lace dress and nude heels; the dress is fitted, but not clingy, and not too short, and you know the right kind of man will find it appealing. So far, your handsome potential love interest Aaron seems to be looking respectfully; that may change, but you’re happy to see it, for now.
“So Derek mentioned you’re all in the FBI; are you the boss? You look like the boss,” you say with a playful smile, and Aaron looks a little nervous when he nods, makes eye contact.
“Until someone decides to overthrow me,” he jokes, deadpan, and your smile gets brighter. Dry sense of humor, check.
“I’d like to see them try; I definitely sense that you can handle your own.” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Derek hiding a smile behind his hand. He knows you’re flirting, even if no one else does, and another reason you hope to take Aaron home is so you can wipe that smile off his face—but mostly because Aaron’s gorgeous, and you know it would be a very good time for the both of you.
“Let’s play darts,” Derek says to the other people at the table—you can’t remember their names at the moment, all your attention focused on Aaron—and they get up and walk over to the board, so it’s just the two of you.
Aaron clears his throat. “Thank you. What do you do for work?”
“I’m in publishing; a copy editor. Mostly Tom Clancy type action novels, and romance novels. Lots of heaving bosoms and cries of overwhelming pleasure, you know?” You take a sip of your drink through the straw, looking over at him as innocently as you can. He’s a little flushed; you’re a huge fan of that look on a man. “Do you ever read romance novels?”
“Uh, no. Not my genre.” He takes a sip of his drink, and you watch his mouth while he does.
“Not mine either. When you edit enough of them, they become wholly unsexy… and they never compare to real life.” You flick your eyes over his body, briefly but not subtly, and he gives you a glance back. Your heart beats a little faster in your chest. “So what do you like to read? Wait, may I guess?” you ask, setting a hand on his arm. He nods, and you carry on, leaning just a little closer. “So I’m going to guess you’re a fan of the classics, novels you’ve read a hundred times. I think you would tell me your favorite is To Kill a Mockingbird,” you say, tapping against his sleeve, “and maybe intellectually it is, but you actually feel more when you read Moby Dick. I bet your heart yearns for adventure—not that life as a crime solving FBI agent is boring, but it's all too real. Moby Dick is the perfect blend of adventure and fantasy for a man like you.”
“You’ve known me for all of ten minutes,” he says with a raised eyebrow, and you shrug and take a drink.
“True. But am I right? Or close?” He smiles, the first full, unguarded expression he’s given tonight, and you feel awesome for making that happen.
“My favorite book is Moby Dick. I make a point to read it at least twice a year. You’re good.”
“Thank you.” You pull back, take your hand off of his arm; you’ve laid the groundwork for touching, and he’ll have to make a move if he wants more. “People often tell you a lot they don’t intend to, and books are my thing, so it’s easy for me to connect the dots. I recommend books to people as a kind of party trick.” You stir your drink, and he shifts a little, sitting closer.
“Have you disappointed many people with your recommendations?”
“Oh, I make it a personal mission to never leave anyone disappointed,” you say, your voice low and sweet like honey. His eyes move to your mouth. You sweep your tongue over your bottom lip. “Derek said your friends are trying to get you to loosen up; can I ask why?” He flicks his eyes up to yours, frowns a little, like he’s not sure that’s something he’s ready to tell you; ultimately, he just sighs.
“I’ve been divorced for five years, alone for five years. They think it’s time I…” He trails off, shrugs.
“Get back in the saddle?” you offer, and he laughs lightly, agrees. “Is that something you’re interested in? You shouldn’t feel pressured into it if you’re not ready.” You might want to sleep with him so badly it’s sickening, but not at the expense of his well-being.
He exhales deeply and lifts his arm to rest it on the back of your chair; you want to smile, but the conversation doesn’t call for it, so you hold off.
“I think I’m ready, but how do you really know?” You turn toward him a little more, lean against his arm; it feels easy, comfortable, almost like a real date and not you flirting like your life depends on it and hoping to get a bite.
