˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰ Steve Harrington, always eager to help ꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄
summary: you are keeping your bestfriend, Steve, company while he revamps his room and things get a little personal.
warnings: oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), p in v sex, finger sucking, choking without previous talks about it but you like it so, kind of dirty talk but not really.
Setting: in my mind this takes place between s3 and s4. Steve works at Family Video.
a/n: I went ahead and added the sex part LOL
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The first time you met Steve Harrington, you were 7 years old. You had just moved to Hawkins and unlike most people in this town, you had no family there and knew absolutely no one. He sat next to you at lunch that day when he saw you sitting alone. You two have been inseparable ever since.
In the present day, your relationship with Steve had only grown stronger. You knew everything about eachother. Some would say you two are too close.
You sat on Steve’s bed sideways, your head dangling off the side of the bed. Steve was sat on his floor, organizing the drawer that he kept all of his shirts in. You had been keeping him company all afternoon with mindless chatter while he refreshed his room. You were glad to help. You had always thought his room was atrocious. Silently, you hoped he did something about his wallpaper next.
“So, you’re telling me you’ve never had an orgasm that wasn’t by your own hand? In all 20 years of living?” Steve asked, his tone filled with a bit of disbelief. He turned to look at you, raising his eyebrows.
You rolled your eyes. The tragedy of the situation wasn’t lost on you. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. You had hooked up with several people over the years, but those were hookups. You didn’t necessarily have time to break down the complex equation of how to make you orgasm to someone during a one night stand.
“It’s not as easy for me as it is for you, okay?” You asked rhetorically, watching as Steve got that look on his face.
It was the look where you could almost see the gears turning inside of Steve’s head. Most of the time what came next led to no good— but sometimes….sometimes, Steve had good ideas.
“I could help…if you wanted to know….y’know, what it feels like.” Steve offered. His words came out hesitantly, like he was suspended on a tightrope.
You didn’t answer right away. You sat up from your upside down position. That was the kind of question that you took a minute to think about before you give an answer. You sighed, finally allowing your gaze to find Steve’s once again.
“Are you serious?” You asked him. You couldn’t risk answering seriously and making a fool of yourself.
Steve tilted his head as he looked up at you from his spot on the floor. His eyes were darting over your face, like he was searching for any reason he should just back out.
After a few moments of silence, Steve spoke again.
“Of course, i’m serious.” Steve stated.
For just a moment, it felt like you were in some amateur porno. Then you remembered, it’s Steve. This is your bestfriend. Are you really going to let him make you cum? What if this ruins everything? What if it makes him weird.
Despite all that.
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.” Is what comes out of your mouth.
The next few moments felt like a dream. Steve stood from his spot on the floor, wasting no time connecting his lips to yours. He had his legs on either side of you as he pushed you back onto the bed gently. You had always been a bit jealous of Steve Harrington’s confidence, but right now you were thankful for it.
Your lips moved together in a sloppy kiss. It wasn’t exactly how you imagined your first kiss with Steve to be, but in a way, it was better than you ever could have imagined.
Steve’s lips broke away from yours. You opened your eyes, letting out a soft hum when you saw Steve beginning to trail kisses down your jawline. They were warm and wet against your cold skin.
Goosebumps spread across your skin as Steve pushed his hand up your shirt. You had never felt him so closely before. Every touch was electric. You pushed away the thoughts of how this would affect your friendship tomorrow morning, focusing on Steve pulling your old t-shirt over your head.
“Fuck— you’re not wearing a bra?” Steve asked, his fingers grazing over your nipples lightly.
You let out a soft noise of approval, nodding your head at his question.
“Could you not tell before?” You breathed out, trying to stop yourself from getting overwhelmed by Steve’s touch.
Steve laughed quietly.
“I’m a gentleman— I wasn’t looking at your boobs, okay?” Steve complained, feigning offense.
He didn’t give you a warning as his lips moved forward to connect with your raised nub. Only a kiss at first. His eyes flicked upward to gauge your reaction. Then, he began to swirl his tongue around your nipple carefully. You let out a quiet moan, your mouth dropping slightly at the sensation. Steve sucked as he flicked his tongue back and forth, using his hand to roll your other nipple in between his pointer finger and his thumb.
You already felt better than you ever had with anyone else. No one else had pulled these sounds out of you just by playing with your nipples. You almost felt embarrassed at how reactive your body was to Steve.
“I always knew you would look beautiful like this.”
The words left Steve’s mouth casually, as if they hadn’t rearranged the entire view you had of how Steve saw you and your friendship. You didn’t respond. He had said it more to himself anyway.
Steve removed himself from your breasts. He sat up on his knees, looking down at you for a moment. Steve reached down to lightly pinch your hip, which were still covered by a pair of pajama shorts.
“Scoot up, i’m gonna take these off, yeah?” Steve mumbled.
You didn’t give him a hard time like you might under another circumstance. Right now, the only thing you could think about what Steve’s hands on your skin. You pushed yourself upward on his bed so he could fit more comfortably in between her legs.
Long, thick fingers hooked around your waist band, tugging them down your legs a bit clumsily. You could tell that Steve seemed to be excited for this experience too.
You felt the cool air against your warm center. Neither of you spoke. Steve just took a moment to stare. His fingers trailed down your stomach, as if he were trying to map out every inch of your skin before it was too late. He leaned forward, his eyes flickering back up to make eye contact. It made sense that Steve was the kind of guy who liked eye contact. He was always staring into your eyes when you had conversations.
His lips brushed against your hooded clit carefully. Steve pressed soft kisses on either side of your hood, using his hands to spread open your lips. He licked a stripe up your slit, lapping up the wetness that had already spilled from your core. Steve gripped the back of your thighs, pushing your legs to your chest. You let out a gasp, warmth rushing to your cheeks (and other places) at how exposed you felt in this position.
Steve didn’t waste anymore time. He applied pressure to your thigh to keep you locked in place as he wrapped his soft lips around your clit. You swore you saw stars as he swirled his tongue over the sensitive nub. You pushed against his hands, a series of whines leaving your mouth as you reached down to pull on his hair. That only seemed to motivate him. He pushed back against your straining legs, keeping them to your chest.
He sucked on your clit rhythmically, humming as he flattened his tongue against your clit over and over again. You felt embarrassment fill your stomach as your legs began to shake. A particularly hard suck made your legs jolt forward, only to be shoved back toward your head by Steve’s large hands against your thigh.
“Steve— fuck, Steve. You’re— oh, you’re so.”
Nothing that left your mouth was a coherent sentence, it was just a testament to how good Steve was making you feel. You let him hold your legs back, propping yourself up on your elbows so you could see him properly. You let out a strangled moan as your eyes met his. He was watching you so closely, like every movement he made was tailored to make you feel as good as possible.
You felt an unfamiliar warmth begin to bubble in your stomach as he continued his attack against your clit. Was this it? Was this really all you needed?
“Oh, i’m— Steve, I think im gonna..”
He knew what you were so desperately trying to convey. Steve released one of your legs. You kept it in the exact position he had it in. His hand snuck down your leg, using his finger to gather up some of the wetness between your legs. He pushed two fingers into you carefully. Steve kept his tongue moving against your clit as his fingers searched for that one spot he knew would drive you crazy.
Your whole body clenched up. A loud whimper left your mouth as his fingers rubbed against that spongy area inside of you that made you moan endlessly . Steve rubbed at the spot relentlessly as he ducked his fingers in and out of your opening. You couldn’t stop yourself from chanting Steve’s name loudly as you allowed yourself to come undone around his fingers and mouth.
Your head fell back as your chest heaved. You placed your hands on either side of your head, staring up at Steve’s ceiling.
“Oh my god.” You breathed out, unsure if you were ever going to be able to recover from this.
No man would ever make you feel like Steve Harrington just had. You looked down at Steve as you felt him move from in between your legs. He looked at you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was a dopey smile on his face.
“Fuck me.” You stated.
Steve laughed.
“It was that good, huh?” He asked, assuming you were making a joke.
You shook your head.
“No, no— I mean it. Like actually fuck me. Right now, preferably.” You told him.
“Right now…preferably.” Steve repeated. It was a habit he had when someone said something his brain couldn’t process right away.
He looked back up at you. Your name left his mouth reverently.
“You don’t have to. Think of it as me making up for all the shit guys you’ve slept with.” Steve said flippantly.
You groaned.
“It’s not like i’m asking you to have sex with me because I feel obligated. I just— jesus, I want to have sex with you, Steve Harrington.” You replied bluntly.
The room was quiet for a moment. Steve took a deep breath, nodding his head.
“Yeah, okay, yeah— besides, it makes us even.” Steve muttered.
Neither of you decided to focus on the implications of what this would mean for your friendship as Steve pulled off his shirt and leaned down to press his lips against yours once again.
Things were even messier than before. You could taste yourself on Steve’s tongue as he licked into your mouth lazily. He pressed his hand against your shoulder.
“Lay on your side for me. You trust me, yeah? I’m gonna make you feel good. Better than any fucking loser you’ve been with.” Steve mumbled, his voice an octave deeper than normal.
The gravely tone in his voice went straight to your groin. You nodded your head dumbly, running your hand down Steve’s arm. He was warm.
“I trust you.” You promised him.
You moved onto your side, your vision narrowing in on the horrific plaid curtains that adorned his windows. I’ll convince him to get rid of them later.
A soft rustling sound could be heard as Steve stripped off his pants and underwear.
The bed sank down behind you as Steve positioned himself against your backside. His chest was pressed to your back. You could feel his hardened length pressed against your ass.
“Lift your leg f’me, baby.” Steve instructed, placing his hand on the bottom of your thigh and hoisting your leg over his thigh.
A nervous feeling filled your stomach as you thought about the logistics. Would Steve even fit?
“Are you even going to be able to get it in?”
You shouldn’t have said it. You could almost hear Steve’s ego inflating behind you. Steve let out a cocky chuckle, bumping his head against the back of yours gently.
“It’ll fit.” He said confidently.
God, he was so fucking hot.
Steve moved forward. His tip was pressing against your entrance as his hands snaked around your waist. He lifted his hand up, gently twisting your nipple in his fingers as he pushed further in.
You gasped loudly. Steve was big. The biggest you had ever taken, most definitely. An embarrassing whine left your mouth at the sensation of your walls stretching to accommodate him.
“Jesus— god, fuck, jesus.” You rambled, your eyes rolling back as he slid further in.
You could feel his smile against your cheek. Steve brushed your hair away from your ear with his nose, letting his lips brush the shell of your ear as he spoke.
“No, it’s just me, baby.” He whispered, the familiar arrogance dripping in his tone.
Steve pushed himself all the way in. An obscene noise left your mouth at the feeling of being so full. Steve groaned, his lips moving lazily against your cheek as he gave you time to adjust.
His hand slid down from your breast to your hip, gripping slightly. Steve’s other hand came around to rest lightly against your throat. You moaned pathetically.
Steve didn’t make fun of you, he just let out a huff of laughter as he began his slow pace. He was thrusting like he was searching for something, like he was experimenting on what made you feel best.
A particularly hard thrust sent you into a whimpering frenzy, tilting your head back until the back of your head met Steve’s forehead. You unintentionally clenched around him as he found that same spot from earlier. Steve moaned loudly, his hands traveling from your throat up to your mouth. You opened your mouth, gladly accepting Steve’s fingers inside. His fingers hooked to the side of your cheek, forcing your mouth open just a bit. You swirled your tongue around the tips of his fingers, keening at the feeling.
The sounds filling the room were obscene. Steve’s pelvis smacking against your ass relentlessly, breathy moans and grunts from Steve as he drives his cock deep into your g-spot, loud whines and choked whimpers falling from your mouth as he continued to push his fingers further into your mouth.
“God, you’re fucking perfect. The way you take my fingers? Perfect. The way you squeeze my cock— god, fucking perfect.” Steve rambled.
You could tell by the strain in his voice that he was close. So were you at this point. Steve bit down on your cheek lightly, his thrusts growing sloppier. You moaned loudly, your breasts bouncing up and down with each thrust.
You felt the warm feeling in your stomach once again. You tried to warn Steve but his fingers pressing your tongue down prevented you from saying anything.
“Stee— m’gon—“
A loud whimper left your mouth before you could finish your pathetic attempt at speaking. Your walls clamped down around Steve, clenching your eyes shut.
Steve let out a broken sound. The feeling of you clamped down around him was seemingly too much. He snapped his hips forward one last time, pressing himself as deep into you as he could possibly go as he spilled his load into you.
Neither of you spoke. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of you and Steve’s heavy breathing.
Steve broke the silence first.
“Soooo, was it good?” He asked. You didn’t even have to look at him to see the stupid, dopey grin on his face.
The way he asked the question made it seem like he already knew the answer.
hotch baby blurb about the other members of the bau figuring out they’re dating/nearly dating,, reader as a bau member maybe and like he’s just a bit more protective on cases, always watching her and things, or letting her ride shotgun in the car, or bringing her coffee,, you’re a fantastic writer and i have a burning love for aaron hotchner <3
Thank you, and thank you for requesting lovely!!
It's Aaron's fault that the team find out. It happens on a case. Serial killer, Philadelphia, three days and counting. You don't share a hotel room, you haven't kissed in two days and sixteen hours, and you're honestly going a little crazy. You call shotgun and he drives. Emily and Morgan trade theories in the seat behind.
"It's clearly psycho sexual," Morgan says.
"And clearly a white male," Emily adds.
"The sophistication–" You begin.
"Clearly older. Late 40's."
You glares at him playfully, too playfully considering you're in company of your colleagues, but he's getting too big for his boots — he's admitted that he cuts you off because he knows it irks you and that he likes how your brows pinch together when you're mad. He's flirting with you, and he isn't as casual as he thinks he is.
"You're so rude," you lament. You shouldn't, but Emily and Morgan are still talking.
"Were you saying something?" he asks.
"False apology doesn't suit you, Hotchner–"
"Mm, and what does?"
Your lips part in shock. "Hotch."
He laughs, and it's his fault; he laughs, and Emily and Morgan fall silent. You're about to clear your throat and reinstate the professionalism you're both sorely lacking but Aaron has not gotten the memo, he reaches across the console, his hand drops onto your knee, and he squeezes it like he always does when you're haunting his passenger seat outside of work.
It's too bad you are not outside of work.
"Oh, handsome," you murmur, pitying.
Funnily, it's your use of a pet name that snaps him out of it. He stills completely, eyes glued to the road, and slowly, slowly, removes his hand.
"...Garcia owes me so much money," Morgan says jovially.
You're so relieved that it isn't you (you'd both thought, undoubtedly, that you'd be the one to give it away, because Aaron is usually an impassive wall of stone) that you can't find it in yourself to be generous.
"It wasn't me," you gloat, tone light with awe. "I can't believe it wasn't me. What did you say to me? You said–"
"I know what I said, Agent." There's a slight hint of hoarseness to his chiding.
"Don't be shy, Hotch," Emily says. "We're all friends here."
"Some of us a little more than that," Morgan adds. Their amusement is crystal clear.
Aaron clenches his jaw. You reach right on over and stroke his tensed muscle, because the cat is out of the bag. You worry for a moment, and then his lips quirk up into a reluctant smile.
"I can't believe it was me," he says. You pat his cheek.
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, grief, family trauma, abuse, emotional distress, nostalgia and bittersweet moments, vulnerability, centered a lot around Hotch's trauma regarding his dad.
Summary: Hotch brings you to his home town of manasses virginia for the first time. His mother just died, sean is in prison and he has to get her house in order to get it sold. The whole ordeal rips up old memories for him some good, some bad.
A/N: I feel bad for being so MIA lately, so I've been hustling, working on this all day instead of the school stuff I actually had to look into. Oops 😬
The front door clicked shut with a sound so soft it should have been silent in the normally noisy apartment, but tonight it landed like a gavel in the quiet. You’d been curled on the couch for the better part of an hour, a novel in your lap that you never really got past the first page of, and the same paragraph kept blurring every time you tried to read it. The lamp on the side table beside you cast a warm circle of light around you, but the rest of the living room felt shadowed, as if it were waiting for Hotch to return.
Hotch barely stepped into that light. In the shadows, he looked like a man carrying an invisible weight that had finally become too heavy, and crushed the last bit of composure he had left in him. His suit was still immaculate, crisp, no wrinkle in sight, but the tie hung loose around his neck, the knot barely holding it together. His shoulders curved inward just enough for you to notice how defeated he looked. Dark hair slightly disheveled where he’d run a hand through it too many times on the drive back home from the lawyer’s office. And his eyes… God, his eyes. They were red-rimmed, not from tears, he wouldn’t allow that in public, but from the effort of holding them back for hours. Grief and something sharper, something like anger, simmered beneath the surface, locked down so tightly it made your chest ache with sympathy from the things he and his brother had had to endure the past week.
You placed the book aside on the table and stood slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Aaron?”
He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he shrugged out of his suit jacket with mechanical movements, hanging it on the rack by the door as if the small act of order could somehow impose control on the chaos raging inside him.
His jaw flexed once, twice even. The muscles jumped under the low light.
You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking slightly at the shifting weight. When you reached him, you stopped just inches away, close enough to smell the faint trace of courthouse coffee and the cologne he’d worn that morning... the one you’d bought him for Christmas. You were close enough to see the faint tremor in his fingers as he loosened the tie completely and let it slide free.
“How did it go?” you asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.
He exhaled through his nose, a long, controlled breath that did nothing to ease the tension radiating from him. For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then, voice low and rough like gravel under tires, he spoke. “Everything was left to me to divide between us.” A bitter edge crept in, barely there but unmistakable as he spoke. “Sean was granted permission to attend the reading... judge’s courtesy, I suppose,” the last part came out as a mumble. “Sat there in his prison jumpsuit looking like he still couldn’t believe any of it was real. But the estate, the decisions… all of it falls on me.”
You watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. The frustration was there, the kind that never raised its voice but could level everything around it. And beneath it, deeper and much rawer, was the grief. Fresh and unprocessed. His mother’s death had come so suddenly, no one knew she had been sick. A quiet heart attack caused by her medication had taken her. Taken her in the house he’d grown up in, she’d been found by her nurse two hours too late, and now this: being handed the keys to a life he’d spent decades trying to outrun.
Everything was crumbling down around him.
“I’m so sorry,” you murmured. Your hand lifted instinctively, hovering near his arm before settling lightly on his forearm. The muscle beneath your palm jerked slightly; you could feel his nerves reacting to your touch, to the pain and grief, to the stress of having to figure out what to keep and what to toss. “That’s… that’s an impossible burden to put on you right now.”
He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes fixed on some point just past your shoulder. “It’s what she wanted. Or at least what her lawyer interpreted. No clear instructions. Just… me, deciding what Sean gets. After everything.” His voice cracked on the last word, so faint you almost missed it. He cleared his throat, forcing it back down. “I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”
You could see it, the walls slamming back into place. They were thicker than ever, reinforced by years of training himself to compartmentalize his childhood, to lead, to never break in front of anyone. Not even you, not fully. Not yet. Pushing would only make him retreat further into that stoic silence he wore like armor.
Instead, you stepped closer, sliding your arms around his waist and pressed your cheek to his chest. His heart thudded hard against your ear, too fast for the calm exterior he was projecting. For a long moment, he stood in place, rigid, as if further touch might shatter the rest of him. You wish it would. He needed to fall, to break down, to grieve, to let everything out.
Then, slowly, his arms came around you. One hand settled between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel you there, feel that you were real and alive. The other rested at the small of your back, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.
You didn’t speak. You just held him, breathing in sync with the rise and fall of his chest, letting the silence stretch until it felt almost too sacred to break. His chin came to rest on the crown of your head, and you felt the faintest brush of his lips against your hair.
Grief rolled off him in waves, tangled with the old resentments toward his father, toward Sean, toward the boy he’d once been in that house in Manassas. You felt every ounce of it in the way he clung to you, in the subtle hitch of his breath, in the way his fingers flexed against your back like you were the only thing anchoring him to the present right at this moment.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. His eyes met yours, and you saw the depth of it all laid bare for a fleeting second before he blinked it away.
“I need some time,” he said quietly. Not a rejection. Just a fact. Stated so clinically that you couldn’t help but worry about his state of mind.
You nodded, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I’m here when you’re ready. Or when you’re not. Either way.”
He managed the ghost of a nod before retreating to the bedroom, the weight of the day still clinging to him like a second skin.
Hours later, the bedroom was wrapped in darkness, broken only by the thin silver blade of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains. The apartment was quiet. Jack was with Jessica for the weekend, his father not needing to see how broken he had become. You lie on your side facing him, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting lightly on the mattress between you. Sleep had been teasing you for a while, but you stayed half-awake, attuned to every shift of his body beside you.
Hotch was on his back, one arm slung over his eyes, the other hand resting on his stomach. His breathing was too even, too controlled, too... normal. He wasn’t asleep. You could feel the tension still humming through him.
The silence stretched. Then, ever so softly that you almost thought you’d imagined it, his voice broke through. “Come with me to Manassas.”
Your eyes opened fully. He hadn’t moved, but his hand found yours beneath the covers, fingers threading through yours with a grip that was almost desperate, compensating for the lack of emotion in his voice.
“I have to go through the house,” he continued. “Clean it out. Get it ready to sell. There’s… so much in there. Furniture she never replaced. Boxes in the attic I haven’t touched since I was twenty. Photos. Letters. Things that remind me of who I was before I was sent to boarding school.” Hotch paused. His thumb stroked over your knuckles, like the motion itself was enough to steady him. “I’m not sure I can do it alone. Not without...” He trailed off, never finishing his sentence.
The raw honesty in his tone hit you like a physical blow. Hotch rarely asked for help. He didn’t admit weakness. But in the safety of your bed, the grief had cracked him open just enough to allow him to finally ask. His parents’ house, the one that had held every sharp word, every slammed door, every lesson in what love wasn’t supposed to look like, was waiting for him roughly an hour away. And the thought of walking back into it, of sorting through the remnants of her life, of his life, while Hotch’s own still felt fractured from everything that had happened since he moved out, was more than he could shoulder without you.
You squeezed his hand, shifting closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. “Of course I’ll go with you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be right there, every step of the way.”
He turned his head then, dark eyes finding yours in the moonlight. They were glassy, the grief no longer fully contained. A single tear slipped free before he could stop it, trailing down the side of his face and disappearing into the pillow. He didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he pulled you closer, rolling slightly so you were tucked against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.
“Thank you,” he breathed against your hair, the words cracking open with everything he couldn’t say. The love, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion of having to be the strong one for so long. His hand stroked down your back in slow, soothing passes, but you could feel the tremor in it. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”
You pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
Tomorrow, the drive to Manassas would begin. Tomorrow, the house would open its doors and let the ghosts out, whether he wanted them to or not.