“I think you should wait to meet someone who makes you feel a spark, and then explore it. Maybe it burns hot, but doesn’t last. Maybe it’s a slow burn. Maybe it’s a bit of both. I think when you’re really ready to put yourself out there, you’ll know.” He holds your gaze, wets his lips, takes a breath.
“You’ve been flirting with me.” You do smile a little, then.
“Yes, Aaron, I have.”
“Did Derek put you up to it?”
“Absolutely not.” You touch his arm again, gentle, lean in close. “I’m genuinely interested in you. You’re everything I’m attracted to in a man.” His smile doesn’t touch his eyes.
“Old and uptight?”
“Older, and kind, and capable of having a conversation about more than just sports and money, and handsome. Very handsome.” You lift your fingers from his arm, brush them through his hair over his temple. “I feel a spark. Do you?”
“Yes,” he breathes, and when you set your hand on the table, he covers it carefully with his. His hand is big, warm, softer than you’d expected, and you’re met with the sudden urge to feel it all over your body. “I feel a spark.”
“Good. Do you want to come home with me tonight? No strings attached—just to get you back in the saddle,” you say with a tilt of your head, and he nods.
“I want to.” You’re certain that the smile that crosses your face is softer, inviting, but you get the feeling he won’t kiss you while his friends could be watching. You’re actually surprised he’s touching you so openly.
“Okay, so why don’t you give me a ride home? I was going to have to call an Uber, since my friend didn’t show up, but you’re a gentleman, aren’t you? You wouldn’t let me do that.” He catches on to what you’re saying, the excuse you’re giving him to give his friends, makes a noise of understanding.
“Of course. I wouldn’t rest not knowing you made it home safely.”
“I’m not sure how much rest you’ll be getting tonight,” you murmur, and you rest your free hand on his thigh under the table, squeeze a little. He’s very firm, and you kind of melt. “But that’s a very sweet sentiment, Aaron. Are you committed to staying here much longer?”
“Not at all. Would you like to leave now?” You hold his gaze for a moment, want to be really sure about this; you’re no expert on body language, but you’ve been here before, and he really does look less tense than when you first showed up, more comfortable and open. All really good signs.
“Yes, please.” He squeezes your hand, then stands, smooths out his jacket, and tells you he’ll be right back while he goes to say goodbye to his friends. You stand too, finish what’s left of your drink, and pull out your phone to text Jay.
Taking home the most incredible man. Guess I don’t need my wingwoman after all.
J: Tell grandpa I said he better treat you right.
Please. He’s not that old. If anything, you can call him daddy. :P
J: You can call him daddy. Have fun ;)
The ride to your apartment starts out quiet, but you try to fill it by asking Aaron more about himself. You keep your hands on him while you chat, leaning as close to him as you can while wearing your seatbelt, running your hand up and down his leg, over his arm while he shifts gears. You know it’s turning you on, and you’re fairly certain it’s turning him on as well.
You learn more about his job, that he basically solves crimes by judging people, which is kind of funny; before that, he was a lawyer, which you can definitely see. He has one child, a daughter who’s upset with him because of the divorce (someone’s dad, check), and a brother who lives in New York, no living parents. It’s more information than you usually get out of someone you plan to sleep with, but you really do like him, and since he’s not the one night stand type, you think more conversation is the right way to go.
He asks about you too, about your family and your job and your lame friend who bailed on you, and when he arrives outside your building, parks in the lot, you unbuckle your seatbelt and lean in closer, smoothing a hand over his waist.
“I’m really glad I met you tonight,” you breathe, looking up at him, and he puts his hand on your cheek and you meet for a slow, easy kiss. “Hmm. I knew you’d be good at that.”