The drive from Quantico to Manassas had been quiet. Hotch had kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing yours where it rested on the console between you. You tried to fill the silence with soft conversation about Jack’s latest school fair you’d attended while Hotch was away on a case, the book you were reading, anything to keep the tension from swallowing him whole. But as the familiar Virginia roads narrowed and the suburbs gave way to the older, tree-lined streets of his hometown, the words between you, mainly yours, faded. Now, only the low hum of the engine and the crunch of tires on pavement remained.
The car rolled to a slow stop at the curb in front of the two-story red house. The paint, once a vibrant brick red that probably stood out proudly in the neighborhood many years ago, was faded and peeling in long strips, revealing the weathered gray wood underneath. The white trim around the windows and porch was chipped and dingy, years of neglect showing in every cracked shutter and sagging gutter. Overgrown grass and weeds choked the front yard, reaching up to the knees in some places, dotted with dandelions and patches of clover. The concrete pathway leading to the front steps was stained with moss and dirt, cracked in several spots where roots had pushed through from below.
Hotch killed the engine.
The sudden silence felt deafening.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and glanced over at him. He sat perfectly still in the driver’s seat, hands still gripping the wheel even though the car was off. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle ticking, eyes fixed straight ahead on the road, almost as if he was considering turning the car back on and speeding off. His breathing was measured, deliberate, the same way it got right before he entered a hostage negotiation. But this was different. This was way more personal than he would like for it to be.
You didn’t rush him. Instead, you opened your door first, stepping out into the mild air. It smelled like cut grass from a neighbor’s lawn and distant rain, with an undercurrent of damp earth from the overgrown yard. The big oak tree in the front yard was massive and ancient-looking, its branches stretching wide over the property. From one thick limb hung the remnants of a wooden swing, the ropes frayed and green with moss, the seat itself darkened and warped, probably rotten thoroughly through after years of exposure to nature. You could almost picture a young Aaron there, legs pumping, laughing, or maybe just escaping whatever waited inside the red house.
The image made your heart twist.
You walked around the front of the SUV to his side and gently opened the driver’s door. “Aaron?”
He didn’t move at first. His gaze remained locked on the house, eyes tracing the familiar lines of the porch, the second-floor window that must have been his childhood bedroom based on how long his eyes lingered there, the overgrown flower beds his mother probably had tended with meticulous care once upon a time.
Then, slowly, he released the wheel. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, a rare tell of the storm building inside him. He turned his head toward you, and for a moment his eyes were wide and unguarded, filled with a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. Grief, anger, nostalgia, maybe all of it all at once, and a deep, aching reluctance.
The house wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was every night he’d lain awake wondering why love in this family felt like walking on broken glass when it came to his father. How his mother had been to scared to stand up to him when he got really bad, how Sean was the golden child, and he was the lost cause. And now, with her gone, those memories were about to flood back the second he stepped inside and started sorting through her things, her clothes, her letters, the photos that would force him to confront the boy he used to be.
“I’m okay,” he said, but the words came out hoarse and unconvincing. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just… need a minute.”
You nodded, reaching in to rest a hand on his shoulder.
He gave a small nod and finally swung his legs out of the car and stood. He closed the door with a soft thud and stood beside you on the cracked sidewalk, staring up at the red house again. His hand found yours almost instinctively, fingers lacing tight.
The wind rustled through the oak’s leaves, making the rotten swing creak faintly on its frayed ropes. A bird called from somewhere down the street. Otherwise, the neighborhood was quiet, as if it too was holding its breath for Aaron Hotchner to face his past.
“It’s just a house,” you whispered, trying to ease the tension, even though you both knew it was so much more. “And you’re not the boy who grew up here anymore. You’re the man who built something better.”
Hotch swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. His free hand came up to loosen the collar of his shirt. He took one step forward, then another, leading you both up the dirty pathway toward the front porch. His grip on your hand never loosened. With every step, you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. The overgrown yard brushed against your legs, the scent of wildflowers and decay mixing in the air. The porch steps creaked under his weight as he climbed them, pausing at the top to pull the key from his pocket.
He inserted the key into the lock but didn’t turn it yet. Instead, he stood there, forehead nearly touching the faded door, eyes closed.
“I haven’t been inside since Haley died,” he admitted quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Mom always came to me because she knew how much I had on my plate. It’s going to be… a lot. The smell of her perfume. Her coat on the hook. The kitchen table where we used to...” He cut himself off, jaw clenching again. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can,” you said softly. “And even if you can’t, I’ll be here.”
He turned his head to look at you. The love and gratitude in that gaze hit you hard. Hotch leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.
Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he turned the key.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
And the memories rushed out to meet him as the front door creaked open on hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years, releasing a stale wave of air that smelled of old wood, faded lavender sachets, and something faintly like death.
You stepped inside behind Hotch, the floorboards groaning under your combined weight like they remembered every footfall that had ever crossed them.
The living room was dim, heavy curtains drawn halfway across the windows, filtering the afternoon light into dusty shafts that cut across the worn Persian carpet. Everything looked frozen in time: a faded floral sofa with sagging cushions, a side table still holding a half-empty glass of water that had long since evaporated, leaving a ghostly ring of lime on the inside of it.
Picture frames lined the mantel, some with photos of a much younger Hotch in a cap and gown, others of Sean as a gap-toothed kid, a few family portraits where everyone’s smiles looked strained, like they’d been ordered to pose.
Hotch moved forward slowly, shoulders rigid, each step deliberate as if the house might swallow him if he wasn’t careful. You stayed near the entrance, leaning against the doorframe, giving him the space you could sense he needed. This was his childhood. His ghosts. You could see the way his eyes swept the room, cataloging, remembering, bracing himself for what he might be reminded of.
His breathing had grown shallower. He disappeared down the short hallway toward the kitchen and the stairs, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly, then fading.
You didn’t follow. Instead, you remained in the front room, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, listening to the creaks and sighs of the old house settling around you. The air felt thick.
You could almost picture it: a young Hotch doing homework at the coffee table, his father’s voice booming from the next room, his mother’s quiet sighs. It made your heart ache for the man he’d become, the one who carried so much without ever complaining because anything and everything was better than the way his father had treated him.
Minutes ticked by. You heard him moving upstairs briefly, then back down. When he finally reappeared in the doorway of the living room, his face was pale, jaw set in that familiar line that meant he was holding everything together by sheer force of will.
His eyes were distant, unfocused, like he was looking through the walls rather than at them.
He stopped just inside the room, gaze landing on the old leather armchair tucked in the corner by the window. It was a monstrous thing, cracked, faded brown leather that had split in several places, stuffing peeking. The arms were worn shiny from years of use, the seat permanently indented. It looked like it had survived decades of abuse and somehow endured.
Hotch stared at it for a long moment. Then, completely unprompted, his voice came out low and dull, almost monotone, like he was reciting facts from a case file rather than dredging up pieces of his own life.
“That was my father’s chair.”
The words hung in the air. He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the armchair, as if it might bite if he glanced away.
“He sat in it every night after dinner. Read the paper. Watched the news. Never let anyone else near it.” A pause. “I don’t think Mom ever sat in it. Not even after he died. She just… left it there. Like some kind of shrine to him.”
You watched him carefully, heart twisting at the undercurrent of old pain in his tone. You knew the stories, or at least the fragments he’d shared over late nights and quiet mornings when the memories dug their way out.
The relationship with his father had been anything but warm. Expectations that cut deeper than any of the bruises the man had ever given his son. Seeing that chair now, still occupying its throne in the corner, clearly stirred something unresolved in him that he likely wouldn’t resolve ever if you knew him right.
Hotch’s shoulders had tensed further, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to clench them into fists but wouldn’t allow himself the release.
He crossed the room in a couple of slow strides and stopped in front of the chair. Without hesitation, he reached down and slid his hand deep into the crevice between the cushion and the armrest, fingers probing into the dusty, grimy darkness.
You winced visibly, nose wrinkling at the thought of what might be living in there after all these years... crumbs, lint, God knows what else accumulated over decades. “Aaron…” you started softly, a gentle prompt laced with mild disgust, but he didn’t seem to hear you.
He rattled his hand around, the sound of coins clinking together breaking the heavy silence. When he pulled his hand back, his palm was cupped with a small pile of quarters, dimes, and nickels, some tarnished, some surprisingly bright.
He stared down at the coins. “Dad never emptied his pockets. Ever. Mom would yell at him every time the washer would rattle and bang like it was about to explode because he’d left a handful of change in his work pants again.” A faint, humorless twitch spread at the corner of his mouth. “She’d fish them out afterward, stack them on the counter, and tell him he was going to break the machine one day. He’d just grunt and go back to his chair.”
He let the coins spill slowly from his hand onto the side table beside the armchair, the metallic clatter loud in the quiet room. They scattered across the dusty surface, some rolling off and onto the carpet. Hotch didn’t move to pick them up. He just stood there, staring at the empty chair, lost in memories that clearly weren’t kind ones. His expression remained closed off, eyes shadowed, the grief and old resentment mixing together.
You took a small step closer but stopped yourself, sensing he wasn’t finished. The house seemed to hold its breath around you both, waiting for whatever else was about to surface.
The afternoon light had shifted, slanting through the half-drawn curtains and casting long golden rectangles across the living room floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, stirred up by the constant movement of boxes being dragged down the narrow attic stairs. Hotch had been at it for nearly two hours, climbing up and down with quiet determination to get everything emptied out of there by tonight. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and a fine layer of attic grime already smudging his forearms and the knees of his jeans. Each trip brought another cardboard box, some labeled in his mother’s neat handwriting, others unmarked and bulging at the seams. The living room was slowly transforming into a maze of cardboard and memory.
You had claimed a small clearing on the faded carpet, sitting cross-legged with your back against the old floral sofa. A worn shoebox balanced on your lap, its lid long discarded. Inside were dozens of loose photographs, some in color, some faded black-and-white, edges curled from years of neglect.
You were completely absorbed, fingers gently sorting through the pile, a soft, wistful smile tugging at your lips as you lingered on each image. The house had grown quieter around you, the earlier weight of Hotch’s silence giving way to the rustle of paper and the occasional creak of floorboards.
You didn’t hear him approach this time. His footsteps were softer now, tired from the physical labor and the emotional toll. He stopped a few feet away, a fresh box balanced on his hip, and watched you for a moment, head tilted, eyes softening at the sight of you so intently focused on his past.
“What are you doing?” His voice was low, rough from disuse for the past couple of hours, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath the exhaustion.
You startled, shoulders jumping slightly as the shoebox nearly tipped in your lap. A small laugh escaped you, embarrassed. “God, you scared me.” You glanced up at him, cheeks warming. “I was just… looking. Sorry, I got lost in these.”
He set the box down with a dull thud and wiped his hands on his jeans before lowering himself to the floor beside you, his long legs stretching out as he leaned back against the sofa. His shoulder brushed against yours.
You lifted the photograph you’d been studying and held it out to him. “Look at this one. This little boy looks so much like Jack it’s uncanny. Is it you or Sean?”
Aaron took the photo between his fingers, his expression shifting as he studied it. The corners of his mouth twitched, just the barest hint of a smile breaking through the guarded lines of his face.
The image showed a small boy on all fours on a cracked concrete path, grass stains on his knees, a determined scowl on his face as he looked at something just out of frame. Dark hair falling into his eyes, the same serious brow even then.
“That’s me,” he said quietly, voice thick with something unnameable. “About six. I think we were at the park near here. I was trying to catch a frog or… something. Mom always said I was too stubborn for my own good, even back then.”
You leaned in closer, your shoulder pressing more firmly against his as you both looked at the picture. The resemblance to Jack was striking, the shape of the eyes, the set of the jaw, that same intense focus even in play. It made your heart squeeze.
Hotch set the photo aside gently and reached into the box, pulling out another. This one was a family shot: Hotch, older than the last picture, maybe fifteen, standing between his parents at what looked like a backyard barbecue. His father’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, his mother smiling stiffly in a sundress. Hotch’s own smile was cautious.
“Fourth of July,” he murmured, distant but present. “Dad had just bought that ridiculous grill. Burned half the burgers, but Mom made it work. Sean was still a baby then, probably napping inside.” He paused, thumb brushing over the edge of the photo. “It was one of the better days. No yelling. Just… normal.”
You nodded, sorting through a few more. One caught your eye: Hotch as a teenager, lanky and serious, pimples scattered across his face, sitting on the front porch steps with a law book in his lap, the big oak tree and its swing visible in the background. The wooden swing looked new then, ropes bright and sturdy.
“Happy memory?” you asked softly, holding it up.
A faint, rueful chuckle escaped him. “Sort of. I’d sit out there for hours to escape whatever was going on inside. Reading, thinking, pretending the world outside this house was simpler.” His voice dipped lower, the dull edge from earlier creeping back in. “Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.”
The stack revealed more layers. A school picture of Hotch in a too-big blazer, hair neatly combed, looking every bit the overachiever even at twelve. Another of him and Sean, building a snowman in the front yard, both of them laughing with red cheeks and mittens. Sean clearly having more fun than Hotch. You pointed to that one, smiling. “You two look like you were having fun.”
“We were,” Hotch admitted, leaning his head back against the sofa. His arm draped casually behind you now, fingers absently tracing patterns on your shoulder. “Sean was always the one who could make me laugh when things got heavy. Before… everything changed, and I was sent away.”
There were harder ones too. A Christmas photo where the tree lights were bright but the tension in the room was almost visible, his father’s face stern, his mother’s eyes tired, young Aaron holding a gift as if it were fragile. You didn’t want to ask him about it, but you noticed the slightly pinkish handprint on his mother’s cheek. Aaron’s gaze lingered on that one longer, his jaw tightening. You knew he knew.
“Dad hated the holidays,” he said flatly, the words coming out removed, as if recounting someone else’s life. “Too much noise, too much mess. He’d drink more than usual. Mom would try to keep everything perfect, and I’d just… try to keep quiet.” He exhaled slowly. “This one was the year he smashed the ornaments because the neighbour kids were too loud. Mom cried in the kitchen afterward. I tried my best to clean it up, but ended up cutting my hand open.”
Your hand found his free one, squeezing gently. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned another photo toward you, a simple, everyday shot: his mother in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, Hotch as a teen setting the table in the background. No big smiles, no posed joy. Just life.
“Regular days,” he murmured. “Most of them were like this. Not terrible. Not great. Just… days. Mom trying to hold it together. Me learning how to disappear into responsibilities so I didn’t have to feel too much. Sean took this one.”
You rested your head against his shoulder, the shoebox still open between you. The pile of photos had grown into two small stacks, one for keeping, one for deciding later. Hotch’s breathing had evened out slightly. His thumb continued its slow stroke on your shoulder, grounding him as much as you.
The last of the daylight had softened into a warm amber glow by the time you both stepped out onto the back porch. The attic boxes still sat half-sorted in the living room. For now, you had called a gentle truce with the house, needing to get away from the ticking time-bomb of emotions that would eventually explode once Hotch started digging deeper into his childhood.
The air outside was cooler, carrying the faint scent of blooming honeysuckle from the overgrown fence line and the earthy dampness of the neglected garden beds. Crickets had begun their song.
Hotch lowered himself onto the old wooden porch. He held out a hand to you, and you took it without hesitation, letting him guide you into his lap. You curled up against his chest, knees drawn toward your body, one arm slipping around his waist while the other rested over his heart. His arms came around you immediately, one hand splaying across your back and the other settling at your hip, holding you close.
The sun hung low, painting the sky in streaks of rose, gold, and deepening lavender. It dipped slowly behind the line of trees at the back of the property, casting shadows across the yard. The shadow from the big oak out front was visible from here.
Neither of you spoke for a long time. The silence was serene. Hotch’s chin came to rest gently on top of your head, his breath warm and steady against your hair. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the faint beat of his heart. His fingers traced lazy, absent patterns on your hip.
The tension that had gripped him all day had eased, if only a little.
After several minutes, his voice rumbled softly against your scalp, barely disturbing the tranquility of the moment.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being here today.” His arms tightened fractionally around you. “I know we’re nowhere near done. There’s still the rest of the attic, the bedrooms, her clothes, all the things I haven’t even faced yet. But having you here made it… bearable. More than bearable.”
You felt the words settle warmly in your chest. You nuzzled closer into the crook of his neck, pressing your face against the warm skin just above his collar, breathing him in. Your fingers curled gently into his shirt, holding on as the last sliver of sun slipped below the treeline, leaving the sky awash in soft purples and lingering golds.
“Always,” you whispered back, the single word so simple and heartfelt, carrying the weight of every promise you’d ever made to him. “No matter how many boxes, how many memories, how many hard days… I’m always going to be right here with you, Aaron. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”
He didn’t reply with more words. Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. His hold on you deepened, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as he tucked you more securely against him.
The two of you stayed like that as twilight settled fully over the yard. The red house behind you was still full of ghosts and unfinished work. Hotch’s breathing grew slower, more even, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him in the safest way possible: with you safe in his arms, the sunset fading into night, and the quiet assurance that tomorrow, however difficult it might be, wouldn’t have to be faced without you by his side.
hey pretty! i love love loveee your work, and youre so talented! i have a request for you, which ill put righttt here 👇🏻
can i get a dean x fem!reader smut, where dean is like, really really subby (ive got a problem), and he tries to stay silent while reader rides him and teases him half to hell, but she coaxes sounds out of him by getting him to moan or whine or whimper by doing a sort of 'bribing' thing? like, she tells him he can eat her out if he makes a sound, or he can watch her play w herself?
im so so sorry, this is so self indulgent and ugh i feel like a freak but i knoww you can do it justice! also, i know you did something sort of similar with a hoh!reader, but after reading that this came to mind and i just !!!
⋆｡ ˚ make a sound for me
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you ride a desperately quiet dean and bribe those pretty sounds out of him with the promise of your pussy on his tongue and the sight of you fucking yourself with a toy.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sub!dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1003 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ smut !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, sub/dom dynamics, riding, teasing/edging, begging, female masturbation, sex toy use
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
you’re straddling dean’s hips, his cock buried deep inside you. the motel room’s dark except for the cheap lamp on the nightstand, throwing warm light across his flushed chest and the sweat beading on his collarbones.
he’s trying so hard to stay silent. jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, green eyes glassy as he stares up at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.
his hands fist the sheets instead of grabbing your waist. always so stubborn, even when he’s deep under, cock leaking inside you while you roll your hips slowly.
“so quiet tonight,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. you lift up until just the tip catches at your entrance, then sink back down torturously slow. his hips jerk once. a tiny, strangled breath escapes him but he catches it fast.
you smile, soft and mean. then, you lean forward so your breasts brush his chest, lips near his ear. “you know i love hearing you. why do you make me work for it, dee?”
dean swallows hard. his cock twitches inside you but he doesn’t answer.
you grind down, clit rubbing against him with every circle of your hips. his breathing gets ragged. you feel every inch of him, hot and perfect, stretching you open. still, he stays mostly quiet. just those tiny hitched breaths he can’t quite hide.
“tell you what,” you whisper, nipping at his earlobe. “make one little sound for me… just a moan… and after i’m done riding you, you can bury that pretty face between my legs. let eat me out until i come on your tongue. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
his eyes flutter. lips part. a soft, broken whimper slips out before he can stop it.
“good boy,” you praise, voice sweet as you pick up the pace. long, rolling thrusts that take him deep every time.
the wet slap of skin fills the room. dean’s head tips back, exposing the line of his throat, and another low sound escapes him. half moan, half whine.
you sit up straighter, hands braced on his chest, and really ride him. bouncing on his cock, thighs burning, breasts moving with every drop. his hands finally fly to your hips, gripping hard but not controlling. just holding on.
“louder,” you demand, slowing again just to torture him. “let me hear how bad you need it, dean.”
he whines then, high and needy, hips bucking up to chase you. “please—fuck, swwetheart, i need—i’ll be so good, just let me taste you after—”
you reward him by riding him harder, faster, grinding down on every thrust so your clit catches just right. dean’s moans turn constant. rough. desperate. filling the cheap motel room like music. his thighs tremble under you. he’s so close you can feel it, cock swelling inside you.
you reach over to the nightstand and grab the slim pink vibrator. dean’s eyes widen, pupils blown black.
“you’ve been so good,” you tell him, voice breathy as you keep riding him slow and deep. “now you get to watch.”
you click the toy on and press it to your clit while still moving on his cock. the vibration hits instantly, sharp and perfect. your head falls back, a moan spilling from your own lips. dean’s eyes locks on the sight.
“fuck—look at you,” he pants, voice cracking. “so fucking hot. please, baby, let me see you come like that.”
you circle the toy faster, riding him in shallow rolls that keep him buried deep. the dual sensation of his thick cock stretching you with the buzzing against your clit makes it build fast. your thighs shake. dean’s hands tighten on your hips, thumbs pressing bruises you’ll feel tomorrow.
“gonna come,” you gasp. “watch me, dee. don’t look away.”
he doesn’t. his eyes stay glued to where the toy meets your clit, to the way your pussy grips his cock on every stroke. the sight pushes you over. you come hard, clenching around him, crying out as pleasure crashes through you in waves.
dean groans loud, hips stuttering like he’s fighting not to follow.
you ride it out, then click the toy off and toss it aside. your body’s still pulsing when you lift off him, legs shaky. dean makes a desperate sound at the loss.
“please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “let me—i need to taste you. please.”
you crawl up his body and settle over his face, thighs bracketing his head. “you earned it, baby. make me come again.”
dean doesn’t hesitate. his hands grab your ass, pulling you down onto his mouth. his tongue dives in immediately, licking through your soaked folds, groaning at the taste of your release mixed with his. he eats you like a man starved, sucking your clit, fucking his tongue inside you, moaning loud and shameless against your pussy.
you grip the headboard, rolling your hips against his face. “that’s it. just like that.”
he whimpers into you, the vibration making your eyes roll back. one hand leaves your ass to stroke his own cock, desperate and leaking. you watch him fist himself while he devours you, the sight so filthy it sends fresh heat curling in your belly.
“gonna come again just from your mouth,” you pant.
dean doubles down, sucking hard on your clit. you shatter for the second time, thighs clamping around his head as you grind through it, soaking his face. he keeps licking you through every pulse, moaning like he’s the one coming.
when you finally slide off, legs trembling, dean looks utterly ruined. lips swollen, chin shiny, eyes hazy with need. his cock is still hard, flushed dark, leaking steadily.
you lean down and kiss him slow, tasting yourself on his tongue. “you were so good for me,” you whisper against his mouth.
dean shudders, pulling you close. his voice is wrecked when he answers. “again?” he asks, already half-hard again against your thigh. “please?”
you smile, fingers threading through his hair, and let the ache settle warm between you both.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
okay hear me out but Older!dean as your boss and he fucks you whenever you do something 'wrong'
boss!Dean is a tough one for me because I genuinely can't work out if it would be like---
☆ boss!Dean who watches you like you're prey on your first day
☆ boss!Dean who questions everything you do, making you redo every report and stopping you in meetings just to see you get flustered
☆ boss!Dean who lets his fingers skim the hem of your skirt when he stands behind you, his fingertips brushing the back of your thigh
☆ boss!Dean who invites you into his office one day after work and doesn't even say anything before he's got you against the wall with his tongue in your mouth
☆ boss!Dean who makes you wear shorter skirts and tighter shirts as eye candy to get him through his day
☆ boss!Dean who gets you to ride his thigh and then laughs at you when you cum
☆ boss!Dean who makes you give him blowjobs whenever he's on video calls- or just makes you sit under the desk with his cock in your mouth but doesn't let you do anything about it
☆ boss!Dean who fucks you against the window in his office because 'it's so high up no one will see' but you just know he's doing it to show you off
☆ boss!Dean that knows you'll do anything for him, fucking you in more and more obvious places hoping you'll get caught
~ OR ~
★ boss!Dean who's known to be tightass professional suddenly stuttering through meetings whenever you're there
★ boss!Dean who finds every opportunity to get you in his office but forgets his own excuses as soon as you walk in
★ boss!Dean who has to hold folders in front of him when you're around because his hard on is so obvious in his slacks
★ boss!Dean who feels like a creep even just talking to you because he's so down bad
★ boss!Dean who is shocked when you make the first move and it's obvious you've been feeling like this for a while
★ boss!Dean whose cheeks go red whenever you make a suggestive comment (let's be real- at this point everybody knows what's going on, he's not exactly subtle)
★ boss!Dean who has to be convinced to have sex in the office- but can't resist, large hand pressed over your mouth to keep you silent as he fucks you in the supply closet
★ boss!Dean who cums in his slacks before you even get his dick out when you hide under his desk during a meeting
★ boss!Dean who goes down on you on his desk for hours after work- just loving the feeling of you tugging at his hair and becoming undone on his tongue- and then freaks out when he thinks there's someone else still in the building
Hotch x Reader (bau preferred but if not that’s okay too). Angst to fluff if possible please! Maybe Hotch and reader avoiding each other (and their feelings) after having a late night kiss after a really hard case. Hope this sparks ⚡️ something for you to write! Thank you 🙏🏽
"The Morning After"
A Criminal Minds one-shot | Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader
After a grief-fueled kiss, you and Hotch struggle with the aftermath. Back in D.C., he admits he wants you despite the risks—and you stop pretending it didn’t matter.
(Hopefully this is along the lines of what you wanted!! these are my favourite vibes to write hehe x)
...
You weren’t sure what woke you first—the turbulence of the jet or the sinking feeling in your chest.
For a moment, still half-asleep, you forgot. You forgot about the case.
The bodies.
The weight.
And the kiss.
God, the kiss.
Reality settled in with the force of a punch.
You opened your eyes slowly, pretending to still be asleep, but you could feel the heat of his presence across from you.
Aaron Hotchner. Your boss.
The man you’d kissed like your life depended on it less than twelve hours ago.
Correction: the man you’d let kiss you, after you’d all but fallen apart in the hallway of a dingy hotel.
After the worst case you’d worked in months.
After watching a mother cradle her son’s body like she could will him back to life.
You hadn’t cried until you left the scene.
Not until your hotel door shut behind you and the silence pressed in. And then—then you couldn’t breathe.
You had stepped out into the hallway, unable to stay in that room alone with your grief, and you’d walked straight into him.
He’d looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and when he saw you—really saw you—his face cracked.
Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.
You didn’t remember who moved first, just that your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and then his lips were on yours.
It had been desperate. Unspoken. A collision of grief and longing and loneliness.
You remembered the press of his hands at your waist. The way he’d kissed you like he needed it to survive. The quiet sound he made when you kissed him back, pulling him closer, ignoring every voice in your head screaming this is wrong, this is dangerous, this is everything you can’t have.
But it had felt like the first thing in days that made you feel human again.
And then you'd pulled away.
You remembered the look in his eyes.
Open. Bare. Vulnerable in a way Hotch never allowed himself to be.
And you remembered being too scared to speak. You’d just walked away.
And now here you were.
Sitting across from him on the BAU jet, coffee growing cold in your hands.
Neither of you speaking.
Neither acknowledging what had happened. It was as if the kiss never occurred.
Except your lips still burned with the memory.
You risked a glance up. He was reading—pretending to read—a file, but you could see the tension in his posture.
Shoulders rigid. Jaw tight. Avoiding your eyes like it was an act of self-preservation.
It made something ache in your chest.
Did he regret it? Did he think it was a mistake?
Or worse—did he think you were?
“Here,” Emily said, offering a granola bar. “You should eat something.”
You blinked, pulled out of the spiral.
“Thanks,” you mumbled, though you barely touched it.
The plane landed in D.C. and the team dispersed with tired goodbyes.
You tried to slip away quietly, grabbing your go-bag and heading toward the exit ramp, desperate for the solace of your car, your apartment, your own private misery.
But then—
“Can we talk?”
His voice stopped you cold.
You froze, one foot on the jet stairs. Your heart stuttered. Slowly, cautiously, you turned.
Hotch stood at the base of the ramp, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his expression unreadable—but his eyes were locked on you.
He looked as uncertain as you felt.
You nodded.
He didn’t say another word until you were in his SUV.
You noticed he didn’t take the turn toward Quantico.
He drove in silence, the weight between you growing heavier with each passing streetlamp.
Your mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.
Was this where he told you it was a mistake?
That it crossed a line? That it couldn’t happen again?
When he pulled into a quiet park and turned off the engine, you braced for it.
But instead, he just stared at the steering wheel.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said finally.
Your stomach dropped.
You turned your head toward the window, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay.”
“I shouldn’t have let it happen like that,” he continued, quieter this time. “You deserved better than that moment. You deserved better than me losing control.”
That hurt. Because for all the complications, it hadn’t felt like him losing control.
It had felt like a choice.
“I didn’t regret it,” you said, your voice thin. “But I regret walking away.”
That got his attention.
He looked over at you, eyes softening with something like hope.
“I thought you regretted it,” you admitted. “You didn’t say anything this morning. You couldn’t even look at me.”
“I was scared,” he said simply. “I am scared.”
You turned fully toward him, hands clenched in your lap. “Why?”
“Because I’ve spent so long building walls to survive this job. To survive… everything. Haley. Foyet. Jack. The darkness we see every single day. I don’t let myself want things anymore. Not really.”
He swallowed hard.
“But I want you,” he whispered.
Your breath caught.
“And I don’t know what that means,” he added. “I don’t know how to have this and still do this job the way I need to. But not telling you how I feel—it’s worse. It’s so much worse.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your eyes stung.
“Last night,” he continued, “it wasn’t just grief or adrenaline. It was something I’ve been trying to push down for months. Something I thought I could ignore, because it was safer that way. But I can’t anymore.”
The silence stretched between you, fragile and tentative. You reached out, placing your hand over his where it gripped the gearshift.
“I’m scared, too,” you said. “But maybe we don’t have to figure everything out at once.”
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours.
“I don’t know what this looks like,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
You gave a small, watery laugh. “Neither do I."
He brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles, and for the first time since the case ended, since the kiss, since the spiraling aftermath—you felt like you could finally breathe again.
Maybe there were rules. Risks. Realities to face.
But in this moment, in the quiet of an empty park at sunrise, none of that mattered.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, inappropriate workplace relationships and activity, banter, sexual tension, sex toys, semi-hate sex, rough sex, dom!bucky, degrading, dirty talk, power dynamic, size diff, begging, coercion, brat-taming, aftercare, kinda angsty at the end, pet names: "baby" "doll" "little brat"
⭐︎ word count: 8.0k
⭐︎ a/n: bwa threw a little secret santa fic-exchange event, and the person i drew was none other than @54nboo. i could not have been any happier when i saw her name pop up on my screen. one of the coolest and funniest person i've ever met on this platform. there's never a time where i'm not smiling every time i read her messages. (don't let this get to your head) i hope i did this fic justice for you 🖤 and if you don't like it 🖤 i'm giving you coal instead 🖤 merry christmas, erin
synopsis:
When the office decided to participate in secret santa, the last person you hoped to draw was your boss and arch nemesis, Congressman Barnes. You gifted him a not-so-friendly and certainly not-so-work-appropriate gift thinking it’d be payback for the times he overworked you, but what you didn’t expect was that Bucky had drawn your name for secret santa too.
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You couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across your face once you heard your name being called to hand over the gift to your Secret Santa. You had been holding in your laughter all day, sneaking subtle glances to gauge his expression, because the gift you had picked out was absolutely inappropriate—potentially fireable—but when the opportunity to give your boss one big “FUCK YOU” presented itself, how could you resist?
The moment you locked eyes with Congressman Barnes and handed him the perfectly wrapped present with your brightest smile, you could practically see the stress lines deepen around his eyes as he accepted it with cautious hands.
“You’re my Secret Santa?” he asked, blinking up at you from his seat.
“Yup,” you grinned, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying innocently, even though every item in that box was anything but. “Merry Christmas, Congressman.”
Bucky gave you one last skeptical look before turning his attention back to the gift now resting neatly in his lap. Carefully, he untied the ribbon, peeled back the wrapping paper, and lifted the lid of the box.
Staring back at him was a HOW TO: SEX FOR DUMMIES, Volumes One and Two.
And a packet of the smallest size Trojan condoms.
The moment you saw his eyes darken, his jaw clench, and his eyebrow twitch, you knew you had won.
After months of constant bickering and endless arguments about ridiculous schedules and a growing workload, you had finally gotten your sweet revenge, and what better way to deliver it than through the art of gift-giving, where everything is supposed to be merry and bright?
“Well,” Gary said, grinning with anticipation, “are you going to show the rest of us, Barnes?”
Bucky forced a smile so bright it looked painful. “No. I think I’ll be keeping this one to myself,” he teased, placing the lid back on the box before carefully setting it on the floor.
Whistles broke out around the room, everyone riding high on holiday spirits.
“Well, whatever she got you, it must be a keeper,” one of the press assistants chimed in. “Probably why she’s managed to stay your trusty assistant for so long—despite all the bickering.”
That earned a round of perfectly polite, coworker-forced laughter that grated on Bucky’s nerves, and only made his gift even sweeter.
“That’s exactly right,” Bucky said, exhaling through his nose. His tone was so flat no one could tell whether he was joking or actually annoyed. But then, he looked up at you with a smile and eyes that seethed You’re fucking fired.
“Thank you. I love it.” Bucky lied. “I guess it’s my turn?”
Everyone nodded, and Bucky lifted an equally nicely wrapped present—which surprised you, because he never had the diligence to wrap his own gifts. He always left you, his assistant, responsible for all of that.
He stood up with an old man’s groan, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in all the people sitting in their respective seats.
Before they landed back on you. Again.
You blinked as he closed the distance, his expensive shoes hitting the floor as he presented the gift.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. You could see the way the corners of his lips twitched from the soreness of his forced smile.
“Wow,” the press assistant cooed. “What are the odds of getting each other for Secret Santa?”
“Goes to show how meant to be they are,” another person teased.
You looked up at him, dumbfounded. A part of you felt guilty for getting him a gag gift, especially after seeing how pristine the wrapping was—meaning he took the time and effort out of his already busy day to make this presentable for you.
“Congressman Barnes,” you started softly, your face flushing with guilt as you reached for the present. “I… I don’t know what to say—”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he said, nodding toward the gift. “Open it.”
There was something about the way his eyes looked that made you second-guess yourself—but you gave him a quick, brief smile as you started to undo the perfect bow, your fingers gently tearing the wrapping paper. Bucky’s eyes were on you the entire time, examining your expression as you slowly lifted the lid.
You looked down. Staring back at you was a purple vibrator with the words “Womanizer Next Duo Clitoral Stimulator and Vibrator” listed loud and proud on the box. But there was also something underneath it. You pushed the vibrator box aside with your finger; beneath it was black, lacey lingerie that left little to the imagination.
Your face flushed—first with embarrassment, then with a burning hot anger. You didn’t dare to lift any of the items up.
What the hell was the Congressman thinking?
Your eyes met Bucky’s again. He was standing above you, an obnoxious smile on his face at your subtle reaction. Not noticeable to the others, but obvious to him.
“Well?” he taunted. “Do you like it?”
Your throat felt tight. The vibrator’s glossy purple plastic seemed to mock you from inside the box, alongside the lingerie that looked like it belonged in a hidden drawer, not an office holiday party. You forced your jaw to unclench.
“I—”
“Come on!” Gary called out, smiling in his seat. “Show us! What’d he get you?” he elbowed the woman beside him. “He’s a terrible gift-giver, so this has to be good.”
Bucky’s eyes never left yours, despite the amused chatter and whispers around the room. His smile widened, because deep down, he knew you didn’t have the guts to reveal what he’d gotten you. And he was right.
Payback. Triumph.
And check-fucking-mate.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box, your nails nearly digging into the cardboard. Heat climbed up your neck and spread beneath your collar, and you could only pray no one noticed as you forced a smile.
“I don’t think I should show this one,” you said with a forced laugh.
Bucky also laughed. Not with you, but at you.
“Aww, come on!” someone whined. “Stop being so secretive!”
You inhaled slowly, deeply, and slipped the lid back over the box. “It’s private.”
“That’s right,” Bucky nodded. Then he leaned in just slightly, his voice taunting. “Aren’t you going to thank me for such a thoughtful gift?
In other people’s eyes, they thought it was hilarious that the usually stoic and broody Congressman had cracked an office-friendly joke. But to you, you wanted to do nothing more than take this purple vibrator and shove it up his—
“Thank you,” you said through clenched teeth instead. “You’re so thoughtful, Congressman.”
The next few days were uncomfortably tense between you and the Congressman.
Whatever bickering or passive-aggressive back-and-forth the two of you usually exchanged had somehow multiplied tenfold. The paperwork he dropped on your desk were thicker than usual with dense briefing packets, endless policy drafts, constituent letters that normally would’ve gone to the interns. He had you doing redundant tasks the front desk or staff assistants could’ve easily handled; reorganizing files you had already organized, reformatting reports that didn’t need reformatting, double-checking things you’d triple-checked yesterday.
And the schedule.
The goddamn schedule.
He had you listed for more overtime than you had seen all year. Fielding late-night calls, managing back-to-back meetings, arranging interviews he refused to reschedule despite his calendar already being overloaded.
And his excuse?
“That’s politics.”
But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case. This was because of that goddamn Sex for Dummies book and the extra-small condoms you gifted him. This was him getting his sweet revenge, as if the lingerie and vibrator hadn’t been insulting enough.
You had gone home several nights in a row exhausted—tired, stressed, and in desperate need of some kind of relief. And every time you walked through your front door, that purple vibrator box sat there waiting for you—taunting you. Haunting you.
The glossy packaging felt like Congressman Barnes himself was delivering another slap to your face. And because of that, you never touched it. You refused to use it, because opening it would mean letting Bucky win.
So, since it was the start of a brand new week, you did the mature, responsible thing that even the Congressman wouldn’t find himself doing.
You packed the gifts he had given you into a neat little gift bag—stripped of all the festive wrapping paper he had miraculously folded with before. Your plan was simple; return the gift. Tell him, professionally, how wildly inappropriate it was. Then apologize for your own wildly inappropriate gift.
A clean slate. A truce, even.
Except the chance never came.
You were already drowning in tasks he had piled onto your desk. Three constituent reports, two briefing summaries, and a stack of letters he somehow wanted “proofread, printed, signed, and mailed before lunch.”
And, as always, you grabbed the letters with a smile and said, “Yes, Congressman.”
Later in the day, you were halfway through drafting an email when Bucky stepped out of his office and into yours with a folder in hand.
“Need you to handle this,” he said, placing the folder directly on top of the open one you were already working on.
Your hands paused on the keyboard as you looked up. “Congressman,” you addressed him slowly. “I’m still working on the policy revisions you asked for. I’m not finished—”
“This takes priority,” he said, pointing a finger at the file. “I need the whole packet organized, footnoted, and ready before my meeting with the Oversight Committee—”
You blinked, looking at the time at the bottom right of your monitor. “That’s in—”
“Forty minutes,” he confirmed, looking down at his watch and not at you. “Better get to work.”
It was like the devil himself was standing right in front of you—all six feet of him in an expensive suit and tie that probably cost more than your salary. Before Secret Santa, he already made your work life a living hell, and now he seemed to be taking even greater joy in kicking you while you were down.
You couldn’t take it anymore. It was like something inside you snapped—your face immediately felt boiling hot, and your heart beat faster than you could think. Being in this very office with this man taunting you triggered your flight or fight response.
And you were choosing fight.
You quickly stood up, your chair rolling back and hitting hard against the wall. This finally made him meet your eyes.
“Are you kidding me?” you scoffed. “You’ve been dumping extra work on me all week. Redundant tasks. Unnecessary overtime. A schedule that’s fucking impossible to keep up with,” you jabbed a finger at the folder on your desk. “And this? You want finished in forty minutes? Are you serious right now?”
Bucky froze and glanced over to the window. When he caught people staring, they immediately looked away.
At this point, you were on the very precipice of getting fired. You didn’t care who was watching anymore.
“What the hell is going on, Congressman?” you demanded. “Are you punishing me because of the Christmas gifts I got you?”
You saw Bucky’s jaw clench in the dim light of your office. He didn’t say anything, nor did he even blink. Without a word, he turned and stepped away from you. He walked straight to the window that separated your office from the hallway and—under the eyes of every staffer pretending not to eavesdrop— he pulled the blinds shut with one, easy motion.
Then, he walked to your door, closed it softly, and quietly clicked the lock into place.
Bucky turned back toward you slowly, his hands tucked in his pockets and his expression completely unreadable.
“Excuse me?” he asked, and you still couldn’t discern his emotion.
It felt like you were poking the bear, and suddenly, being in this office where you were supposed to feel most productive felt suffocating. You probably should’ve apologized, but you knew you were already in deep shit. You just hoped he had any ounce of understanding in that cold political heart of his.
“I said,” you cleared your throat, not backing down. “Are you punishing me because of the Christmas gifts I gave you? You know, the one with the How to Sex for Dummies and the small condoms—”
He raised a hand. “Stop right there.”
You scoffed again. “What—”
“You want to talk about the Christmas gifts? Fine,” he said, meeting you back at the other side of your desk and staring you down. “But as your boss, I think I should go first.”
Before you could even say anything else, Bucky continued.
“Let’s talk about the oh-so-pleasant gift you gave me for Secret Santa. Did you even read what I put down on my wishlist? Did you even look at it?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm and quiet despite the biting tone.
And despite him asking you a question, he continued without waiting for an answer.
“No, I don’t think you did. So let me tell you what I asked for,” he added, stepping closer and resting both hands on the table, leaning forward so that he was eye-level with you across your desk.
“I wanted gray socks and an assortment of neckties,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Not a goddamn Sex for Dummies book and…” he grimaced before continuing, “… extra-small fucking Trojan condoms.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Bucky gave you a look. “You’re laughing? You’re actually fucking laughing?”
You quickly shook your head. “No, sir. It’s just—”
His eyes trailed to your desk. “What is that?” he interrupted suddenly, nodding toward the plain gift bag sitting on your desk.
You looked down at the bag, clearing your throat and trying to choose your words carefully before digging yourself into an even deeper hole. “Okay. You know what? You’re right, Congressman. I shouldn’t have done that. I’d like to—uh, actually apologize for the gifts that I gave you.”
He stood up straight, crossing his arms and raising a skeptical brow. “Apologize?”
You nodded again, your teeth strumming your bottom lip to keep from laughing at his man-child outburst just a few seconds ago. You picked the bag up with gentle hands.
“I understand that the gifts I gave you were highly inappropriate, especially for a work setting. I also understand that you’ve been feeling… on edge because of… well, said gifts.”
Bucky tried to ignore the subtle taunt in your voice, but he couldn’t.
“I thought I’d give you the gifts you gave me back, and the receipt for the… sex education books. Condoms aren’t returnable, though. So…” you handed the bag to him. He grabbed it, opening it slowly.
“I didn’t use any of the things you got me—so if you wanted to return that as well, you can. And you can use the money to get the gray socks and neckties you wanted instead.”
Bucky set the bag down on the desk, pulling the receipt out slowly. He mentally read your purchase back, the Sex for Dummies Volume One and Two and the small condoms taunting him yet again.
“So, I guess we can consider this a clean slate?” you rested your hands primly in front of you, flashing the most innocent-looking smile you could muster in front of your asshole of a boss.
“A clean slate…” he scoffed. “Is that what this is now?”
“Look, Congressman. Since Secret Santa, you’ve been working me to the bone. Things have been tense between us, and I know now it’s because of the gifts I got you,” you sighed. “So… can you just please take this as a peace offering so we can move on—”
Your voice trailed off as you saw Bucky dig into the bag, fishing out the vibrator box and holding it up for you to see. Your face immediately burned.
“You really didn’t use this?” he asked, even though the wrapper was still intact.
“No, sir.”
He kept his eyes down at the box, unwrapping it. He nodded toward the lingerie inside the bag. “And you didn’t wear that?”
“No, sir,” you repeated, your face flushing.
A deep, almost disappointed exhale escaped his nose. “That’s a shame,” he mumbled, unwrapping the plastic layering and tossing it somewhere on the floor. “I carefully hand-picked these items because you always seem so tense and worked up around the office—I figured this could’ve helped you relieve your stress.”
Your face was crimson as you watched him unbox the vibrator, pulling out the toy slowly and carefully before setting the box gently back down on the table.
How the hell was he not dying of embarrassment right now? To say this was inappropriate would be an understatement. You loathed your boss—you guys weren’t even friends, and his actions in front of you, knowing how flustered you were getting while he kept his cool, only seemed to pour salt right into the open wound.
“Help me?” you recoiled, making a face. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Congressman, but how the hell could this ‘gift’ possibly help me—”
“Don’t act smart,” he cut in sharply. “You don’t mean any disrespect—but that’s all you’ve been throwing in my face since I walked in here.”
He lifted the toy up so you could see it, though you wanted so badly to look away from how shameful this was.