“I knew you’d be good at that, too. You have the most beautiful lips.” He brushes his fingers over them, and you take his hand, bring two of them into your mouth to suck softly. His breath hitches, and you feel your panties getting damp. God, he’s gorgeous. “Let’s go inside,” he whispers, and you slip his fingers out, drop a hand to his lap where he’s—oh, so perfectly hard it’s unreal.
“We could get started out here, have a little adventure,” you say playfully, fully prepared for him to say he’d rather not, but he just licks his lips and looks at you like you’re going to be the death of him, but at least he’ll die happily. That’s another look you’re a huge fan of on an older man.
You undo his belt, his button and his zipper, pull his cock out of his pants; he’s of average length, thick, makes your mouth water, and you lean in to use that to your advantage, getting him wet with your saliva and then stroking him in your hand. You look up at his face, and he’s got his eyes closed, head back against the headrest—so fucking sexy. You reach your free hand under his shirt, where he’s hairy, strong, but a little soft, just the way you like it, and he opens his eyes and pulls you close for a kiss that’s a bit harder than the last.
“You’re absolutely perfect,” he sighs against your lips, and you press closer for another kiss. You almost regret the adventure comment now, because you want to undress him, and touch him, feel him all over, but you’ll just have to be patient. (That’s never been your strong suit.)
“Are you kidding? You are… everything. If I could build a dream man, he would literally be a copy of you.” He makes a sharp, self-deprecating sound, and you lean down to get him wetter, move your hand a little faster. “I’m completely serious. I’m a little upset I’ve been going to that bar for so long and our paths never crossed.” One of his hands moves to your hair, and he pulls you close for a kiss; he’s ready to come, you can tell, and you want him to more than anything, so you cover his hand with yours and dip your head, sucking his dick like you’re desperate for it. When it comes to Aaron, you’re kind of desperate for everything.
“Oh, god. That feels so good, baby.” You moan at the pet name—is there anything better in the world than an older man calling you baby? Maybe just Aaron specifically calling you baby—and he tightens his fingers in your hair while you glide over him, tight and wet, until he comes in your mouth.
You swallow it down, pull off breathless, and then swipe your tongue over him so he’s clean enough that you can tuck him back into his pants. You look up at him from his lap, and he’s panting too, rubs his fingers over your lips, your chin, down your throat. You’re desperately horny now, soaking wet, and when you shift to sit up, he catches you for a deep, steamy kiss, and that does nothing to help your situation.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and ugh, your heart flutters. Seriously, who created this man? He’s incredible. “Now let’s go inside so I can make you come, too.”
“Definitely,” you agree with a nod, and you kiss him once more before pulling back and climbing out of the car, straightening yourself up. He does the same, then walks over to you, takes your hand, and follows you into your apartment.
Sex with Aaron is… talk about adventure. He fucks like—well, like he hasn’t done it in over five years. As soon as you get inside the door, he gets on his knees, pulls your panties down, lifts your skirt up, and eats your pussy with such enthusiasm you come with your hands in his hair, rocking against his face, in less than three minutes. Seeing him down on the ground in the full suit, just going to town on you, is not an image you’ll soon forget, that’s for sure.
After that, the two of you stumble to your bedroom, hands all over each other, tugging at zippers and discarding clothes—he has you keep your shoes on, and that makes you feel slutty like a porn star, and super hot—and you kiss, touch, moving your hands all over each other's bodies until he’s hard again. You stay in missionary, and after he slips on a condom from your bedside table, he slides into you, kisses your lips and your neck and your shoulders while he rolls his hips against yours.
It’s slow and sensual at first, and you drag your nails lightly across his back, tilt your head when he nips at your throat.
“Aaron, oh. You feel so good,” you breathe, scraping your fingers through his hair, and his thrusts get a little deeper, his kisses a little rougher.
“You’re incredible. So gorgeous.” He moves a hand to your breast, massages it while your bodies work; you hitch your legs up higher, moan, and pull him closer, your hands on his body, and he fucks into you more frantically, humping against you hard, wildly. You’ve never really gotten fuck you like an animal, but that’s kind of what he’s doing, and you’re into it, clinging to him, pushing into his thrusts like it’s possible to take him deeper than you are now.
God, he’s going to spoil you, ruin you for all other men. You’re going to have your best sex at 28 and then be chasing this feeling the rest of your goddamn life. It’s both amazing and horribly unfair.
“Yes, Aaron, yeah. Fuck me hard, fuck me deep.” He groans, pounds inside you, moves his hand from your breast to the back of your neck and stares down into your eyes while he absolutely destroys you. You come clenching around him, pulling his hair and digging your nails into his shoulder, and his mouth comes crashing down for a kiss while he thrusts through it and then stutters, his orgasm right behind yours.
You sag against the pillow behind your head, and he puts his weight on you, hand still clamped around the nape of your neck, and breathes hot against your throat.
You stare up at the ceiling, catching your breath, and thank fucking god Jay stood you up tonight.
Aaron is very sweet, kissing you and holding you, murmuring against your skin, and the two of you go to the bathroom, get cleaned up, and then raid your kitchen for snacks, talking easily and laughing. He doesn’t look like he’s about to bolt, which you’d been a little worried about; in fact, he actually suggests taking your snacks back to bed, jokes about not getting any crumbs on your white sheets. Never one to kick a man out abruptly after sex, and especially not a man like Aaron, you agree, and you end up in bed again, which means…
Another frantically torn condom wrapper later, and you’re on your stomach, your nipples rubbing against the sheets. Aaron’s hands are on your ass while you work yourself on his cock, rolling your body, moaning desperately like you aren’t already two orgasms deep; his dick hits just right, and between that and the nipple stimulation you’re coming fast, bucking hard against him so he’ll follow.
“Fuck, baby, coming already?” He tightens his grip, slams inside you, plants one hand on the bed to change his angle a bit. “Let’s try for another; your body is so perfect, built for sex, built for me.” You groan, roll your eyes back because his dirty talk is hitting the spot, and the two of you fuck together, noisy and eager and hot, until he shudders, squeezes your ass hard and starts to come.
You’re so close, right on the edge, and you sound wild because of it, your moans high, whimpering, your fingers digging into the sheets.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you beg, grinding against him, and he puts both hands hard on your hips, rails you into the bed.
“I’m not stopping until you come for me. Come for me,” he murmurs, and he wraps one hand around the front of your body, rubs your clit, and you climax, squeezing your eyes shut, seeing stars. You moan his name, drop your hand to cover his where it rests against your pussy, and this time when his body drapes across your back like a weighted blanket, you sigh and close your eyes.
He kisses your back and shoulders, runs his big hands over your hips and ass, then slides off and guides you to the edge of the bed, lifts you up and carries you to the bathroom. You think absently that you could get used to being treated this well, and you must say it, because he presses a kiss to your lips and whispers, “I will if you let me.”
There’s a little talk in bed, after you’re cleaned up and cozy beneath the comforter, about going on a real date; Aaron seems nervous, like he thinks you won’t go for it, that all you wanted was this night of sex. And yes, while that’s typically your MO, something about Aaron is different. He makes you want more, things like dates and picnics and sweet lovemaking at night and kisses—all the kisses, everywhere, all the time.
You ask him to stay, and he promises he will, and you fall asleep in his arms. It’s the best you’ve felt in a really long time.
You wake up to Aaron’s sleepy, handsome face, and you kiss and smile into each other’s lips, because last night was great, but this is even greater. Your plan is to take a shower together and then go out for breakfast, but there’s a knock at your door just as you’re planning to step in.
“You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” you tell him with a kiss, and you pull on your robe and peer through the peephole, then pull the door open. “Well, well; now you decide to show up.”
Jay steps in with a box of doughnuts and two cups of coffee, looking properly shamed.