“I drag my feet into this building every morning,” he continued, “because I know you’re going to be here—already in a mood, rolling your eyes at every little task I give you. You stomp around like there’s a permanent raincloud hovering over your head, always trying to make my already stressful workday a living hell.”
Your jaw almost hit the floor.
You were making his workday a living hell? Meanwhile he strutted around with a permanent stick wedged so far up his ass? You couldn’t take it anymore. Here you were, trying to make amends, and he had the gall to say this to you as if he weren’t the problem.
“I’m sorry,” you scoffed. “What did you just say to me?”
You snaked around your desk, your heels clicking angrily against the floor before you could think. When you finally met him face-to-face, body-to-body, you jabbed a finger square into his hard chest.
“I have a permanent rain cloud over my head?” you laughed, humorlessly. “You make my life hell. You treat me like crap compared to the other staff. You act like I’m some dispensable, mindless assistant who’s on-call twenty-four seven to fix your crises, clean up your messes, and read your mind.”
Each end of a sentence was exaggerated with a hard jab to his chest—a jab that left him unwavering and unmoving, as he stood completely still with the vibrator tucked between his fingertips.
“So, I’m sorry—actually, no. I’m not sorry for getting bitchy when you push me around. I act the way I do because of how hard you keep pushing me! ”
He looked down at you, his expression still unreadable, brows slightly narrowed. “Sit down.”
You huffed, moving your finger away. “What?”
He tapped the edge of your desk with two fingers. “Sit. Down,” he repeated. “Let’s take a breath and talk like two functional adults. Can you do that for me?”
You gave him a doubtful look, but you listened. He was your boss, after all.
Hesitantly, you took a seat on the desk, perched awkwardly as you tried to pull your skirt down. But despite the vulnerable position, he kept his eyes on yours.
“You’ve been stressed, I see that. And these gifts,” he lifted the vibrator again. “You were supposed to use them to make yourself feel better.”
Your eyes flickered to the toy, then back to him. He continued speaking as if it were a lecture.
“You were supposed to go home that night, unwrap this box, and take care of yourself.” He walked around to the other side of the desk.
You looked over your shoulder to watch him, and he caught you.
“Keep your eyes forward,” he instructed, and you did.
He stood behind you, his presence large and heavy as he leaned in, his breath tickling against your ear as he spoke. “And the lingerie? You were supposed to wear that when you took yourself out for a night out. Maybe show it off to a lucky man after he took you to a fancy dinner. But you didn’t use any of my gifts, and that hurts, you know?”
“Funny for you to say,” you mumbled. “I bet you didn’t use any of the gifts I got you either.”
“You mean the extra-small condoms? No. That wouldn’t fit. I would burst right through,” he sighed, shaking his head disappointingly. “But I’ve read the book you got me. How to Sex for Dummies? I’ve gotten through the first few pages, and I gotta say, I’ve learned quite a bit of… valuable stuff.”
You barked out a harsh, mocking laugh.
“You actually read the book?” you snorted. “I bet the lucky lady you used those ‘skills on’ had a great time.”
Bucky planted his vibranium hand on the empty space next to you with a heavy thud. You flinched at the soft, metallic whirring sound it made, and how much closer his body was now pressed to yours.
“That’s the problem,” he rasped against the sensitive shell of your ear. “I don’t have anyone to practice what I’ve learned. But you’re right here, and I have this.” He lifted the vibrator from behind so that it was clearly in your peripheral view. “How about I help relieve my poor, overworked assistant’s stress? Show her, firsthand, what I’ve learned from this very important book she gifted me?”
You swallowed hard, a shiver shooting down your spine at your boss’s indecent proposition.
“Sir—”
Your words got cut off, replaced with a startled yelp as he wrapped his left arm around your body, dragging you away from the edge of the desk and closer to him. Your skirt rose up as your back pressed against his chest.
“Congressman!” you gasped as you squirmed awkwardly, but his vibranium arm kept your body tight and close to his hard body. “Congressman, someone might see—”
“No one will see,” he murmured, low and raspy against your ear—it was ticklish. “I’ll make sure of it.”
With one strong vibranium arm holding your body still, he reached over with his other hand and let his knuckles trail down the smooth surface of your leg, nudging them open and teasing the vibrator along your inner thigh.
“Open up, doll,” he gruffed. “Let your Congressman relieve your stress.”
Your entire body was shaking with humiliation and a shameful, dreading arousal from the close proximity and the exposed position he’d left you in. As much as you hated him—he was right.
These past few days, you’d been nothing but a pent-up mess waiting to explode. And with your conventionally attractive—and equally annoying—boss’s body pressed up behind you, touching you in places you normally hadn’t been touched other than by yourself, the bomb was ticking by the minute.
“Congressman,” you let out a breathy sigh. “We can get into so much trouble for this.”
“In trouble?” he clicked his tongue. “How could I get in trouble? When I’m just your boss, looking after my sweet, little assistant?”
A soft little gasp left your lips at the sound of the vibrator being clicked on.
“Would you look at that? It came already charged.” He said, amused.
Bucky felt you tense up, and his metal arm gave your body a reassuring squeeze, cool vibranium fingers splaying over your clothed stomach.
“Relax,” he cooed into your ear. “You need to be taken care of. I can feel your tension here…” His vibranium fingers trailed down from your stomach to the hem of your skirt, lifting it up and letting his fingers play along the fabric against your thigh.
“Oh,” he sighed. “You’re wet. That means you like this.”
You squeezed your eyes shut as his fingers insistently pressed against your panties, already damp and sticking to your sensitive folds. It was embarrassing, almost humiliating, but what was worse was that you actually liked it.
“Yeah?” you mocked, trying to act unfazed. “Did the book tell you that?”
A harsh, low laugh rumbled from his chest as his left hand hooked the side of your panties, trying to push them aside, but he ended up shredding the thin fabric with one hard, unexpected tug. You let out a sharp gasp as your warm, wet cunt was immediately kissed by the cool office air. He was completely indifferent to the fact that he’d torn your underwear clean off.
“It did,” he said. “The book also told me that this—” with his other hand, he pressed the vibrator against your clit “—was a woman’s sweet spot. Is that right?”
“Ah—!” you whined, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle your moans as you felt the cool, vibrating silicone stimulate your core.
“Oh, look at you,” he chuckled, pressing the vibrator harder against your hypersensitive spot—making you squirm. “Finally staying quiet for me. Got nothing smart to say with this toy pressed against you, huh?”
You shook your head, still defiant. “Fuck you, Congressman.”
With a low groan, his vibranium hand found your blouse, his fingers fumbling clumsily at the buttons. Lacking patience, he instead gave your top a harsh tug, sending one or two buttons flying and clattering to the floor.
“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, your body moving with his rough movements. “Are you out of your mind? That shirt was expensive!”
“There’s that goddamn mouth again,” he snarled. “You’ve always got something to say that’ll piss me off.”
He moved the toy up and down, your mouth falling open into a helpless O-shape as he stimulated your sensitive folds. The silicone toy was soaking up your arousal, making embarrassingly wet noises you wished you could drown out.
“Fu-fuck, Congressman!”
He pressed the toy against your clit again, making your head tip back against his shoulder. His fingers coyly probed against your entrance, and you immediately started fluttering around him. Your hips moved before you could control them—bucking up to meet his fingers, wanting him, begging for him.
“Please,” you breathed so quietly, as if it were a plea to yourself.
His fingers stilled, tucked between your folds and pressing against your entrance—but not with enough pressure to slip inside.
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re begging?” he smiled cruelly. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘please’ in the office.”
He upped the speed of the vibrator, and your eyes shot open wide. You moved your hips in rhythm with the vibration, your cunt fluttering against his finger, trying to sink yourself onto his touch.
“I hate you,” you hissed through clenched teeth. “I fucking despise you—”
“So, now you hate me?” he cut you off, his voice disappointed as he turned the vibrator off and pulled it away from your clutching heat. “I can never get through to you, can I?”
Bucky took a step back from the desk, and the warmth from his arms and chest that had once enveloped you disappeared, leaving you immediately aching for him. You quickly turned around, your clothes rumpled and your legs trembling.
“Hey! W—wait, what are you doing—!” you gasped.
Before he could take another step back, your hand shot out to grab his tie.
“Don’t go,” you hissed, frustrated. “You can’t just—touch a woman like that and leave her like this. For fuck’s sake, did the book teach you nothing, Barnes?”
Bucky looked down at you, his eyes trailing over your body sprawled out on the desk. Your hair was tousled, your skirt was pushed up messily around your thighs, your blouse was torn open, and you were wet.
Soaked. Dripping all over the desk.
Yet, here you were, a hand tight around his necktie, demanding him.
“I’m sorry?” he narrowed his brows, setting the vibrator down on the desk. His hand circled around your wrist, giving it a tight squeeze to pry your hand away from his tie. “You’re barking demands at your boss?”
You swallowed hard. Your eyes dropped to his hand—his fingers wrapped around your wrist making your pulse thud faster. The contrast was startling as his grip was firm and steady, while your wrist looked almost delicate between his fingers.
You hated that. You hated feeling small next to him.
And yet, your stomach flipped anyway.
His expression didn’t help either. Bucky’s face was tense with irritation. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes so dark in a way that should’ve warned you to stand down. But instead, it only made you want to test him more.
You wanted to see how far you could get under his skin, after all the times he had gotten under yours.
Even though you were clearly in the more vulnerable position, a wicked little smile tugged at your lips.
“I see how it is,” you spoke coolly. “You’re chickening out because you don’t have it in you to finish a job you started.”
Your eyes trailed down from his brooding face to his chest, then lower, to the unmistakable tent straining against the fabric between his legs. He was hard—that much was painfully obvious. The heavy outline of him twitched against his slacks, almost as if he were begging to touch you as much as you were begging for him.
“Is it the lack of confidence,” your eyes fluttered back up to his, meeting a gaze that was equal parts angry and hungry, “or… the lack of experience?”
An agitated tick in his eyebrow caught your attention. It was small, subtle enough that anyone else could easily glaze over it, but to you, it was a victory—motivation to keep going.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you grinned wider, voice turning into a purr. “Did I upset you—?”
Before you could finish, the vibranium hand around your wrist tightened. He hauled you forward until your chest collided with his, and then, with a sudden force, he shoved you backward. You let out a small cry as your back hit the hardwood of the desk again, the impact rattling the pens and papers scattered around you.
By the time you blinked your eyes open, he was already over you. His metal arm slammed onto the desk right next to your head, caging you in while he supported his weight. He leaned even closer, his full, heavy weight pressing into you—right in between your legs, pinning you flat against the surface. His other hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look into his eyes.
“Lack of experience?” he snarled.
He rocked his hips, the feeling of his erection pressing against your bare split making you gasp.
“You think that’s what this is?” He rocked his hips again harder this time, making your body jolt against the desk. “You think I’m some pathetic, incompetent man who gives you tasks all day—that I don’t have the ability to please a bratty woman like you?”
“Barnes—”
He released your face, standing up straight as his hands flew down to the buckle of his belt, then to the zipper of his pants. With a clumsy, eager fumble, he pulled himself out, one strong hand circling his shaft as he gave himself slow, steady pumps.
You tried to sit up to get a good look, but he was back on you before you could move. His left arm caged you against the table again, his body completely enveloping yours as he pressed his weight into you. Bucky rubbed his cock up and down your slit, coating himself in your sweet arousal.
“That book wasn’t meant to taunt me,” he rasped, his eyes locked on yours as he continued torturing you with his teasing. “It was an invitation—an invitation to fuck you. Is that right?”
His tip would catch against your entrance, but it was never enough to push himself in. Every time, you would buck your hips up for that sweet sensation, but he never gave it to you.
You choked out a laugh despite your desperate movements. “You’re so full of yourself, Congressman. I would never—”
He pushed his hips forward. You were already so wet—it was easy for him to slide right in. Once his tip stretched past your entrance, your walls immediately fluttered around him.
“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, still desperately refusing to let him hear you.
“Fuck,” he grunted in frustration. “You’re wet, but you’re still so tight. Too damn tight.”
He tried pushing his hips forward, trying to let himself sink deeper into you, but your walls were restricting around him, clenching instinctively. You hadn’t pleased yourself in a long time, and you hadn’t let anyone else do it for you, either. The sheer size of him suddenly stretching you out like this was almost more than you could take.
But you would never admit defeat in front of your boss.
“Maybe you just—” you swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, “don’t know how to put it in right.”
Another irritated snarl escaped his lips as he bucked his hips harder this time. He pushed himself halfway in with one shallow, punishing thrust that made you arch your back against the desk. Your chest pressed flush against his as his heavy body completely covered yours.
“That stupid book told me to go slow,” he mumbled against your skin. “That I gotta ease my way inside. Be gentle with you. Savor you. Make it last—but fuck, when you’re taunting me like that, I don’t want to be gentle.”
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes defiantly locking onto his. “Oh, please. I don’t think you know how to fuck a woman hard, even if you wanted to.”
“You goddamn brat.”
Without a second of warning, Bucky pulled back slightly. Your cunt was already grasping for him as just his tip remained inside, and then he slammed his hips forward, burying himself in one heavy, punishing stroke. He bottomed out so hard your breath hitched in a silent, high-pitched scream. The impact rattled the desk, the wood groaning under the sudden violence of his weight.
“A woman like you doesn’t need ‘gentle,’” he hissed, his body collapsing on top of yours as you were sandwiched between his heavy frame and the cold hardwood.
“A woman like you, with that smart mouth and fucking attitude, needs a good dick inside you—fucked so hard until you’re a babbling mess.”
Bucky didn’t wait for an answer.
He began to fuck you with a desperate, angry rhythm, each thrust growing deeper and more frantic. He wasn’t being gentle; he wasn't easing his way in like the book told him to.
He was claiming every inch of you, his large frame smothering yours against the desk. His vibranium hand clamped down on the edge of the wood right next to your head, the metal clicking sharply as he used it for leverage to drive himself even deeper.
“Is this hard enough for you?” He hissed, his voice ragged. “Answer me, doll,” he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Does this feel like I don’t know what I’m doing?”
You couldn’t answer.
Your hands, which had been jabbing a finger into his chest moments ago, were now clawing desperately at his shoulders, your nails digging through the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.
You were a mess of contradictions—hating him, hating the position he had you in, but your hips were bucking up to meet him with a shameful, starving urgency. Every time he slammed into you, your head knocked back against the desk, your eyes rolling back in sheer overstimulation.
He was relentless. His other hand found your waist, his fingers bruising your skin as he held you still, forcing you to take every inch of him. The sounds in the room were a chaotic blur—the wet, frantic slapping of skin on skin, the creak of the desk, and his heavy, jagged breathing in your ear.
“You piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever worked with,” he rasped, his pace turning fast and mean. “You’re a nightmare. And that should make this easy. It should make you disposable—fuck, but it doesn’t. It only makes me want you more—and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.”
“Congressman,” you gasped, trying to collect your words, but only a rambling mess came out instead. “I—ah!”
He shifted his grip, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even more. The new angle was devastating. He was hitting so deep it made your entire body vibrate, a white-hot pressure building behind your navel that made you want to shatter your pride once and for all.
“Tell me,” he commanded. “Tell me who’s in control in this office.”
Even with your body shaking and your walls spasming around him, you forced a sharp, mocking sound from your throat—a jagged imitation of a laugh.
“Did… did the book tell you that you had to talk this much during sex?” you wheezed, trying to sit up with your elbows. “You should—hah—spend your efforts learning how to talk right in interviews instead of wasting them here, buried deep inside your assistant—”
The sound that left Bucky wasn’t a growl or a pant. It was a pure, animalistic snarl of rage. His hand shifted from your waist to the center of your chest, pinning you down.
“Jesus, you never fucking learn.” His hips snapped harder and faster against yours, the velocity so intense it made your vision go white. “You want to see what happens when I stop caring about being a Congressman and start being the man who owns you?”
He leaned down, his mouth inches from your ear. His voice was smooth and calm, a terrifying contrast to the way he continued to punish your body with every heavy slam of his pelvis.
“I’m going to fill you so deep that you won’t be able to stand straight,” he rasped, his teeth grazing against your earlobe.
“I’m going to pump you so full of my cum—I want to see it drip down your pretty legs while you take notes in the next meeting,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, and violent. “I want every man in this building to smell me on you. I want you to feel it sliding down your thighs while you look them in the eye, knowing that your Congressman claimed you right here on this desk.”
You let out a broken whimper as he hit your sweet spot again and again, his pace becoming a blur of friction and heat. The way he was filling you, combined with the nasty, filthy litany of words leaving his lips, was enough to make you feel dizzy.
Bucky groaned, desperate and uneven breaths hitting the crook of your neck as he felt you clench around him.
The book mentioned that the man would likely feel a fluttering, uneven clenching sensation around his manhood when the woman was close to climax—it was hard to imagine that when he jerked himself off with his hand, but now, deep inside you, he was feeling exactly that.
“God, you’re gonna cum for me, baby?”
But despite how close you were, you remained stubborn. You squeezed your eyes shut, a jagged, defiant breath catching in your throat as you fought the sensation off. Refusing to give him the satisfaction, you hissed through clenched teeth.
“No,” you shook your head, glaring up at him. “You’re gonna have to work harder than that.” You added, your voice trembling slightly.
Bucky gave you a sharp, threatening look. He realized exactly what you were doing—denying him the one victory he wanted most. “You think you can play games now?” he snarled, his vibranium arm shifting to pin both of your wrists above your head. “You think you’re in control of your own body right now?”
His other hand swept across the desk until his fingers brushed against the silicone toy he had discarded earlier. He snatched the vibrator, thumb clicking it onto the highest setting.
“You’re going to cum,” he threatened into your ear. “And you’re going to do it while I’m buried deep inside you.”
He pressed the buzzing head of the toy directly against your sensitive, swollen clit while simultaneously slamming his hips forward to bury himself to the hilt. The double-sided assault was overwhelming. The vibration combined with his thickness stretching you out sent a violent jolt through your body, your fingers grasping helplessly at nothing as he pinned your wrists down.
You writhed pathetically beneath him, trying to keep yourself from coming—but fuck, it was impossible.
“Ah!” you cried out, your legs shaking uncontrollably from the pleasure as you squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m not—I’m… not…”
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he commanded, his own face twisted with the sheer effort of trying to hold back. He kept the toy pinned on your clit, vibrating relentlessly against you. “I feel you getting close, baby. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. Shit—I’m going to cum too—”
Your pride was the first thing to go, followed immediately by the control of your own body.
A loud, broken cry ripped from your throat as your whole body tremored beneath him. You clenched down, convulsing as you came hard and violently around his cock. It was hot, blinding, and enough to make your head spin.
But Bucky didn’t stop.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, your body bouncing against the wood as he kept fucking you deep.
He kept the toy pressed against your clit. The overstimulation, the way his cock was twitching inside you and hitting you in all the right, oversensitive spots, was enough to make you cry out. You looked at him, your brows furrowed in a silent, desperate plea.
“C-congressman,” you gasped, the sound ragged. “P-please…”
Bucky’s eyes, which had been burning with rage, suddenly glazed over with a desperate, almost hopeful look. He didn’t hear the word please; he only registered that your defiant voice had finally broken.
“Goddamn,” he grated out. “I love it when you sound broken like that.”
He pulled the vibrator away, tossing it aside, but only to free up his grip for the final, ruinous thrust. He grabbed your hips and slammed into you one last, violent time, his thick shaft hitting your core as he completely unloaded inside you.
“Fuck—take it, doll. Be a good girl for once and take it all for me.”
He shuddered uncontrollably, tucking his nose into your neck as his muscles tensed. Your body shook as warm cum pumped deep into your core, spilling down your slit.
You could feel his cock twitching deep within you, pulsing the last of his seed inside, marking you in the way he promised. He stayed buried, his breathing turning into rough, staggered gasps.
You figured he’d pull out soon and leave you here to clean up the mess he made.
That was the kind of boss he was.
But instead, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. One hand trailed up to your face, his thumb swiping gently to wipe a tear that had trickled down your cheek without you even noticing.
“Are… are you okay?” He asked, voice shaky.
And for some reason, the sudden tenderness in his voice—that soft, shaky tone coming from your usually cold-hearted boss—made a silent sob hitch in your chest.
“I’m okay.”
His body stiffened, his eyes going wide at the sudden sight of tears slipping down your cheeks from his simple question. He slowly slid out of you, the wet, suctioning sound of his withdrawal replaced by the immediate, empty rush of cold air. His big, strong arms circled behind you and hauled you up, settling you gently at the edge of the desk. His metal arm gently supported your back as he pulled your ruined blouse closed over your exposed chest.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his fingers moving from your chest to cup your face gently in his palm. “Don’t cry. Shit. I’m sorry for hurting you. Fuck—”
“You didn’t hurt me, Congressman,” you shook your head, the denial weak. “I just—I didn’t expect—” You hiccuped. “I didn’t expect you to stay.”
“You didn’t expect me to stay,” he repeated, the words slow and hollow.
His mind raced back over the last several months; the impossible deadlines, the late nights, the constant demands and dismissive tone he had used with you in the office.
He had treated you like a machine, not a human, and certainly not the person he now had ruined on this desk.
“Fuck. I am an idiot,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been working you like a dog. I’ve been crushing you with all this meaningless work, I know. I can see it now. I see you in here at six a.m and still here at ten. You’ve been living in this office because of me.”
He looked at you with deep regret in his eyes, his lips tugging down into a faint pout as he ran his fingers over your cheek reassuringly.
You instinctively leaned into his touch.
“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice quiet and soft. “I’m sorry for all the work. I’m sorry for the immature gifts. And I’m sorry for—” he swallowed. “Ruining you. And I’m even more sorry for making you think I was the kind of asshole who would just leave you like this.”
He sighed softly as he leaned in, his touch now entirely different. He was gentle and soft, as if you were a fragile little thing.
Hesitant, he settled his lips softly on yours—a slow, sweet kiss that held none of the demands and frustration he had earlier.
It was a kiss that told you he was truly sorry, and it was an apology you knew you were going to forgive.
He pulled back, looking into your eyes, but as you lifted your head to look into his, your gaze snagged on the clock perched right above and behind him.
“Sir,” you quickly scrambled up, but his arm held you still. “Your Oversight Committee is in less than ten minutes! I need to finish the packets you—”
He held you tighter against his chest, the air nearly knocked out of your lungs as he practically crushed your frame against his.
“No,” he mumbled into the top of your head, his nose tangling in your hair. “No meetings. No packets. Just relax, and stay with me. Okay?”