“I know, I’m a horrible friend. I broke the slut code: stay slutty, but never at the expense of your best girl.” You crack a smile, because you could never really be mad at her, but especially not after last night. You’re about to say that, but she looks over your shoulder at the clothes still strewn about your living room and grins. “Holy shit. Is your old man still here?”
“He’s not an old man, and yes, he’s in the shower, so shut up.” She shoves the doughnuts and coffee carrier into your hands and brushes past you, toward your bedroom, and you groan. “Jay, no, come on.”
“I just want to get a glimpse of him,” she says, peeking her head into your room. She sees more clothes, and the condom wrappers, looks back at you with a cocked eyebrow. “Okay, someone had a good time last night.”
“Yes, it was fucking incredible. He’s a sex god, I’m not even kidding. He ate my pussy like he hasn’t had a meal in months, then fucked me twice, so hard and sexy, and then he asked me if he could take me on a date, Jay.” You smile wide, can’t help it. “I really like him, so I actually owe you for not coming out last night.” She smiles back, pulls you close for a hug, and you step back with your hands on her shoulders. “So thank you, and thanks for coming to apologize, but can you please leave? I really don’t want to miss out on some potential good morning shower sex.”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s all from a place of love, and she turns to head out of your room.
“Okay, but only because cockblocking you would mean breaking the slut code again, and I can’t have my membership card revoked. I have a date with the almost frat boy again tonight.” She grins, and you shake your head, pull off your robe when you hear the door shut and head for the shower.
Good morning shower sex has never been so good.
One month and twelve dates later, and you’re head over heels for Aaron. He is so sweet, and smart, and secretly funny, the perfect gentleman when you’re in public and an absolute manic in private, and you seriously could not have imagined a more perfect man.
Jay is maybe a little tired of hearing you talk about him.
You’re out for breakfast on a Saturday morning—Aaron is on a case in Indiana, or you’d probably be with him—and she sighs around a bite of french toast.
“I get it, he’s the best lay you’ve ever had in your life. He makes your pussy wet and your heart horny, or whatever. When do I get to meet the old man who’s got you wrapped around his big sexy fingers?”
“He’s supposed to be home tonight, maybe I’ll see if he’s feeling up to drinks?” Sometimes he’s really worn out after these cases, and you don’t blame him, but occasionally they must touch him in a way that makes him want to enjoy life, because you’ve had some nice dates the same day he gets back. You’ll ask, and if he’s not up for it, you’ll reschedule.
“Ooh, yes. I can’t wait to finally get a good look at the hunk who turned my maneater best friend into a monogamous whore.” You gasp, affronted, and she cackles, takes a sip of her iced coffee. Sometimes you can’t even remember why you’re friends—but she never fails to do something completely unexpected and sweet that reminds you eventually. “Hey, maybe now that you’re obsessed with this guy, you can finally meet my dad, since I don’t have to worry about you trying to suck his dick at first sight.”
You know that Jay’s relationship with her dad has been a little rough since her parents split up, and you’ve always thought that maybe you could get her to open up to him, to talk to him, if you could get to know him, but her fears about your taste for older men have always been hilariously real. As if you can’t control yourself; as if you’d ever actually date her dad.
“Well I’ll have to ask my old man; maybe he’s down for a threesome?” It’s her turn to act offended, and you laugh and send Aaron a text about this evening before you forget.
Can’t wait to meet the infamous Jay, he replies, and you won’t lie, you’re feeling really good about your two favorite people finally getting to know each other.
That night, you and Aaron beat Jay to the bar, because of course you do—that bitch is never on time for anything.
You’re feeling cute in a sexy turtleneck dress (the neck of which Aaron tugged down to place a hickey under when you rode him on the couch before coming here) and a set of earrings he bought you—you’re wearing a set of lingerie he bought you, too for later—and he looks gorgeous in a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
You can barely keep your hands off of him, squeezing his thigh, kissing his neck; you only give him an inch of space when he gets up to run to the restroom, and even then, the way he smiles and presses his lips to yours before he goes makes you want to cancel drinks and take him home so you can be alone.
But Jay asked to meet him, and you have been a little obsessed lately, so you want to do this and make her happy.
You look down at your phone, ready to hit her with some inflammatory where the fuck are you??? texts, when she drops into the seat Aaron had just vacated, breathless.
“Sorry, sorry. Traffic was really bad, and I got into this huge fight with my mom on the phone...” She pulls off her jacket, drapes it over the back of the seat.
“Is everything okay?” you ask, concerned. The two of them usually get along pretty well.
“Yeah, she’s just pissed because my dad has a new girlfriend—which is stupid, because she’s the one who wanted to divorce him, so why does she care? But anyway, I told her I’d meet her and be nice to her, because it’s important to him, and she expects me to take her side or something. I don’t know. Let’s just say I’m really glad I’m out for drinks with you and your old man so I can forget about my problems for a while.” She takes a deep breath for practically the first time since she started talking, then looks around, realizes it’s just the two of you. “Hey, where is he, anyway?”
“Restroom,” you say with a smile, but something more must creep onto your face, because she rolls her eyes playfully.
“And you didn’t follow him in there for a little stall action?”
“Ew, no. That’s more your speed than mine; we had sex before we came, anyway, look at this hickey.” You pull the neck of your dress down and she whistles, impressed.
“Congrats on having such good pussy, babe. I know you’re sickeningly obsessed with him, but it looks to me like he’s got it bad for you too.” You grin, instinctively want to gush over him, but you see him walking over out of the corner of your eye, so you hold off.
He’s frowning, though, and you’re not sure why.
“Julie?” Jay whips her head around at the sound of Aaron’s voice, and her eyes get wide.
“Dad? What are you…” You stand up abruptly, looking up at Aaron, and Jay stands too, looking between you, confused. “What are you doing here?”
“I… We…” He swallows, looks at you like you’ve both made a terrible mistake. You’re surprised how much that look hurts, but you know you have to take care of Jay before you can feel sorry for yourself.
“Jay, listen to me, okay? I swear to god I didn’t know.” You’re begging, pleading with your eyes, your hands on her shoulders. “I did not know.” She shakes her head like it’s not making sense, but when she lets herself connect the dots, she brings up a hand to cover her mouth.
“Oh my god. Are you fucking kidding me?” She pulls away from you, looking at you like you punched her in the face. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Jay, I didn’t—”
“Julie,” Aaron says, reaching for her, but she steps back, palms up.
“I seriously can’t believe this. You two… After every joke we made about me keeping you away from him?” She looks at you like you betrayed her, and you exhale, shrug sadly.
“It’s not like I went looking for him, Jay. We just… found each other.” You don’t look at Aaron, because if the last month hasn’t meant the same things to him, you’ll have to be okay with that. “I know it’s shocking, and I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it feels like to find this out, this way.”
“You’re right, you can’t imagine. I just fought with my mom about my dad’s new girlfriend, and it’s-it’s you.” She laughs, humorless.
“You fought with your mom? When?” Aaron asks, crossing his arms, and it’s so clear how much he cares about Jay. Her eyes fly to his.
“On the fucking way here. She told me about your new slut girlfriend, and I was defending you! I told her I’d meet her if you asked me to, that I’d be nice because I know she’s important to you! And it’s you,” she practically spits, turning to you. “Such a whore that you’ll fuck anyone over forty who can still get it up, including my fucking father.” Her tone stings, and people are looking at the three of you, but you take a breath, remind yourself that she’s just angry right now, and she loves you, doesn’t mean that.
“Julie, that's enough. I’m taking you home and we can talk about this there.” Aaron steps past her, picks up her jacket, and glances over at you, but you’re collecting your things and and pulling up a rideshare app to get yourself the fuck out of there.