The last gasp of air escaped your lungs in a shaky sigh of surrender and relief. You didn’t fight his hold; instead, your arms slowly rose from your sides, circling his waist and pulling him closer. You nestled your face against his collarbone, allowing yourself to be utterly supported by his strength.
The silence was uncomfortably thick, very awkward, and filled only by the uneven rhythm of your joined breathing.
The tension, however, was too profound to last.
The need to regain some semblance of normalcy, some piece of the defiant, joking assistant he thought he’d crushed, finally came crawling back.
“I guess that vibrator isn’t returnable now, huh?” you mumbled against his chest, trying for lightheartedness, though your voice was still shaky.
A slow smile, one you felt stretching against your temple, spread across his mouth. “Never planned on returning it,” he murmured. “And especially not the lace lingerie. I’m still planning on having you wear that for me.”
Your face flushed, but your pride—though crushed a long time ago—couldn’t help but want to tease him right back.
“Are you sure the extra small condom won’t fit—”
“Shut the hell up.”
chest naurts roapin on an open pire.... merry christmas, erin. i hope you enjoyed this fic
thank you for being my friend and thank you for reading. hit that like and subscribe button while you're at it. jack prost nipping at yur nosee.....
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, light angst, enemies to lovers, bantering, lowk grumpy and man-hater reader, sam playing matchmaker, arguments, bucky has nightmares, semi-public sex, spanking, brat-taming, degradation and praise.
⭐︎ wordcount: 14.9k
⭐︎ a/n: i've never been to louisiana, so i tried my best to do research to keep it as accurate as possible. i apologize for any mistakes.
synopsis:
Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?
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It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.
They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.
It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.
How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?
You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.
Bucky.
He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.
Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.
“What are you doing—”
“What are you doing—”
You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.
Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.
When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.
While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.
Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.
To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.
You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.
Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.
Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”
He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.
The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.
“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”
You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.
“Look, I—”
“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”
Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.
Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.
“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.
Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”
AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.
Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.
“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.
Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.
AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.
“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.
You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”
AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.
“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”
The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.
“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”
Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”
Big enough to fit the both of you?
“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.
Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”
The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.
Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”
You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.
“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.
“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.
“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”
“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”
Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”
“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”
Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.
This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.
“I don’t know about this, Sam—”
“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”
You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.
Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.
“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”
Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.
“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”
Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”
“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.
He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.
“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”
“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”
Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”
You felt your eyebrow twitch.
“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”
“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”
“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.
Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.
“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.
You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.
“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.
“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”
He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”
You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.
“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.
It looked incredibly small.
It looked too intimate.
It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.
“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”
“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.
You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.
You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.
Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.
Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.
“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”
You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.
“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.
You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.
Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.
“Let go,” you said.
Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.
He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.
“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.
He didn’t.
He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.
You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”
You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.
The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.
Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.
His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.
“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.
You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”
Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.
“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”
You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.
“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.
You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.
A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.
“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”
Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”
He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.
“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”
“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.
You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.
The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.
An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”
“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”
“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”
Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.
You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.
But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.
“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.
Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.
“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”
“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”
The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.
“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.
The paddles lurched toward you.
“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”
Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.
“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.
His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.
“Now give me these damn paddles—”
But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.
With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.
Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”
“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”
Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.
With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.
One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.
Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.
You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.
Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.
“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.
When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.
You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”
Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.
You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.
You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.
Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.
“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”
As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.
You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.
Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.
“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.
Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.
“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”
Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.
Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.
“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”
“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.
“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.
“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”
“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”
You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.
Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.
“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”
Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.
“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.
After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.
“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”
You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.
Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.
Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.
“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”
“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”
Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.
The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.
The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.
Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.
Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.
A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.
You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.
Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.
Bucky was shirtless.
You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.
His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.
You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.
Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?
Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.
Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.
Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.
“Bucky… can you keep it down?”
But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.
Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.
“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”
“Bucky, listen to me!”
“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.
You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.
“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”
When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.
He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.
“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.
“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”
You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?
Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.
You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.
Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.
In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.
“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”
You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”
Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”
A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.
He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.
Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.
“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”
As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.
Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.
“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”
Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.
“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”
You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.
“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”
Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”
You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.
“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”
Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.
With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.
You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.
“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.
Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”
There was another pause.
This time, Bucky broke it.
“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”
You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”
The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.
There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.
Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.
He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.
You had already fallen asleep.
The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.
From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.
You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”
A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.
“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”
You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.
“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”
You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”
“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”
“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”
“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.
“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.
Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”
Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.
Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”
“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”
You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.
“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”
Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”
You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.
When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”
Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.
He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.
The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.
“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.
The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.
“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”
“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”
Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”
“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”
Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”
Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”
He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”
The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.
“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”
While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.
You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.
For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.
For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.
Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.
The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.
Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.
Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.
Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.
Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.
“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.
The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.
“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.
Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”
As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.
“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.
He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”
Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.
“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.
“Here, let me help you.”
To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.
Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.
With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.
You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.
Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”
Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.
“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.
You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”
The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.
Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.
As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.
You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.
The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.
Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”
He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?
Were you trying to pull his leg?
Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”
Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.
“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”
More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.
You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.
“Do you want to leave—”
“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”
Bucky looked like he wanted to die.
His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.
You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”
“What? Hey—wait—!”
Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.
He couldn’t believe this was happening.
Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.
This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.
“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”
The Forties.
“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.
You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”
You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.
At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.
Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.
The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.
“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.
As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.
In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.
He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.
It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.
After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.
As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.
But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.
“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.
For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.
“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”
This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”
With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.
“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”
You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”
Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.
“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”
You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”
The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.
“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”
Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”
“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.
“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”
“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”
“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.
He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.
“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.
He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.
“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.
“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”
“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.
You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.
“You broke Sarah’s truck.”
Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”
You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”
He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.
Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.
“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.
“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.
He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.
“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”
“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.
He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.
“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.
“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”
Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.
“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.
“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.
“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”
You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.
You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.
“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”
“300 East,” you answered quickly.
“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”
Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.
“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”
“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.
“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”
“I don’t know.”
Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.
“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”
Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”
“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”
Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.
“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”
Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”
“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.
He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.
“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.
“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”
You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.
You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.
Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.
“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”
The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.
“Look at me—”
You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.
“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”
Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.
“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”
You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.
“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”
Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.
Was this what you had thought of him all this time?
That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?
“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.
You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.
“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.
Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.
Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”
“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.
“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.
But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.
He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”
“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.
“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”
Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.
“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”
“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”
“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”
With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.
He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.
“I want more.”
A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?
“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”
“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”
Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.
He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.
“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.
He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.
You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.
The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.
Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.
You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.
“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”
A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.
It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.
Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.
He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.
He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.
But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.
“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”
His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.
“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”
He was always looking for you?
Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.
“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”
His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.
You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.
“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”
With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.
The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.
You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.
Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.
A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”
Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.
“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.
You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.
From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.
“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”
Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.
The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.
“God—eager, are you?” you teased.
“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.
His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.
With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”
Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.
The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.
Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.
Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.
Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”
“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”
Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.
It was enough to drive you insane.
Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.
You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.
“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”
A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.
“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.
Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.
Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.
“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”
“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”
Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.
Please?
Did you just say ‘please’?
He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”
Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.
You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.
“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”
When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.
You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.
“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”
Just once.
All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.
He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.
“P-please…”
The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.
“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”
Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.
“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”
Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.
“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”
Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.
“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.
The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.
He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.
“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.
You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.
All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.
“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”
“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”
Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.
“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.
“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.
“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”
A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.
Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.
Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.
But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.
It was too good not to.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”
Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.
You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.
He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.
His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.
“Come here, baby,” he cooed.
Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.
“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.
You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.
You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.
He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.
As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”
But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.
It was Sam.
He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.
“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”
Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.
“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”
He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.
He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.
“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”
Fighting was one way to put it.
“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”
He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.
“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”
You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.
“Bet I can do it in two.”
“Oh, here you go again.”
i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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hi flo!! thinking about calling up hotch on a night out, just all drunk and sweet wanting to talk to him. i think he’d be up and out of bed before you even finish the first sentence
agreed!!
Aaron Hotchner x reader ✩ 809 words
Aaron isn’t a good sleeper, he never has been. Years of unpredictable work hours, crossing the country at a moment's notice, always needing to be ready when the phone rings, he’s always half awake even when he should be resting. Then there's the most ordinary reason of all; raising his sweet boy. When he’s home, Aaron finds himself on high alert for Jack’s needs.
Little noises tend to wake him up. Sometimes it’s a creak in the house or rain against the windows. Sometimes, when you’re sharing his bed, all it takes is you rolling over to stir him.
It's rare for Aaron to take himself off to bed early but when you traded your weekly date night for a night out with old college friends, he decided to make the most of an empty evening. An early dinner, followed by some tv then heading upstairs long before he usually would.
Truthfully, there had been an ugly little spark of jealousy when you told him you’d need to rearrange. It was unfair, really. The number of times he’s had to cancel plans because work dragged him away with little more than a rushed apology was impossible to count.
But he misses you, feeling like he's been trudging through this week, his body yearning for yours. A hug, a kiss, anything, desperate to fill in all the gaps phone calls and texts leave.
Aaron’s shrill ringtone wakes him, jolting upright and reaching for where his phone sits on the nightstand.
“Hotchner.” He answers before checking the called ID. A bad habit, admittedly, but at two in the morning he can hardly be blamed. Calls at this hour are usually work.
“Aaron!” you giggle down the line. “Hi, handsome!”
The fact it's you on the other end, with obvious joy ringing through your voice, makes him relax again, slouching down into the bed with a soft grin growing on his face.
“Hi, honey,” He sighs, “everything okay?”
“Everything is great! I just wanted to talk to you.”
The smile grows.
“Yeah?” Aaron swings his legs over the side of his bed and stands, making his way out into the hallway. “You all done for the night?”
You don't reply straight away, there's some shuffling on your end and he hears a faint whoa before something slams. Aaron would be lying if he said it didn't speed up his heart.
“Honey?”
“Ah sorry!” you call, your voice returning to his ear. “Just got in a taxi.”
“I could’ve come to pick you up.”
“No, you couldn’t.” you protest. “It’s the middle of the night, woulda needed to get Jack up too and he shouldn’t…” you trail off, realising something in your pause. “Oh no! Did I wake you up? I'm sorry.”
What a sweet thing you are. You have no idea, Aaron thinks, that he’s more than happy – in fact he’s thrilled – that he gets to be the man you call just to talk to even if it is in the middle of the night.
“It’s more than fine, you know you can call me whenever you want I–”
“ You just might not be able to answer, I know.”
“ – and I could’ve picked you up,” he continues. “Jack’s at a sleepover.”
“He is?” you ask sounding sadder than before. “Now I feel worse about cancelling date night, you've spent the night alone?”
“I’ve been fine, I promise, honey.”
Aaron wanders into the kitchen and leans against the counter. Cool granite presses against his hip as he listens to the muffled sounds filtering through your phone.
“You say that,” you murmur.
“I mean it.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I survived.”
“Barely.”
“Barely,” he agrees dryly.
Your laugh crackles through the line, warm and familiar enough that he can practically picture the expression on your face. Cheeks flushed from drinks and laughter, eyes bright. Beautiful.
“Where are you?”
“In a taxi.”
“Yes, thank you. I gathered that.”
You snort.
“I mean where are you going?”
“Oh.” More shuffling. “Home?”
Aaron glances toward the dark hallway leading to his bedroom. The house is quiet and his bed is empty, if he has the opportunity to have you with him, curled into his side, he’s going to take it.
“Come here instead.”
There's a beat of silence.
“Your house?”
“Yeah.”
“Aaron.” you exclaim, scandalised. He knows the exact teasing expression you must have on your face like the back of his hand.
“You can stay here.”
“Stay there.”
“Yes, please, honey.”
“I hear what you're saying and so polite too.”
His smile grows.
“Do you?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I think,” you say slowly, amusement dripping from every syllable, “that you’re trying to get me into your bed, Agent Hotchner.”
Aaron huffs a quiet laugh.
“Well,” he says, pushing away from the counter, “it wouldn't be the first time.”
I was uh, busy attending someone else pizza party ;)
But now that I'm here -
Can I get a regular pie with chicken, veggies, and extra pepperoni. And if you'd be so kind to throw in a side of wings (i'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that, sweetheart. ❜) I like em extra picante y un fresca Dr. Pepper por favor.
Also CONGRATULATIONS ON A HUGE MILE STONE
i cant quit you baby
pairing: dean winchester x reader
w/c: 2394
warnings/tags: age gap, dean is 40 reader is in her 20s, smut, lots of smut
masterlist // pizza party
The bunker was quiet in that peaceful way it got when Sam and your brother were gone. No boots stomping down the hall, no low arguments over lore or who ate the last slice of pie. Just the low hum of the old lights and the distant tick of the boiler.
Dean had stayed behind.
He hadn’t even tried to sell it as anything noble this time. Just shrugged when your brother asked why he wasn’t coming, muttered something about “someone oughta keep the place from falling apart,” and watched the Impala pull out of the garage like he was already counting the hours until it came back.
You found him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flipping burgers like it was a religion. The smell of caramelized onions and bacon filled the whole room.
“You know I can feed myself, right?” you said from the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to smile.
Dean didn’t turn around. “Yeah, and I’ve seen what you call feeding yourself. Box mac and cheese and those sad little protein bars that taste like drywall. Sit down before I revoke your kitchen privileges.”
You pulled out the chair across from where he’d already set two plates. “Revoke my privileges? Bold of you to assume you have any authority here, old man.”
That got him. He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Old man? I’m forty, not dead. And for the record, I make a damn good burger. You’re welcome.”
He plated them with the kind of care that made your stomach flip in a good way- extra pickles on yours, the way you liked, the top bun already dressed. He grabbed two beers, popped the caps against the edge of the counter like it was muscle memory, and slid one across to you before dropping into the chair opposite.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his bottle to yours. “To your brother and Sam being gone for at least forty eight hours and not calling every five minutes to check if we’ve burned the place down.”
You took a sip, watching him. “You think they left ‘cause we're annoying?”
Dean’s smirk turned knowing. “You are the annoying one. Your brother gave me the look. The one that says ‘I’m trusting you with my little sister, don’t make me regret it.”
You laughed, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. “Me? What do I do that's annoying? You're the one who can't go five minutes without complainin’.”
“You won't leave me alone,” Dean shot back, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth. “Always hovering in the library when I’m trying to research. Asking me to show you how to clean your gun when you already know how to field strip it in your sleep. Real subtle, sweetheart.”
You picked up your burger, trying to hide the way your face warmed at the nickname. “Maybe I just like watching you get all serious and competent. It’s cute.”
“Cute?” Dean scoffed, but his ears went a little pink. He took a huge bite, chewed, and pointed his fork at you. “I’ll have you know I was hunting demons and saving the world while you were still in diapers. I’ve got layers.”
“Layers like an onion,” you teased. “Smelly, makes people cry, and somehow still ends up in everything.”
Dean’s laugh was low and rough, the kind that always made your stomach flip. “You’re mean when you’re not being chased by monsters. I like it.”
The conversation drifted the way it always did when it was just the two of you- easy, meandering, full of little barbs that weren’t really barbs at all. He asked about the book you’d been buried in all afternoon. You told him it was a dead end, some obscure text on fairy territorial patterns that hadn’t panned out. He listened like it mattered, like your research was just as important as his.
“You’re getting good at this,” he said after a while, voice softer. “The hunting thing. Your brother dragged you in kicking and screaming, but you’ve got the instincts. Scary good ones, actually.”
You shrugged, picking at a fry. “Had a good teacher. Two of them, technically.”
Dean’s eyes flicked up to yours and stayed there. “Yeah, well. Sam’s the smart one. I’m just the one who keeps throwing himself at things until they stop moving.”
“You’re more than that,” you said quietly. “You know you are.”
The air shifted, just a little. Dean leaned back in his chair, spinning his beer bottle between his fingers. “Your brother’s gonna kill me one of these days.”
“For what?”
“For looking at you the way I do.” He said it lightly, but the words landed heavy. “For thinking about you the way I do. For staying behind tonight instead of going on that hunt like I should’ve.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. This was the game- the long, sweet, stupidly careful game you’d both been playing since the day you and your brother moved into the bunker. The almosts. The not quites. The nights you stayed up talking until three a.m. and neither of you mentioned how close you were sitting on the couch.
You met his gaze and held it. “Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Can’t.” The word came out rougher than he probably meant it to. He cleared his throat, tried for the usual smirk, and mostly succeeded. “You’re my best friend's baby sister. I’m old enough to know better. And your brother trusts me. Which is hilarious, by the way, because I’m the last person he should trust around you.”
You smiled, small and a little wicked. “Maybe I don’t want you to know better.”
Dean stared at you for a long second, something flickering behind his eyes- want and guilt and that stubborn Winchester protectiveness all tangled up. Then he shook his head, laughing under his breath like he couldn’t believe either of you.
“Finish your damn burger,” he muttered, but there was affection in every syllable. “Then we’re watching something with a happy ending. None of that tragic horror crap tonight. I’m picking the movie.”
“You always pick the movie.”
“Yeah, and you always complain and then fall asleep on my shoulder anyway. So really, who’s winning here?”
You didn’t have an answer for that. Or maybe you did, and it was sitting right across the table, green eyes soft and stupidly handsome, waiting for you to decide if tonight was the night the game finally broke.
Dean stood, collected the plates, and brushed his fingers against yours when he took your empty bottle- deliberate, careful, electric.
“C’mon, kid,” he said, voice low and warm. “Let’s go pretend we’re normal people for a couple hours.”
You followed Dean into the common room, the leather couch creaking as he dropped down and patted the spot beside him. He queued up some old Western- horses, dust, and a hero who always got the girl in the end. The lights were low, the volume just loud enough to fill the silence.
At first you behaved.
Then you didn’t.
You tucked yourself against his side, one leg draped over his thigh. Your hand rested on his knee, innocent at first. Then your fingers started tracing slow, lazy patterns higher and higher, the denim of his jeans rough under your palm.
Dean’s thigh tensed under your touch.
“Comfortable?” he asked, voice already lower than it had been in the kitchen.
“Mmhmm.” You shifted again, pressing your breast against his arm as you reached for the throw blanket. Your hand “accidentally” brushed the growing bulge between his legs. You left it there a second too long.
Dean exhaled through his nose. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?” You looked up at him with wide eyes, all fake innocence, and gave his cock a slow, deliberate squeeze through his jeans.
“Fuck.” His hand shot out and caught your wrist, but he didn’t pull you away. His eyes were dark, jaw tight. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice sweet and filthy. “Maybe I want you to lose.”
That was it.
Dean moved fast- years of hunting made him quick when he wanted something. He had you flat on your back on the couch in seconds, his body heavy and hot between your thighs, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding back for months. The kiss was messy, deep, all tongue and teeth and low groans. His hands shoved your shirt up, yanking your bra down so he could palm your tits roughly, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you arched.
“Been teasing me for fucking months,” he growled against your mouth. “Sitting there looking at me like you wanted me to ruin you. Touching me like you knew exactly how hard you make me. I’m done pretending I can keep my hands off you.”
He stripped you fast- clothes gone, thrown somewhere across the room. He shoved his own jeans down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed and leaking. But instead of fucking you right away, he dropped between your spread thighs like he’d been starving for it.
“Look at this messy little cunt,” he rasped, dragging two fingers through your soaked lips. “Dripping all over the fucking couch already. All that teasing and now you’re soaked like a desperate slut.”
He dove in.
The first lick was filthy- broad and slow from your entrance to your clit. You cried out. Dean moaned like you tasted better than anything in his life.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he growled, voice muffled against your pussy. “This greedy hole is clenching around nothing. Been thinking ‘bout how you taste. Every time you walked past me I wanted to drop to my knees and bury my face right here.”
He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked hard while shoving two thick fingers deep inside you. The wet sound was obscene. He pumped them fast, curling just right, tongue flicking relentlessly.
“Take it,” he ordered between licks. “Take my fingers like you’re gonna take my cock. So fucking tight. So wet. You’re dripping down my wrist, sweetheart. Making such a mess for me.”
You were already shaking. He didn’t let up.
“Come on my tongue,” he demanded, voice dark and rough. “I want it. Want to feel this pretty pussy gush all over my face. Do it.”
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry tearing out of you. Dean groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and licked you through it, slower but still hungry, until you were whimpering and oversensitive.
He pulled back, lips shiny, eyes black. “Good fucking girl. Look at you- wrecked already and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
He climbed over you, lined up, and pushed in with one long, thick thrust. The stretch punched the air from your lungs. Dean’s head dropped forward with a guttural moan.
“Jesus Christ- this tight little pussy is swallowing me whole.” He started moving immediately, deep and hard, the couch creaking under the force. “Fuck- this shouldn't be happening but I need you. Need this. Can’t stop. Been needing to fuck you like this for months.”
He fucked you harder, hips snapping, one hand gripping your thigh and pushing it wider so he could get even deeper. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him were loud and filthy.
“Listen to that,” he growled. “Soaking my cock. Taking every inch like you were made for it. This pussy is mine now, you hear me? Mine to fuck whenever I want.”
You clenched around him without meaning to and Dean cursed, pace faltering for a second.
“Shit- I'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that, sweetheart.”
He reached between you and rubbed your clit in tight, rough circles while he pounded into you, angling just right to hit that spot over and over.
“Come on,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Give it to me. Let go. Soak my fucking cock.”
The pressure built fast- intense, almost too much. Your back arched, a broken sound ripping out of you, and then it happened. You squirted hard around him, a sudden gush of wet heat flooding out, soaking his cock, his hips, the couch beneath you. It kept coming in pulses as he fucked you through it.
“Holy fuck- yes,” Dean groaned, eyes wide and dark with lust. “There it is. Squirting all over me like a good little slut. Look at the mess you’re making. So fucking hot. Keep going- don’t stop.”
He didn’t slow down. He fucked you straight through the squirting, the wet sounds even louder now, his cock sliding easier through the mess. His dirty talk got filthier, more desperate.
“Fuck, you’re drenching me. Such a messy girl. Love how this pussy squirts for me. Gonna make you do it again. Wanna ruin you.”
You were still shaking from the intensity when he chased his own orgasm, thrusts turning erratic.
“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted. “Gonna come so deep in this perfect cunt. Take it- fuck- take it.”
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken moan, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you. His hips jerked a few more times before he finally stilled, breathing hard.
For a long moment there was only panting and the forgotten movie still playing somewhere behind you.
Dean pulled out slowly, hissing at the sensitivity. He grabbed his flannel from the floor and used the soft inside to gently clean between your legs, wiping away the mess you’d both made- the mix of your slick, his come, and the evidence of how hard you’d squirted. His touch was careful now, almost reverent.