You head for the bathroom to wait it out until your ride comes, and you definitely don’t cry because the two people who bring you the most happiness in the world are gone and they barely even looked back.
It’s five days before Jay shows up at your door with apology doughnuts and a bottle of rosé. You eat and drink and cry on each other, and then laugh at each other, and your heart feels a little healed by the end of it.
“I’m sorry I called you a whore. It’s just… what are the odds, after everything we said, that you would actually hook up with my fucking dad.” You laugh and take the last bite of your doughnut.
“You don’t think I was a little startled by that turn of events? I was as shocked as you. I knew he had a daughter around my age, but that’s not really what we talked about, you know?” She shoves half a doughnut in her mouth and cackles.
“You don’t talk a whole lot, from what I’ve gathered.”
“Didn’t,” you say, and your whole mood shifts. She looks confused. “We didn’t talk a whole lot. He hasn’t spoken to me since the night you found out.” She pulls out her phone, starts texting.
“Okay, I told him I was okay with you guys like, two days ago, so this probably means he’s spiraling. He tends to do that—get in his own head and beat himself up for things that aren’t his fault.” She looks up from her phone, gives you a soft smile. “Will you forgive me if I tell you he’s moping at home right now, and that I know he’ll be happy to see you?” You roll your eyes a little.
“I already forgive you, Jay, but if he hasn’t called me, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe he was looking for an out, and I gave him one, or maybe he can’t feel the same way I do because he knows we’re friends.”
“He told my mom about you, remember? He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t serious about you, and I don’t think he’d be acting this emo if he didn’t have feelings for you.” She reaches out, covers your hands with hers. “I’m really, really sorry I fucked this up for you guys. Weirdness aside, I know what good people you both are, and I hate that you were happy and I took that from you guys. I’m 100% supportive of you being my future step-mom,” she says with a grin, and you roll your eyes again and give her a hug and then jump up to get a shower.
You’re going to go get your old man.
When you knock on Aaron’s door an hour later, he looks surprised to see you.
“I thought you’d be Julie,” he says softly, and you sigh.
“I know. She sent me. She wants us to get our heads out of our asses, but I told her I don’t know where your head is, because we haven’t spoken.” Seeing him makes you feel a little better, because he does look like he may have been moping the last few days, so that must mean the spark is still there, right? “If you want me to leave, just tell me, and I’ll go; I’ll get out of your life and you can pretend it was just a casual thing, if that’s what you want.” Your heart aches at the thought, but you’d understand, if being his daughter’s best friend is an obstacle he can’t overcome.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he says after a long, painfully drawn out moment. “I don’t want you to ever leave. And I could never pretend this was casual.” He steps forward—so handsome in a t-shirt and jeans it makes you long to press kisses all over his face, to hold him and be held by him—and his eyes are trained on yours. “I know nothing about us is conventional, but it doesn’t matter to me if it doesn’t matter to you. I want to be with you.”
You take a deep, calming breath, exhale and nod. Your hands ache to reach out and touch him.
“I want to be with you, but only if you can promise that if something comes up with Jay—Julie—we can figure it out together. I don’t ever want to feel the way I felt the other night, and while I get that you had to take care of your daughter, and I’m glad you two talked things out, I can’t just be abandoned if things get weird.” You approach him, wrap your arms around him, and sigh. He hugs you so tightly, rests his cheek against the top of your head.
“I promise. I know I could have handled that better, but the situation was just so...”
“I know, that’s okay. Family comes first—but just so you know, she gave me her full support to campaign to become her new step-mom,” you say, pulling back with a teasing smile, and he shakes his head and grins. “So, one last question: Are you ready to get back in the saddle, Aaron?” He leans in and kisses you so hard you’re breathless, weaves his fingers into your hair.
“Sounds like my kind of adventure.”
Message sent with high importance: Do not disturb! Your dad’s indecent.