Then he collapsed beside you on the couch and pulled you into his chest, one big arm wrapping around you tight. His other hand stroked slowly through your hair, down your back, soothing.
“You okay?” he murmured against your temple, voice hoarse but soft. He pressed a lingering kiss there. “Kinda lost myself there. You squirted so fucking hard for me… Jesus.”
He held you closer, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, letting the afterglow settle warm and quiet around both of you.
“Stay right here,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”
pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner/fem!reader
rating: explicit
w.c.: 10k....
a/n: dbf!hotch party ended months ago but im still here
summary:
You don't mean to start something with your dad's best friend during your summer break.
c.w.: 18+ MDNI PLSSSS, dbf!hotch yippee, no y/n, reader is mid-20s and hotch is mid 40s, kinda flirty/brat!reader, car sex, handjobs in car, v fingering, dom/sub, dirty talk, light degradation kink, size kink if u squint, light choking at the end!, unprotected sex, tbh some plot to mostly porn
read below or on ao3 here <3
You’re nearly half-naked when you first meet him.
It was the first morning back at home during your summer break in your first year of your Master’s program. You hadn’t been home in several months, blaming your rigorous coursework and the full-time job you had, but luckily you were able to use nearly a month’s worth of PTO to coincide with your summer off.
You had gotten in late after flying across the country, but your body still woke up like clockwork just before 9 am.
Currently, as you make eye contact with the tallest and most attractive man you have ever met while wearing a tank top and shorts that barely covered your ass, you couldn’t tell if that was a blessing or a curse.
You had heard your dad rave about what basically sounded like a crush he had over the phone for nearly a year. Aaron Hotchner apparently works with your father at the FBI, albeit in a different department, and they hit it off at a recent gala by discussing golf, expensive scotch, and being annoyed about the latest budget cuts. One Saturday at the country club’s golf course later, your father was hooked, and Aaron has been over at the house nearly every weekend since.
You remember your dad saying something about how he’s hardworking, better than he is at golf, and much nicer than he looks. He didn’t say anything about how hot he was.
You were stumbling out your bedroom and rubbing at your eyes when you had nearly run into him on the way to the bathroom. You’re still waking up, but you see the genuine surprise and something like want on his face before it’s gone, a neutral expression taking over his handsome features. The clench in his jaw betrays him.
“Excuse me,” he says. His voice is low, deep in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “I was just heading into the restroom.”
You blink at him, your mind still not having not caught up yet. “Uhm.”
“I can just go to the one downstairs,” he says, giving you an easy smile. It makes him look even more devastatingly attractive and you feel dazed. With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back downstairs without another word.
You distantly hear your father downstairs calling your name and asking if you’re awake. You feel rooted to the spot, flustered.
You try your best to go through your normal bathroom routine, but your heart still hasn’t calmed down yet. It’s been a while since you’ve dated and even longer since you’ve slept with someone, thus you’ve had a lot of quality time with yourself recently, so seeing the way this older man reacted to you was enough to have you preening a bit. You weren’t imagining it, right?
You tell yourself that you’re feeling lazy after a long day of traveling and not wanting to change yet as you head downstairs into the kitchen, absolutely not hiking your shorts up a little and shimmying your tank top down.
“Good morning,” you chirp as you step into the kitchen. Your dad is already sitting at the dining table, most likely finishing his second cup of coffee, and his face lights up when he sees you as if he wasn’t the one to pick you up from the airport late last night. Aaron is standing in the kitchen next to the coffee machine, pouring into a travel mug.
You ignore the way you can feel Aaron’s dark eyes rove over you; the top of your breasts nearly threatening to spill out, your hard nipples poking through your top, and the curve of your ass peeking out from underneath your shorts.
“Morning, pumpkin,” your dad says cheerily, clearly oblivious to what’s going on between his friend and his own daughter. “This is Aaron, he works at the Bureau with me, I told you about him?”
You vaguely remember when you stalked through his Facebook profile several months ago after your father was tagged with him multiple times. The pictures of him were always blurry, never giving you anything to go off of.
As you stand next to him in the kitchen and crane your neck up to look at him, you realize the pictures really don’t do him justice. He’s handsome, almost boy-ish with the way his hair is clean and not gelled down like in the pictures, flopping in front of his forehead. He’s wearing a tight red polo, showcasing his broad shoulders and forearms in a way that makes you want to drool a bit. His brow is pinched, jaw tense, and you almost think you can hear his teeth grinding when he attempts to keep his eyes on your face and not on your chest.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hotchner,” you say, giving him an innocent smile. You ignore the mug your dad must have left on the counter for you and stand up on your tiptoes to retrieve one from the overhead cupboard.
You feel a rush of exhilaration when you hear Aaron suck in a breath at the way your tank top hikes up your stomach. When you turn back to him, because he is technically in the way of the coffee machine, you catch the way his eyes sharpen and the way his hand grasps at the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white.
And then it’s gone, just like earlier, replaced with something almost professional, probably the same expression he makes when something ticks him off at work.
Interesting.
“Aaron is fine,” he says, stepping out of the way of the coffee machine and then holds his hand out for you to shake.
You can feel your dad watching you, so you make an effort to tone it down a bit. You put your hand in his, swallowing when you notice just how large his hands are and the way he grips you a bit tighter than what would be considered professional. When you look back up at him, there’s something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron,” you repeat. It’s worth it to see a smile grace his face, replacing that smirk, and causing something fuzzy settle in your chest.
When he lets go and makes his way to sit across your dad at the table, you ignore how your hand suddenly feels like it’s burning.
“We’re about to head to the golf course here in a couple of minutes if you wanted to join?” your dad asks as you pour your coffee and sit down at the head of the table.
You hum and experimentally kick your feet out in Aaron’s direction to where he sits to your left. You make contact with his knee, and you watch almost gleefully as Aaron just barely jumps in his seat. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, just quietly sips at his coffee. It really shouldn’t turn you on the way it does. “I’m okay, I was just planning on hanging out here and catch up on my shows.”
“You sure, pumpkin? I know it’s been a while since you were out on the course but…”
“I think that’s exactly why I shouldn’t come with you,” you laugh. You pull your chair up closer to the table, making it look like you were just trying to get comfortable, when really you just wanted to cop more of a feel of Aaron’s thighs.
“Alright, alright,” your father says, putting his hands up in defeat. “But don’t forget about the retreat later this week with the guys.”
You pause from where you were just about to dig your toes underneath his thigh. “Retreat?”
“I told you about it when I picked you up last night!”
“I think you forgot that you picked me up at one in the morning and I was half-asleep in the car,” you roll your eyes. “But of course I’ll go with you.”
“Great!” Your dad says with that big smile on his face that always makes you feel nostalgic. You don’t really want to go, was honestly just planning on relaxing at home, but if it makes your dad happy and you get to spend more time with him, then you’ll do almost anything.
And if Aaron’s coming too, then well…
Your dad gets up to put his mug in the sink and starts making his way out of the dining room. “You ready to go, Hotchner?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Aaron says, a barely detectable rasp to his voice that has you hiding a smile in your mug.
You’re about to put your foot down when you feel thick fingers circling your ankle and lifting your leg up until your ankle is resting on Aaron’s knee. You nearly squeak in surprise, but the look on Aaron’s face stops you.
He would look calm, composed even, if you didn’t pay attention to the way his eyes have darkened. His brow is pinched, lips pressed into a thin line, as he tightens his grip on your ankle and asks in a low voice “What kind of game are you playing here?”
Not expecting confrontation, you don’t know what to say. Your breath gets stuck in your chest, something about the glare he’s giving you keeps you rooted in your chair.
Because there’s really only two options here. He’s your dad’s best friend, at least 20 years older than you, and you really have no business in sexually riling up this guy you’ve never met before until today. You can apologize, give him a genuine and friendly smile, and go back to your room and pretend this never happened and you weren’t just throwing yourself at some hot older man.
But there’s something about Aaron that you can’t quite put your finger on. You wonder what it would be like to see him without those walls he undoubtedly keeps up all the time, see him come undone. You can tell from his Facebook pictures that he’s a bigshot of some kind, always wearing a fitted suit and not a hair out of place. You can see that now, in his pressed polo and matching belt, that he likes control, his skin nearly thrumming with it. And that’s something you’ve always enjoyed playing with.
You noticed the lack of a wedding ring on his finger, and the way he’s gazing into you now. The hot trail his hand leaves behind as he starts running up your shin, past your knee, and grip at the meat of your thigh says all you need to know.
“What game?” you say, innocently. You even play it up a bit by batting your lashes at him.
His grip on your thigh tightens, and it feels so good, and it’s been so long, you resist rolling your eyes back and instead spread your legs just a bit underneath the table.
“Your father didn’t tell me you were such a brat,” he mutters.
“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” you say, hoping you don’t sound as out of breath as you feel.
Aaron doesn’t say anything at that, just hums thoughtfully. You don’t have a chance to backpedal, redirect the conversation if you were reading the whole situation wrong, before he’s placing your leg back on the floor with a gentle hand on your ankle and getting up.
“We can talk more about what you want to do after school later,” he says, raising his voice a bit in an effort to appear like he wasn’t just groping you underneath the table.
You almost don’t hear what he says because your gaze is fixed on the obvious tent in his khakis. Your mouth nearly waters, and just knowing that you’re having the same kind of effect on him as he has on you has heat pooling between your thighs.
You shake your head, resisting the thoughts of throwing yourself on your knees in front of him and taking him in your mouth right in the dining room. You grin up at him and, in an impulsive decision that you’re secretly proud of, you reach over to put a hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.
“Absolutely, Mr. Hotchner.”
Your smile grows wider at the stormy glare he gives you before he heads out of the dining room, imperceptibly adjusting himself in his pants. Your eyes follow him out, cheeks nearly starting to hurt from how hard you’re smiling because damn, does his ass look good.
It’s your summer vacation, you may as well have some fun, right?
-
Since then, you’ve barely seen Aaron.
You had made Aaron and your father sandwiches, knowing they’d be home by the afternoon. You tried not to let the fact that you were upset, disappointed even, show on your face when your dad came home by himself and told you that Aaron got called for a case.
You knew from your dad that this was a normal occurrence for Aaron and that they’ve both gotten used to it. So many times there would be a gala or a party at the house and he would be called away to chase down a murderer or a rapist or a combination of the two.
You tried not to let it get to you, because seriously, you just met him, but also, it’s not like he owes you anything. But you really hoped that he wouldn’t miss the retreat later that week. Just imagining spending time with him in your lone hotel room was enough to make you dizzy.
So, you distracted yourself. You caught up on your emails, watched those shows that had been piling up in your watch later list, and spent time with your dad at the golf course or whatever else he wanted to do that day. It was nice spending your summer vacation with your dad and catching up on what he does at his boring administrative job and the lack of both of your love lives.
By the time Friday rolled around, there was still nothing but radio silence from Aaron, at least you assumed since your dad hadn’t mentioned him. You almost wish you had asked for his phone number before he left, but it wouldn’t have done you any good to waste a whole week sitting by your cellphone, waiting for a probably dry text from some guy.
A really hot, older guy that definitely has control issues and could toss you around like a ragdoll.
You’re throwing your bag in your car’s backseat and was about to admit defeat, that maybe he really wasn’t going to make it, when a black Range Rover comes skidding down your street and into your driveway.
“There he is,” your dad said in a sing-song voice, sounding about as giddy as you felt.
Your breath catches in your throat when you see him stepping out of his car, because how the hell is it possible for a man to look so attractive doing something so mundane?
And then your eyes nearly bug out because he has his suit jacket hanging from his arm, a duffel bag in the other, and is wearing a white dress shirt so tight that you could see the bulge of his biceps and the softness of his stomach.
“Sorry I’m late,” Aaron says, jogging up to where you and father were. “We just got back a couple hours ago.”
He looks at you then with those pretty brown eyes, looking genuinely apologetic, and the disappointment that you were afraid was going to take a permanent place in your chest gently unravels.
“It’s no problem, Hotch,” your dad waves him off. “We’re still waiting for some of the other guys, so you made it just in time.”
“Great,” Aaron breathes in relief. “I’m going to go change then, I’ll be right back.” His eyes flit towards you again, and you would’ve missed it if you weren’t still staring at him. They’re piercing, undoubtedly beckoning you to follow him, and there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
You feel a rush of excitement shooting through you as you watch him head towards the front door, eyes fixated on his hips. There was no clearer sign than that one, though you try not to roll your eyes fondly at the fact that your dad evidently did not notice as he goes back to playing Tetris with his bags in the trunk.
You wait a couple of minutes, pretending to play on your phone, and then exclaim “Oops, I almost forgot my phone charger! I’m going to run upstairs and get it.”
Your dad just gives an “Okie dokie, sweetie,” and then his phone rings with who you assume is one of his friends you’re waiting for.
You try to not sprint to the front door, instead taking a deep breath and walking in what you hope looks like a normal pace. However, as soon as the front door clicked shut, you run up the stairs, hoping Aaron chose your bathroom rather than the one downstairs.
Not spotting him waiting outside the bathroom, your heart nearly drops out from underneath you, however you notice the closed door and the soft golden light from underneath telling you that you were right.
You were right and maybe you weren’t imagining things. He knew you would listen to his unspoken instructions and follow him. You weren’t a profiler like him, not an expert at studying other people’s body language, but there was nothing fake about the fact that he got hard at your dining room table and you had only known each other for 10 minutes that Sunday.
The click of the door opening disrupts your thoughts. You’re about to grin up at Aaron, say something cute like how you’ve missed him or something more playful like asking why he hasn’t called you.
But you don’t get the chance because you’re suddenly being pressed up against the wall, warm hands on your hips, and Aaron’s soft mouth pressing into yours.
He swallows your gasp, his fingers inching up the hem of your tank top to touch the skin of your waist and kisses the life out of you. His lips are chapped and he tastes fresh, like he had a breath mint on the drive here, and the thought that he had that foresight just for you makes your knees weak.
He kisses you deeply, not even bothering to start gentle like so many other boys have tried before, and it’s overwhelming and not enough at the same time. You’re helpless to kiss back, your body finally catching up, and your hands come up to tangle at the soft strands at the nape of his neck.
He hums against your lips at that, his hands starting to move underneath your shirt to trace the swell of your breasts through your bra. It tickles, and you squirm a little and huff a laugh against his mouth before you can help it.
Before you could apologize and tell him to stop tickling you, his hands press your hips harder against the wall and his lips break away from yours. You attempt to chase him, because you were definitely not done making out, when Aaron tuts at you.
“Behave,” he warns lowly, but he has a full-blown smirk now. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and his lips red and glistening. He looks so unbearingly sexy when he’s reprimanding you, he just makes it so easy for you to tease him.
“Or what?” You ask, smiling up at him. You watch as his smirk falters, brows furrowing, and something like frustration and exasperation blooms on his face.
“You’re ridiculous,” Aaron breathed, before he’s leaning in and pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He scrapes his teeth against the spot where your shoulder and neck meets and your knees actually buckle this time, something like a strangled moan coming out of your mouth and catching you by surprise. “Looks like you do know how to watch that mouth of yours.”
Any snarky comeback you have dies in your throat because you did not expect Aaron to have that kind of dirty mouth on him. Molten heat starts to pool at the bottom of your stomach, between your thighs, as he slips the strap of your tank top down your shoulder to trace your collarbone with his lips.
“Aaron…,” you whisper, letting your hands fall from his nape to grab at his shoulders, trail down to grope at his biceps. The sleek muscle you can feel even through the fabric of his polo that he changed into, tensing and flexing as he pushes at you, sends your mind reeling.
“What is it, sweetheart?” he mutters against your shoulder, his warm breath and the pet name making you feel paralyzed. “Cat got your tongue?”
Your eyes roll back as you feel him biting a mark onto your chest, right underneath your collarbone, the pain and pleasure tingling all the way down to your cunt. You say something unintelligible, brain feeling muddled, because holy shit.
“Hey pumpkin, did your find your charger? We have to get moving!” You hear your dad’s voice from downstairs and barely swallow back a gasp before Aaron’s hand is pressed over your mouth to quiet you. You hate that that does absolutely nothing to help the growing arousal between your thighs.
Aaron’s eyes meet yours. His eyes have gotten impossibly darker, soft hair falling against his forehead. The wild desire and excitement are clear on his face, but he raises his eyebrows at you to signal you to behave before he lifts his palm off your face.
“Coming!” you yell back at him, hoping the strain in your voice isn’t as obvious to him as it is to you.
Aaron hums, something smug playing at his lips. “Maybe later.”
And it’s ridiculous. Aaron Hotchner, stoic Unit Chief of an FBI unit, best friend of your dad, and 20 years older than you just made out with you so hard that your knees buckled and made a joke about making you come?
You huff a laugh, pushing at his shoulder so you can wriggle out of his grip. He lets go immediately, stepping back to give you several feet of space, and you try not to think about how you already miss the heat and weight of his body against yours.
You’re about to run downstairs, an excuse about realizing you already packed your charger on the tip of your tongue, when Aaron is circling his fingers around your wrist. You look back at him curiously, because as much as you want to, there definitely isn’t time for him to ravage you in your bedroom.
He looks much more composed now, more like his professional SSA Aaron Hotchner self, but you catch the way his eyes linger on the way your shorts ride up high and the soft expanse of your thighs. “I’m serious. We’ll finish this later.”
And it’s the way he doesn’t pose it as a question, but rather a guarantee. Like nothing is going to stop him from having his way with you.
The thought of being completely at Aaron’s mercy has you breathless, feeling a flush rise on your face and your pulse between your legs. He has you stunned speechless, because you’ve never been with someone who has made you feel complete and utter want. You look at him now, chest imperceptibly heaving and making that olive green polo tug across the wide expanse of his chest, you realize that he may just ruin other people for you completely.
Your throat clicks when you clear it, and you only feel a little embarrassed when Aaron doesn’t hide his smirk at you. All words have died in your throat, so you nod instead, hoping that he will take that as an answer.
If possible, Aaron looks even more smug at that.
“Good girl.”
-
The drive to the hotel where the retreat is being held is only 2 hours away, which would’ve been perfectly easy, if you weren’t stuck in the car with Aaron.
You were planning on driving your own car with the top down, wind in your hair, and music blasting. You wanted to spend at least part of your summer vacation doing girly summery things, such as driving into the night with your hair whipping your face and feeling the humidity making your tank top stick to your back.
You also thought you would have time to yourself to think about Aaron and what the hell you got yourself into.
Instead, because you can’t tell if the universe loves or hates you, you have to take Aaron’s Range Rover because everyone else’s cars are packed full, and your dad wouldn’t let you drive by yourself. You tried not to show the excitement bloom on your face when your dad told you, but by the pointed look that Aaron gave you, you didn’t do a very good job.
So, it’s just you, Aaron, and the incredibly tangible sexual tension between you.
The first 30 minutes was easy. It took a while for everyone to find the correct route and there was a lengthy discussion over the phone about whether anyone wanted to stop anywhere for any reason. Eventually, you and at least 4 other similarly lavish cars made it onto the highway.
Aaron was silent for most of the phone call, saying that he didn’t have anywhere he wanted to stop at, and was just looking forward to the fancy clawfoot tub the hotel advertised on their website. You threw a glance at him at that, wondering if he was trying to tell you that he wanted to fuck in the bathtub, but nope. His eyes were firmly on the road, both arms on the steering wheel like a responsible adult or whatever.
You weren’t sure how he was able to act like nothing happened—like you weren’t about to let him just fuck you up against the wall in your childhood home, because currently, you felt like you were about to jump out of your skin from the nervous energy thrumming through you.
You fully ogle him now since it’s not like you have anything to hide. Even his side profile is attractive, but at this point you’re not surprised. Everything you’ve been noticing about him has been steadily driving you wild; the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint traces of stubble, and the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.
You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he deadpans “You’re staring.”
You grin at him before you could help it. “It’s not my fault you’re so handsome. They should study you in art classes, maybe you can even get naked for it?”
The snort that comes out of Aaron’s mouth is sudden, and by the way his eyebrows pinch together like he’s thinking hard, he notices as well. “You really are insatiable.”
“You say that like we’ve even done anything yet,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, turning your head to the window to stare at the sun setting. It would be nighttime by the time you got to the hotel, but you’re already sleepy and debating taking a nap while Aaron drives.
You jump when you feel his hand on your thigh, large and warm. You’ve had other men put their hand on your thigh while they drive and it’s nice, maybe even comforting at times, but with Aaron, the action feels darker. It feels more possessive, heated, and just the sight of his huge hand squeezing the flesh of your thigh has you unconsciously squeezing your legs, trapping the tips of his fingers between them.
“Can you behave?” he wondered out loud. “Because you’re not showing me that you can until we get to the hotel.”
The challenge is clear in the deep timbre of his voice, nearly condescending in a way that makes your breath quicken. You vaguely thought about what he had planned for you at the hotel, luckily you had a whole room to yourself since none of your dad’s friends’ daughters wanted to come. You don’t necessarily blame them—you probably wouldn’t have come either if it weren’t for Aaron and the undoubtable promise that you will have the best sex of your life.
And you do want to wait, honestly. But right now, watching the way his biceps flex in the golden light and remembering the way he desperately grabbed at your hips has you rethinking.
So, you give him an innocent smile, reminiscent of the one you gave him earlier this week, and take a hold of his hand to intertwine your fingers together. The action is slightly risky, implying something about your relationship that neither have you discussed. You may be overthinking it, worried that Aaron would think you’re jumping to conclusions, but all of your reservations disappear when Aaron’s hand squeezes yours and brings your joined hands to rest in his lap.
He gives you a soft smile, one you’ve never seen before that makes your chest tighten, and turns his gaze back on the road.
The following 10 minutes are quiet besides the soft roar of the engine and the gentle hum of the radio. The sun setting washes the interior of the car with a warm gold, and you can’t help but notice the way both of your hands, still clasped together, just look so good together. Like you perfectly complemented each other.
You blame it on the fact that you’re starting to get bored when you wiggle your hand to free yourself from Aaron’s grasp to run your fingers along the top of his hands. You trace each knuckle before tracking the visible veins with a light touch, your fingers running up his wrist and to his forearm. The dusting of hair is soothing when you place a firmer hand onto his forearm, gripping it, and your heart thuds in your chest when you notice your thumb and middle finger can’t even touch each other.
He's just so big. His arms, his hands, his shoulders. The way he can so easily overpower you, manhandle you, domineering in a way that makes you want to act out even more just to see what he would do.
He throws you a curious glance when your hand moves up to his bicep, squeezing and feeling.
“Just touching,” you say, and then Aaron’s eyes are back on the road.
The next thing you do is completely spontaneous, out of character for you even, however you know being impulsive is what got you here in the first place.
You place your hand on his crotch.
He doesn’t jump because, of course not. If anything, he was expecting it by the way he just gives you another curious look. Your eyes are instantly drawn to the way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips and the sudden clenching of his jaw.
“Still just touching,” you repeat and turn your focus to your phone with your free hand, leaving your other hand in his lap.
You scroll mindlessly through several different apps for a couple minutes, not even reading anything because you’re too stunned with the fact that Aaron didn’t say anything or remind you to be on your best behavior. Your hand is still precariously placed on his crotch, the seam of his jeans warm against the palm of your hand.
You start scrolling more intently now, reading the entirety of at least every other post, before you start tentatively rubbing your fingers on where you can definitely feel the head of his dick through his pants. Aaron inhales sharply, so quietly you almost don’t hear it, and it’s all the permission you need.
You start pressing more firmly, grabbing him through his jeans to the best of your ability and tracing the line of his slowly hardening cock through the rough material. You grope at him, nearly shamelessly now, and it takes all of your willpower to not throw your phone to the backseat and jump into his lap.
Instead, you place your phone at your feet and turn your body towards him. His back is ramrod straight and his hands are grasping at the steering wheel like his life depends on it. If anyone passing by looked through the window, they would just assume that Aaron was one of those extremely attentive drivers. However, up close, you can see the tense line of his jaw, the way his brows are pinched together, and the way he’s attempting to hide the way he’s starting to breathe heavily through slightly parted lips.
It's intoxicating, and you want more.
Your hand begins to move up his zipper to the top button of his jeans. His eyes dart to you then, craning his neck slightly to look at you but also making sure to keep his eyes on the road, as if the road is even that busy.
“You really can’t listen, can you?”
That condescending tone again makes your brain nearly short-circuit. It’s like a dam breaks because suddenly you’re leaning over the console, making your breasts nearly spill out from your tank top, and you want him in your mouth and coming down your throat if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. “Can I?”
“Can you what, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Christ. “Please, can I suck on your cock?”
He hums nonchalantly, as if you can’t see the way he shifts in his seat or the way he’s hurriedly unbuttoning his jeans with one hand. “’Please?’ Looks like you do have some manners.”
And then he’s taking his cock out and you nearly combust on the spot. He’s not fully hard, but you still want nothing more than to feel him on your tongue.
You’re just about to unbuckle your seatbelt to throw yourself into his lap before he stops you by placing his hand over yours.
“Not your mouth, we don’t want other people to know what a dirty girl you are. Use your hands,” he says, nonchalant again in a way that makes your heart race and the ache between your thighs grow.
Although the idea of being caught with your head in his lap and cock down your throat suddenly sounds extremely appealing in a way you’ve never thought of before, you have no choice but to listen and follow his instructions.
You hesitatingly wrap your hand around him, watching in near fascination at the drop of precum that leaks out. He’s big here too, satisfyingly thick and warm in your hand. You move your hand up to smear the wetness around him and then start a steady rhythm of pumping his cock.
A strangled groan comes out of Aaron eventually, and you watch as he attempts to throw his head back in ecstasy while still watching the road with half-lidded eyes. The wide expanse of his pretty throat tempts you, imagining what it would be like to pepper kisses up to his tense jaw to help him relax.
He’s fully hard now, precum steadily leaking out and coating the palm of your hand. You attempt to vary your actions; twisting on the upstroke, squeezing when you’re at the base, or tracing your thumb against the head of his cock. The loud squelching noise makes you feel embarrassed and hot all at the same time, the way it’s drowning out the radio’s music. Your mouth waters as you watch the head of his dick disappear in your fist, wishing you could taste him or see the sheer bliss on his face as he fucks your mouth.
“You couldn’t even wait to get your hands on me, could you?” Aaron murmured, nearly sneering at you. “I bet if I let you, you would let me pull over and fuck you here on the side of the road.”
You swallow nervously, clenching your thighs and trying to ignore the obvious wetness you can feel in your own panties. You squeeze him harder, enthralled by the feeling of his hot flesh against you, and breathlessly whisper “I would.”
He hisses at that, nearly bucking his hips up to follow your hand. “You would let me fuck you anywhere I want.”
It wasn’t a question, but you still feel compelled to answer. “Yes.”
Just then, Aaron’s phone rings from the phone mount on the dashboard. Dread and something awfully similar to delight prickles at the back of your neck when you notice the caller ID being your father. You’re about to retract your hand until Aaron gives you a look out of the corner of your eye, almost like a glare, before his own hand is hot over yours to keep you there.
“Keep going.”
Before you can think of a snarky remark, Aaron swipes at his phone to answer.
“Hotchner.” Nonchalant, casual, as if he doesn’t have his leaking cock in the hands of his best friend’s daughter.
“Hey Hotch, we’re coming up on a great burger joint here in a couple of miles and I wanted to see if you guys were alright with that? I think we lost you.”
You must have been extremely distracted because you’re just now noticing you can’t see your father’s car ahead of you anymore. There are only a few cars on the highway now after finally passing all the city traffic, now driving through a somewhat rural area. You don’t blame yourself after all, because how often do you find yourself giving handjobs to hot older men in their cars?
“I was actually thinking of pulling over at a rest stop, someone’s not feeling well.” Aaron cranes his neck, raising an eyebrow at you.
Even in the darkness of the summer evening and the sparse streetlights bouncing off the dashboard, the pure and primal desire swimming in his eyes is clear and causes a flush to rise to your face.
“Yeah, it must have been lunch,” you attempt to joke, hoping that the rasp in your voice doesn’t give you away. You feel Aaron’s cock twitch in your hand.
Your dad hums through the tinny speakers. “Yeah, you don’t sound so good.”
You notice the car slowing down, not realizing that you were pulling up to a secluded area of a rest stop, right underneath a tree. You glance out the window and take in the fact that the nearest car is over 10 spots away and the closest streetlight is burnt out. You think of the discreet dark color of the car and the tinted windows. Anticipation curls at the bottom of your stomach.
“We’ll let you know when we’re back on the road.” And then Aaron immediately hangs up, parks the car, and leans over the console to kiss you with a hand cradling your cheek.
He cuts to the chase again, kissing you so deeply that your head spins. His mouth is soft but he’s assertive even like this. His hand moves to the back of your neck, taking a hold of you, and your mouth opens in a moan before you can stop yourself, allowing Aaron’s tongue to brush against yours.
When he pulls back, something like a needy whine erupts from your throat. You don’t realize that your hands moved to grasp at his polo, leaving Aaron’s cock free and pressed against his stomach.
“You drive me crazy,” Aaron mutters, brushing a lock of hair behind your head. His gesture and words are impossibly soft, a complete contrast to how he was kissing you, making your breath stutter in your chest.
“You drive me crazy,” you whisper breathily. “Please fuck me?”
He huffs a laugh at that, something you’re slowly starting to become familiar with, and tightens his hold on the back of your neck. There’s nothing soft in his eyes anymore. “Get in the back, now.”
You scramble to get out of the car, legs nearly shaking. The summer humidity is cloying, suffocating, and you rush to open the door to crawl in the backseat.
The seats are just as large and plush as up front, however there’s definitely more foot room that you’re sure Aaron will appreciate. You’re waiting in the middle seat, legs tucked underneath you, as you watch Aaron tuck himself back into his jeans and step out of the car with an air of nonchalance that somehow makes him even more attractive.
When he opens the door to climb into the back, your eyes meet and you suddenly feel frozen to the spot, because he starts to encroach into your space, nearly predatory. There’s a glint in his eyes as he places his hand on your back, lowering you so you’re laying on the seats. You unconsciously spread your legs so he could situate himself between them, and the feeling of his large and warm body between your thighs has you hitching them up on his hips.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been thinking about this,” Aaron murmurs before ducking his head to press his mouth against your jawline, down your neck, and finally finally sucking a mark where your shoulder meets.
You exhale a shaky moan, bringing your hands up to run down his back and feel how wide his shoulders are and how you can feel his muscles tense as he moves. The wet heat of his mouth, his obscenely large hands on your hips, and the way his figure nearly engulfs you is mesmerizing.
He pulls back to take a look at you, thumb coming up to press into the mark he made and putting light pressure against your neck. There’s something wild and possessive in his eyes, his lips parted like he can’t believe what’s happening. “There you go. Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”
It feels like your breath is knocked out of you and replaced with something equally possessive. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”
Something dark passes over his face. “And here I thought you were going to behave.”
Before you could say anything, Aaron is swiftly lifting your tank top up and over your head, throwing it somewhere towards the passenger seat, and groping your tits. He thumbs at your nipples, watching in awe as you arch your back and push your chest further into his hands. The sudden sensation, pleasure zinging up your spine, after being teased for an entire week is dizzying and you want to drown in it.
“You’re so needy for it, aren’t you?” Aaron says, casually, as he pinches at your nipples. You choke on your moan, the initial sting melting into pleasure that makes you feel drunk. “You’re practically begging for my cock.”
“Yes,” you manage to gasp out. Your hands scramble at his shoulders, running up to tangle the soft hairs at the nape of his neck between your fingers. “I need your cock inside me.”
He leans down to suck one of your nipples in his mouth, deft fingers continuing on the other. His mouth is so deliciously wet and hot, expertly licking around you in a way that’s slowly unraveling you, and you shiver when you think about where else his mouth can be of use. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head and you cant your hips up desperately in an effort to gain some sort of friction against the nearly overbearing ache between your thighs.
His hands come down to press your hips down in an effort to make you stop squirming and you feel him shift until his knee is pressing between your legs and against your pussy through your shorts. The feeling of his warm hands on you and the seam of your shorts rubbing against your clit causes an embarrassingly high-pitched whine to escape your throat.
“You’re teasing me,” you pant, tugging at his hair experimentally.
Another raspy groan erupts from Aaron and, if possible, you feel hotter. His mouth detaches from your nipple and you instantly miss the hot heat of his mouth, until he says “And what if I want to taste that pretty little cunt of yours?”
Imagining Aaron pressing open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, breathing hotly against your panties until he’s pressing his tongue against you, smearing even more wetness around until you’re nearly dripping onto the expensive upholstery has you whimpering. Your mind races as you imagine him pulling your panties aside so he can press his soft mouth against you, licking and lapping at your pussy like you’re a five-course meal, sucking on your clit until you’re screaming his name and begging him to stop.
No words come out, mind nearly melted just at the thought of Aaron looking up at you from between your thighs and his mouth on your cunt. Instead, you let out a breathless moan and attempt to grind down against Aaron’s knee, chasing the little stimulation you can get.
Aaron licks his lips as he watches you, eyes dark and predatory. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” His thumbs briefly traces your hips, and you nearly miss the tender touch, before he’s hooking them into the waistband of your shorts and tugs them down. “But we don’t have time for that, so I’m just going to fuck that needy pussy of yours.”
It took quite a bit of wriggling and Aaron hitting his head against the roof of the car to get your shorts and panties off of you, and you’re about to joke that this was an exercise in of itself, until Aaron is settling back between your legs with his own legs crammed underneath him. You suddenly realize Aaron is still wearing all of his clothes, polo wrinkled and pants hanging loosely at his hips, while you’re completely naked and vulnerable, desperate and needy like he said.
His fingers dance across the soft expanse of your thighs until he presses a finger against you, so close to where you need him. You breathe unsteadily and have to close your eyes, suddenly feeling overwhelmed, when Aaron gently grazes between your folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, honey. Is this all for me?”
You nod rapidly and push your hips down in an effort to tell him to hurry the fuck up.
Aaron tuts at you. “What did I say about using your words?” And then he’s forgoing your clit completely and pressing a thick finger inside.
You gasp, eyes shooting open and meeting his from where he’s watching your face so intently it would’ve been intimidating if you didn’t feel white-hot pleasure take over your body. “Yes, I’m wet, just for you,” you rush out.
He hums, satisfied. “Just for me, right?” He begins thrusting his finger inside of you, and the feeling of being filled and something finally happening has you arching your back against him again, soft whines escaping your mouth before you can help it. The lewd noises from your sopping pussy rings out in the small space of the car, jarring, but it just makes you feel hotter.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble, attempting to rut your hips down to meet his thrusts, steadily growing in pace. Your hand shoots down to take ahold of his forearm, nearly distracted at the veins popping out, when you feel a second finger prodding at you. “Please just fuck me already, I’m ready.”
You watch Aaron’s mouth form what has to be a reprimand, scolding you for being so desperate, but then it closes and forms into something softer even as his gaze is fixated on his thick fingers thrusting in and out of your pussy. He leans in and kisses you before you realize, just a soft press of his lips against yours. When he pulls back, he’s still wearing a faint smile, and tucks a stray strand of your hair behind an ear. It’s all so painstakingly affectionate, you feel at a loss for words again but for a completely different reason you can’t name.
“How can I say no to you?” he mutters, almost to himself, and it shocks you to your core.
He doesn’t wait for a response and pulls out a condom from his back pocket. You watch as he’s about to tear the foil packet open, thoughts turning over and over in your head, before you exclaim “It’s fine, I’m on the pill.”
He pauses and stares at you, serious based off the pinch of his brows. “Are you sure? I don’t mind…”
“I’m sure,” you say, throwing your arms around his neck so you can run your fingers through his hair. And you are absolutely sure, confident, because you know the cherry on top of this whole experience would be feeling his cock spill in your pussy and filling you up. “I want to feel you.”
You watch as he groans, closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against yours, staring at the flutter of his long eyelashes. “You are killing me, sweetheart.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Are you kidding me? I can say the same for you.”
Because if you thought Aaron looked good wearing a suit in those blurry pictures on Facebook, it doesn’t even compare to how he looks now. His polo tightly stretched over his shoulders, slightly disheveled from where you were grabbing onto him, belt unbuckled and pants hanging deliciously half-open from his hips, and hair tousled, the gel maintaining his professional appearance giving way to make him look younger. He’s so unbelievably hot you almost believe you’re dreaming.
You watch as he pushes his jeans and boxers down enough to where his cock pops out, the head a sympathetic dark red from where he must’ve been achingly hard this entire time. Before you make another attempt to have him in your mouth, he’s pushing in, stretching you deliciously open and making you grip harder at the hair at his nape.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight for me,” Aaron grunts, his hands flying to grasp onto your hips.
Although you can feel him sink into you, inch by inch, you’re mesmerized by the sharp focus on his face, the pinch in his brow and eyes clenched shut. As if he’s trying not to throw away all abandon and pound into you, and the thought is so intoxicating it makes your head spin.
“Oh my god,” you mumble. He bottoms out, his cock finally pushed all way in your pussy, and he’s much bigger, thicker, than you realized. It feels so, so good—being filled up with his hard cock, his hips pressing against your thighs as they splay out the way you’ve been dreaming of for the past week.
“You okay?” Aaron asks, gentle again, and before you could answer, he’s pulling back and thrusting back into you.
A gasp wretches out of you and your hands scramble at his back, pulling him down because you need him to be closer, need his large body pushing down on you and making you take him.
He lets you, giving you a mockingly sympathetic look, and leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss against your jawline. He starts a steady rhythm then—thrusting in and out of you and knocking the breath out of you. “You’re going to take my fat cock, baby? I know you’ve been begging for it all week; you need it so bad, don’t you?”
Jesus Christ.
Words escape you again, instead, your mouth hangs open as you attempt to nod in response. Even though the car’s AC was blasting, you were covered in sweat and sliding up the seats with every thrust of Aaron’s hips. You definitely weren’t complaining, probably wouldn’t even be able to because sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of making kept coming out of you, eyes nearly permanently rolled back in your head. It felt so good, you didn’t think fucking could ever feel this good, but Aaron continues to exceed expectations.
You hitch your legs up his hips higher and let out a high-pitched whine at the change in angle, hot pleasure zinging up your spine. Aaron grunts, something dark and masculine that makes you preen, and his hips start snapping harder, faster.
“Look at you,” he murmurs lowly right into your ear. “Being fucked so good you can’t even speak.”
He shifts again, hands hooking underneath your thighs and, with your nod, presses your knees to your chest until they’re next to your ears, legs dangling over his shoulders. You wrap your arms around your thighs, holding them in place, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head when Aaron’s cock slides even deeper into your cunt with a wet sound. He feels heavenly, even despite not having touched your clit at all.
He fucks you relentlessly and you think your brain has melted out of your ears because you just take it. The sound of his skin slapping against yours, the litany of groans and praises that fall from his lips, and your nonstop whimpering gasps is heady. You don’t even care if you can’t come just from him rutting into you alone, it feels too fucking good.
He sits back up, not once breaking his brutal pace, and makes unwaveringly intense eye contact with you. “My beautiful girl takes my cock so well, making such pretty noises. I can’t wait to fill this pussy up with my come.”
You really did not expect Aaron to have the dirty mouth he does, but again, you’re not complaining. Instead, you bring one of your arms down to snake between your thighs where you’re absolutely soaked in your combined wetness and sweat to circle your clit. The added stimulation, finally, has your thighs shaking and your pussy clenching around him. You squirm a bit, because his belt buckle has started to dig into you from where his pants are pooling around his knees, but you’re suddenly so close.
“Fuck, Aaron…”
He licks his lips at that, starts to fuck into you faster somehow. He knocks your hand aside to replace with his own and you absolutely mewl when you feel the rough callous of his thumb gently circling your clit, impossibly slow. “Is my good girl going to come? You’re going to come all over my cock, sweetheart?”
Your heart is pounding in your ears, and you can barely detect the strain in Aaron’s voice, like he’s close too. “Yes, yes, please,” you stutter, feeling your gut tighten and sweat breaking out on the back of your neck. “Harder.”
Aaron lets out a shaky laugh. “Since you asked so nicely.”
And then he’s rubbing your clit mercilessly, almost too rough if your nerves weren’t already so close to snapping. You let out a string of strangled whines, your hands coming up to hold onto Aaron’s free arm for dear life. You’re so wet that his fingers just glide over you, the wet noises of him fucking into you getting you hotter, making the coil in your stomach wind tighter, but it’s still not enough.
You watch with half-lidded eyes as Aaron lifts his right hand from where he was definitely leaving bruises on your hip to place at the base of your throat. Your eyes widen but you don’t stop him because the feeling sends your mind spinning, realizing that you have placed so much trust in this man and he’s thoughtful enough to care for you, treasure you, and fuck you so hard he’s definitely ruined you for anyone else.
His eyes are impossibly dark, hair falling into his face, and you meet his gaze unblinkingly as he puts light pressure on your throat. “Come for me.”
You don’t know if it’s the hand on your neck, his cock frantically fucking into you, or the soft baritone of his voice that has you pushing over the edge. You come with a choked gasp of his name, hips and thighs shaking almost uncontrollably. You swear your vision whites out because you don’t think you’ve ever come so hard in your fucking life.
You distantly hear Aaron grunt your name, feel him fuck into you desperately and erratically. He lets go of your throat, you secretly already miss the weight of his hand, and he clutches at your hips as he chases his own orgasm. It doesn’t take long for his hips to stutter, coming into you with a guttural moan that sends a shiver down your back. He grinds his hips into you, like he’s making sure he’s giving you every last drop he has, and the thought has you whimpering.
You stay like that as both of you catch your breath. Your thighs and hips are starting to ache uncomfortably, pussy sore in a way where you know you’ll be feeling it tomorrow, but you watch the way Aaron runs his hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes so he can lean in to kiss you, and it’s all worth it.
He pulls out slowly, dick twitching half-way inside of you when you moan at the empty feeling. You feel his come instantly start to drip out of you and onto the seats, and the dangerous glint in Aaron’s eyes has you squirming, heat licking up your back.
“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning over to open the console and hopefully rummage around for a hidden towel. You hope he doesn’t pull out old and scratchy fast-food napkins like the ones you have crammed in your glove compartment.
You laugh breathlessly, slowly dropping your legs down to dangle a bit more comfortably. “More than okay.”
He comes back with a pouch of wet wipes, slightly used, and you’re surprised at the sudden twinge of jealousy you feel when you imagine why he has wet wipes ready in his car and how many other women he’s fucked in his expensive car.
He’s thorough in cleaning you up, chest rapidly rising and falling as he continues to catch his breath. As if he can read your mind, he looks up at you curiously with no trace of the stern persona he had when he was fucking you mindlessly. You had thought you hid your jealousy well, however you find yourself glaring at the wipes in his hand.
He gives you an achingly sweet smile, a surprise dimple making an appearance, and leans over you where you’re still sweating all over his backseat. “Every parent has wet wipes in their car.”
You feel your cheeks heat at being caught, that he somehow knew you were drowning in the sudden onslaught of jealousy clawing up your chest. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” He throws the used wipes on the floor to pick up later, and then he’s wrestling around with you until you’re somehow laying on top of him across the seats, both of your legs bunched up and tangled together.
You’re sticky and sweaty, and Aaron has nearly sweated through his polo, causing it to cling to his chest in a way that has you wanting to put your hands all over him. So, you do, running your palms up and down him so intently that it gets a chuckle out of him.
“All of your clothes are still on.”
“Well, I was a little busy.” Oh, he’s a little cheeky after sex.
Both of you are laying in comfortable silence as you still catch your breaths, Aaron moreso than you, when his phone goes off where it hasn’t moved from the phone mount. The bright light causes you to squint, and you turn to press your face into Aaron’s chest with a whine. “Don’t pick up.”
“Alright, alright,” Aaron says despite him making no moves anyway to get up. He cranes his neck to get a good look at the caller ID and you can feel his body stiffen. “It’s your dad.”
And just like that, a bucket of cold water is splashed over you. You just had sex with your dad’s best friend in his expensive Range Rover in some sketchy rest stop.
You must have froze as well because then Aaron is running a hand up and down your back, making you shiver. He’s trying to comfort you, you know that, but honestly your thoughts immediately melt into other things that rely on his hands on you. Like pushing your head down between his legs. Maybe he’s right and you really are insatiable.
“Come on, let’s get going.”
-
The car ride the rest of the way to the hotel is mostly silent between you two, the only noises being the wind deafening you and your hair slapping into your face since he rolled the windows down.
To air out the stench of sex in the car, you remember.
You would almost think Aaron was mad, the way he didn’t try to make conversation with you, and you knew that you would be spiraling if it wasn’t for the fact that he held your hand in his lap the entire time.
You probably wouldn’t be much for conversation anyway—you’re already trying not to let your mind race about what you were going to do.
You’re only here for a couple of weeks, you go to school across the country, and technically, this was only supposed to be a summer fling. You don’t technically need to tell your dad about what happened.
You turn to look at Aaron, unabashedly. His hair is still tussled, thanks to your fingers, and there’s sweat beading along his forehead from the summer humidity. You stare at the sharp slope of his nose, the way the lights from the highway reflect in his dark eyes, and you’re suddenly wracked with the feeling of not wanting to let him go.
He squeezes your hand when he notices you staring for too long. He turns to you, most likely seeing the desperation on your face. He misinterprets it, thinking you’re running over what you’re going to tell your father over and over in your head. He has no idea that you want to keep seeing him, that you want to make this work somehow, whatever is between you two.
“We’ll figure it out.”
When you notice his gentle smile, the methodical way he runs his thumb over the back of your hand, you believe him.
married!Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: smut, angst though it’s more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫
Summary: Two coworkers walk into a bar. Well... into a club. One’s married, the other’s not, and by the end of the night, professionalism isn’t the only thing getting stripped off.
Warnings: MDNI!!! infidelity, explicit descriptions of the vile act of fornication, reckless consumption of alcohol, language unbecoming of a lady (or an FBI agent), SSA Hotchner engaging in rhythmic pelvic activity to what can only be described as devil music
Word Count: 7k
Dado's Corner: born from a brainrot requested by @sweetheartsocks THANK YOU. I clearly had way too much fun with this (7k words... sorry...). As I was re-reading it I realised there’s an alarming amount of boob action. If you don’t like boobs, please do not perceive me. Or speak to me. Ever again. OOO- right! This takes place right before s1 so Hotch isn’t UC yet...
masterlist
Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona.
Friday nights always suck when all your friends are out getting wasted and tonguing strangers, while you’re overstaying at work, hunched over paperwork from the case you dragged back this afternoon, praying you’ll finish in time to earn tomorrow off.
If you survive the night with your favorite desk mate, that is.
(Favorite meaning: the man you’ve been plotting to murder since the moment you stepped into the office. You only get the chance twice a year, for thirty seconds at 2 a.m., during the legal and solar hour when the surveillance cameras reboot.)
“How fucked up is Gideon for expecting all this done tonight?” you mutter, your pen scraping across the page as the faint scent of freedom finally drifts near. Just a few lines left, and your handwriting’s starting to fall apart.
Ironically enough, the witness report’s the only thing looking sloppy these days. Six weekends in a row of the same joyless grind, while the only kind of sloppy you’d actually kill for involves drunk sex, a warm body, and someone who moans more and weighs less than a tower of case files.
“I think he’s being considerate,” Hotch says, without looking up. “He’s giving us the opportunity to overstay and finish everything so we can take tomorrow off.”
“Wow,” you scoff. “How much of a suck-up are you to abandon basic human logic and call overworking on a Friday night an opportunity? You want his job that bad?”
“I’m not a suck-up.”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen you nod along to every bit of bullshit that comes out of his mouth when you’d rather be quoting Bureau protocol back at him.”
If there’s one thing that really gets under Hotch’s skin, it’s swearing - or worse, being called out on the truths he pretends aren’t there. Which is exactly why you always make sure to do both.
It works like a charm every time: his pen stalls mid-lawyerly sentence, his jaw tightens, and a few rebellious strands of hair (the same ones he probably spent an hour taming with gel this morning) slip loose over his forehead.
He looks like a wounded puppy.
“Haley’s been wanting to expand the family, I wouldn’t be opposed to a promotion if it were… presented. But that doesn’t mean I’m a suck-up.”
His earnest willingness to open up at this hour couldn’t make it more obvious to you that he has no friends. Probably not even his wife, judging by how unenthusiastic he sounds about the whole ‘expanding the family’ thing.
“So you’ve got plans tonight, suck-up?” you ask, smiling, while aggressively trying to scrub the image of Aaron Hotchner breeding out of your head.
He stutters. He’s chronically allergic to anything sexual in the workplace. Hell, to anything not about the workplace in the workplace. Which is the annoying part - because outside of it, he’s actually… decent. Too decent. You hate that he’s decent.
You don’t quite know how to define whatever it is between you two.
Because somehow, somewhere between his “Haley’s at her sister’s, my big plan is trying not to burn a frozen pizza, what about you?” and your ongoing existential rant about wasting your twenties in a government building, you ended up bribing him to come to the club with you.
“It’s a bad idea,” he announces - unoriginally - for the seventh time. But now that you’ve both handed over your jackets and the bass from upstairs is practically vibrating through the floor, he actually sounds like he means it. Not just for moral superiority this time.
“When was the last time you’ve been to a place like this, huh? Were we still a British colony?” you tease, swatting his shoulder. It’s strange - you’re used to the soft padding of his suit jacket, not the actual warmth of him. Solid muscle. It kind of catches you off guard.
“You’re very funny,” he deadpans, clearly irritated, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the smallest twitch.
Truth is, Hotch hasn’t been to ‘a place like this’ often enough to be fooled by the rhythm of a song he vaguely recognizes, or by the flash of color as he looks down and you climb the stairs ahead of him.
He doesn’t look too high. Tries not to.
And then he’s thrown off again - this time by the chopped-up remix of a commercial he doesn’t recognize at all. Back in his day, music didn’t need borrowed parts. (And America was independent.)
He gestures toward the bar, and you follow him through the clouds of sugary perfume and aquatic cologne, brushing against his shoulder so you don’t lose track of your 6’2” colleague whose thick head of hair is already standing out above everyone else.
You tap him there.
The music’s too loud, so you have to lean in, your mouth brushing the air beside his ear just to be heard. You find yourself suddenly surrounded by a comforting, nutty vanilla scent. You’ve never noticed it before, probably because you’ve never been this close to him. Your lips are hovering barely an inch from the spot where he must’ve sprayed it.
He smells good. Overly sophisticated.
You cup a hand beside your mouth to aim your voice toward his old-man ear, your pinkie accidentally skimming the edge of his stubble.
“You look like a fed.”
He rolls his eyes, then gets his revenge by showing off exactly why he’s been sucking up to Gideon for the Unit Chief job, ordering your drink before you can even open your mouth (obnoxious flex of profiling prowess.)
He knows what you drink. And he pays for it, too.
One drink turns into two tequila shots, then a third, because neither of you really feels it.
Yet.
Every time he downs another, he makes this ridiculous stupid-ass face. Scrunches his nose. Raises his brows. It’s his desperate attempt at looking unaffected, but it only makes him look more affected.
It’s kind of cute. God forbid he lets tequila defeat him. He’d rather die of internal combustion than admit it.
But as the night warms and the liquor starts to dilate your blood vessels, his perfect posture starts to go, too. He slouches, legs spreading wider on the seat, and your eyes dip down before you can stop them.
The strobe light keeps catching him in flashes. One second it freezes his reluctant smile, the one that tugs his mouth into dimples he clearly didn’t authorize, and the next it drifts down the sharp edge of his jaw to the tendons in his hand resting on the counter.
The light hits, ricochets back toward you, golden, before sliding lower - along his arm, over his thigh - and looping back up to his face. Still smiling. At you.
He's just being very, very nice.
You start talking more - half because it’s easier to hear each other here, half because silence feels… dangerous. Office gossip, mostly. You’re surprised how much he knows, actually.
Apparently Aaron Hotchner, professional wall of quiet, is also an unrepentant gossip. And he’s good at it, too - leaning closer when he lowers his voice, lips barely curving when he drops something scandalous.
It’s a little addictive.
The way he speaks, there’s this warmth in his voice you’ve never really heard before, and that dry humor that used to slide right past you suddenly hits like a slow burn.
You start noticing things you shouldn’t.
The small scar on his chin.
That single white eyelash you keep staring at. Also - his lashes are so fucking long.
The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he talks, and how your eyes keep following the movement like you’re under some kind of spell.
The fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his chest when he moves his arm behind you. You feel his sleeve brush across your back, his thumb resting temptingly on your shoulder.
From there, the talking starts to fall apart. Words stretch out, sentences trail off, and what’s left hanging between you feels a lot less like small talk and a lot more like…
“Do you wanna dance?”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like he’s asking for the time. But his head tilts, eyes catching yours, that unreadable half-smile still playing at his mouth.
Polite.
And so, you let him lead you deeper into the crowd, the music swallowing your inhibitions whole while he’s right there in front of you, mouthing the lyrics to some pop song that dropped, what, a week ago? Shakes his head to the beat like he’s pretending he doesn’t know every single word.
Is this the same man who once thought April Fools’ Day meant swapping your pen holder to the other side of your desk? Really? That guy?
Because you hadn’t expected him to move like this. Or to move at all. Truly. His hips roll with an effortless, fluid rhythm that shouldn’t belong to someone that tightly wound. Maybe it’s the alcohol loosening him up, making him look less like a man with a broomstick lodged up his ass, but he looks – damn - devastating.
The dark turns him into something you can’t stop looking at.
You feel it hit low in your stomach, an aching pull that has your hand finding his shoulder before you can think better of it. You want him (plain and simple) and he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the second he catches someone glancing your way, he moves closer, hand finding your waist, claiming space that wasn’t his a moment ago.
He doesn’t want you distracted by anyone that isn’t him. And you’re not. To the point where you’re standing too close, far too close.
But the dancing makes it forgivable, almost necessary.
Just like the slow drag of your hand as it slips down to feel the damp fabric stretched over his broad chest, coming to rest above the rush of his heartbeat hammering beneath it.
His face grows slick with heat, cheeks flushed a deep pink, dark hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead no matter how many times he tries to brush it away. He drags a hand over his face, then shakes it out with a quick flick, sending a few drops of sweat flying.
You’re transfixed. You’d lick them straight off his fingers if you could.
But instead, that same hand drifts to his collar, loosening the top button of his shirt. Then another. The fabric parts just enough for the light to catch on his collarbones, the sheen of sweat along his skin.
His gaze never leaves you - not even as he tugs at his tie, loosening it and baring the strong line of his throat. A ghost of a smile lingers, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Like this little striptease is for your eyes only.
You’re honestly not sure you could afford this whore.
Not when he pulls you closer, his hands sliding down your back, fingertips grazing the curve of your ass before slipping lower to cup it, guiding you to move with him. To match his rhythm.
There’s no mistaking it anymore. But you don’t say a word. Neither does he. He just keeps moving with you - and the longer you dance, the looser his tie gets, the knot slipping lower, lower, until it’s hanging on by a thread.
You catch it between your fingers and give it a tug, pulling him closer, drawn to the heat rolling off his body. The silk slides under your grip, and you twist it twice around your hand like a leash.
A whimper, swallowed by the music, tells you he’s really into this - but then you see it. The thick outline straining against his slacks. Your mouth goes dry. The alcohol humming through your blood and the sight of him together make a lethal combination.
You want to feel that. Desperately.
So you start moving your hips, drawing circles that drag right against the hardness pressing against you. You grip his tie with one hand, his shoulder with the other, using him as leverage.
Then he takes over.
He grabs you by the hips and spins you, pressing your back flush against his chest, manhandling you into place. His head dips into the curve of your neck, breath hot against your skin as his strong arms lock tight around your waist.
Then he starts to move you, the thick line of his cock grinding against your ass through the fabric. You can feel everything. Every inch. Every pulse. And again, you are very. Very. Horny.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Your hips roll back into him, syncing with his rhythm until it stops being rhythm at all. It’s messy. Craving. Addictive. His grip tightens on your hips, almost possessive, and for a fleeting second you hope he leaves marks.
You’re still dancing, technically.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself when one of his hands drifts up, spreading wide over your breast, fingers greedy even through the fabric. The other slides lower, gripping the flesh of your stomach, holding you right where he wants you.
You tip your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, breath unsteady. Your hand finds its way into his damp hair, tracing down the side of his face until it catches on his tie. You wrap the silk around your fingers and pull, tugging him closer - not that he needs much convincing.
You feel him twitch against you, his breath coming fast and shaky as his fingers toy with the buttons of your shirt. He slips just beneath the fabric, enough to brush bare skin. He has the decency to stop there, not daring to slide beneath your bra, but the restraint doesn’t last long.
His hand drifts lower, over your waistband, between your thighs, until his fingers find your clit through the thin layers of fabric. He strokes your nub carefully, almost invisible to anyone watching. But you feel it.
The pressure exactly where you need it, the friction so good it turns your legs to water. You bite your lip hard to keep quiet, swallowing the sound that would’ve absolutely counted as an ad-lib this song didn’t need.
But that only seems to do something to him. You feel his hands slide up your sides, his face pressing into your back as he bends down, fingers gripping your hips while you keep rolling them, side to side, right against him.
Suddenly, you feel his teeth on your ass. He bites you.
The song gets its ad-lib this time.
He stays there for a moment, mouth hot against your cheek like he’s savoring it, before shifting to the other side - symmetry, maybe. Or greed. Then he drags himself back up, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the hard press of his cock still wedged between your cheeks, pulsing.
It might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you.
It’s still dancing. Technically.
Even if you’re soaked through your panties, and his fingers keep working over your clothed cunt, the fabric now slick and clinging, each drag leaving more of you on his hand.
Even if, when your trembling hand finds his hip for balance, he bends lower, mouth brushing the side of your neck.
He pulls you tighter against him, his breath warm against your ear, carrying the faint tang of the shots you’d downed together not long ago. Then, in a voice so low and buttery you could fuck it, he murmurs, “Can we get out of here?”
How convenient it is that you’re both horny drunks with no self-control.
Hotch still insists on driving you home (because God forbid he stop being a suck-up model citizen for one night), even though he’s clearly just as drunk as you are. He’s too far gone to realize your apartment is literally a few blocks away and there is no need.
Not that he’s supposed to know that, of course.
You play innocent, insisting you’d never burden him with the task of driving you home, gracefully omitting the fact that you picked this club specifically so you wouldn’t have to drive at all.
“Really?” he says, giving you that look - the one that usually makes you want to slap him, but right now, with the booze in your system, you’re thinking it’d be much more effective if you just sat on it instead.
Anyways-
One raised brow. That’s all it takes. It says I know you’re full of shit, and somehow, even worse, I know exactly why.
He’s right, obviously.
You’d love for him to drive you home, just not for the usual reasons. Normally, you’re just glad to be in his SUV instead of Gideon’s (the old man drives like shit), but tonight it’s the thought of those leather seats, that squeaky-clean interior, and how they’d feel against your skin if you ever stopped pretending to be professional.
Still, once you’re outside, the cold air hits him - sobers him up just enough for both of you to slip back into that safe, polite colleague silence.
Just dancing, right? Nothing to talk about. Totally normal.
So normal that his voice is still rough when he insists on walking you home (now that he’s finally realized the car was unnecessary). The moment you fold your arms against the cold, he’s already shrugging off his jacket. He doesn’t even ask - just drapes it over your shoulders and says, “Make sure to slide your arms inside the sleeves.”
Condescending piece of shit.
You would. You really would. If the jacket didn’t smell exactly like him (like an expensive whore). It hits you harder than the tequila. And you’re not the only one feeling it.
He keeps glancing over, subtle but not subtle enough. Maybe he’s checking if you’re cold. Maybe he’s just making sure you’re still there. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re walking close enough for your arms to brush.
Either way, he’s not exactly trying to fix it.
“Do you want to come upstairs? Get some water?” you ask, pretending it’s casual. Hydration, right? For his safety. For public safety. Nothing else.
He agrees far too easily. Just like that. No “Don’t worry about me,” no polite Disney-princess routine about how he’s fine. Just a quiet, “I’d be glad to.” (Still phrased like a Disney princess, at least.)
You’re not sure how to feel about seeing him in your space.
At this hour. This late. Alone. With you.
He either hasn’t noticed the time or doesn’t care, already poking around your kitchen like it’s a crime scene. Within seconds he’s reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetically, obviously, the same way he arranges case files) while you grab a glass and fill it with the good water from the fridge.
You hand him one of your favorite cups. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. He looks at it. Then at you. Then back again, processing in horror why anyone with a fully developed prefrontal cortex would willingly drink from something so… phallic. (Probably a subliminal message. You hope he gets it.)
“You shouldn’t store water in the fridge,” he says, completely deadpan. “Drinking cold water isn’t good for you.”
Okay, mom. You were hoping the alcohol might’ve dulled the asshole tendencies a little.
“I’ve got tap water too, if you prefer,” you shoot back. But he’s already heading toward your fridge - your fridge - murmuring a quick “It’s alright” before opening it like he pays rent here.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asks, domestic. Again - this is your kitchen. You should be asking him.
“I could make apple fritters,” he continues, half to himself, already rummaging through your shelves. “Are there even any eggs in here?”
He tsks under his breath, shaking his head at what he finds - clearly unimpressed, like your pantry has somehow offended his stupid-ass refined palate. Then he pulls something out. (Sadly, not the beautiful dick you almost regret grinding on, if this is the attitude you’re stuck with.)
“White chocolate? Really?” He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “What are you, twelve?”
He’s taunting you - shaking the bar in one hand before snapping off a piece and slipping it between his teeth.
Then, with the chocolate still wedged between his lips, he picks up the pen from your counter and scribbles something onto your grocery list - the one pinned to the fridge with that tacky Paris magnet he brought you back as a souvenir.
(You have two, actually. Morgan gave you his because he said it looked too kitsch. He wasn’t wrong-)
He scrawls, “Buy real chocolate.” The handwriting’s a little wobbly - clearly not his usual neat penmanship. Then he turns back to you and grins boyishly.
You hate to admit it, but he looks so handsome.
The chocolate’s still there, clamped between his teeth, and his eyes don’t leave yours as he finally bites down and eats it. It’s ridiculous how sexy that looks. Is this foreplay? It has to be.
“It’s way too sweet,” he says, still taunting, crossing his arms as he leans sideways against your fridge - just a few inches from you.
His tie’s still crooked, his shirt half undone, his hair a mess. His eyes look so lively and golden under the lights. What a beautiful slut of a man.
“Don’t blame the chocolate because you’ve got bad taste,” you shoot back, taking a step closer without really meaning to.
“I believe my taste is just fine.”
You roll your eyes. You’re done with him. “Are you sure?”
He hums softly, and steps forward. So do you.
You’re both too drunk to tell who actually moves first, but suddenly his big big big big huge humongous, rough hands are on your face, and yours find the back of his neck as you crash into a kiss.
It’s softer than you expect - oddly tame, almost sweet. Tastes like tequila, gin, and… white chocolate. Of course. Because he’s a suck-up. He probably ate it on purpose just so you’d taste it now.
Like this.
The man’s commitment to people-pleasing really knows no limits.
You pull back for air, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. They’re darker now, the control gone, his pupils blown wide and – most importantly - fixed on your mouth.
It feels like the floodgates burst open.
He surges against your lips again, hungry, tracing your lower lip with his tongue until you yield to him - parting, melting into the kiss as your hands roam across his chest, over his shoulders, tangling in his tie.
You back him up against the fridge, magnets rattling, one of them clattering to the floor and shattering. He’ll probably pick it up later, but right now he’s too busy helplessly groaning into your mouth as you bite his lip, tug, and suck it between your teeth.
His stupid, naturally pink lips are going to be ruined by the time you’re done.
He slaps your ass once, then grabs a handful, pulling you tight against him and grinding his half-hard cock between your thighs. You moan into his mouth, hips chasing the friction, your clit throbbing where you meet.
You don’t even break the kiss when you start to guide him backward, one hand fisted in his tie. He follows easily, way too easily.
“God,” he groans, smiling against your lips.
Amen.
Your calves bump against the back of the sofa, and he sinks down without hesitation, spreading his legs wide, no pretense left in him. His hands find your waist, guiding you to straddle him on your knees. One slides up your back, pulling you in until your chest meets his mouth.
He bites at the fabric covering your breast, hot breath seeping through, mouth full of you. His other hand grips the opposite side, squeezing possessively. His mouth then moves, open and hungry, latching onto the other, teeth scraping, tongue tracing circles that make you whimper.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pushing him closer, urging him deeper. He hurriedly moves between your breasts, kissing, sucking, biting softly, before pausing to look up at you.
Your fingers are still threading through his coarse strands, and he’s already breathless.
“Can you take this off already?” you mutter, impatiently working through his buttons, tugging the fabric open to expose his chest. Endowed, yes, but it’s what’s lower that really gets you. The soft strip of stomach, the trail of dark curls disappearing beneath his waistband.
It’s so fucking hot you can’t stop staring. You want to touch it. Bite it. Leave marks just to see how he’d react. You need him to return the favor before you give in and lean down to taste the skin you’ve just exposed.
“Ask nicely,” he teases, though his hands are already toying with the flesh of your ass anyway.
“Hotch, for fuck’s sake-” You hate him. Can’t believe he’s the one you ended up tangled up with. Of all people. The fact that it’s him and not Morgan honestly makes you a little sick.
“Aaron,” he corrects you, his wet mouth against your neck. Impatient, too keyed up to play his own dumb power games anymore.
And so, his fingers go to your shirt, working through the buttons. The liquor makes him rush - fast, a little clumsy in places, but stubbornly determined, like he’s trying to prove he still has control over something.
You can’t relate.
You shrug out of it in a hurry, desperate to be rid of anything that isn’t skin. The shirt hits the floor somewhere - you’ll deal with that later (future you’s problem). You’re half out of your mind, while he, of course, takes the time to unclasp your bra in record speed - then neatly folds it and sets it on the side table like a psychopath.
The time he saves with that efficiency, he wastes by looking. Just looking.
“God,” he is so wrecked. “You’re beautiful.”
And then he’s on you. No hesitation - just his mouth latching onto a swollen nipple.
His tongue circles around your peak, perfectly in sync with his fingers rolling the other between them. Then he sucks, and the sound that leaves your mouth only seems to push him further.
“Do you like it?” muffled against your breast, but before you can even form a thought, he pinches your nipple and tugs, pulling another helpless sound from your throat.
Yeah, he’s not asking for feedback. He just likes watching what you turn into when he does that. How you arch, how your voice falters. He’s giddy about it.
Actually giggly, which should infuriate you, especially after he has the nerve to murmur, “You’re so sensitive.”
But he’s too good at this.
Too good at you. The irritation melts right out of you the moment his mouth starts moving again, trailing across your chest. His tongue drags sloppily over your skin, until he finds your other nipple.
“God,” he breathes. You can feel him smiling against your skin when he flicks his tongue - teasing kitten licks (meow?) that start playful and immediately stop pretending to be.
One hand comes up to press your breast harder into his mouth, while the other slips under your waistband, fingers finding your clit, slick and aching, the glide so smooth it’s honestly kind of obscene.
You can practically count down to it - you’re so wet incoming in 3, 2, 1-
“God, you’re so wet.”
Fuck. You’ve missed the God. Also breathing, if you’re being fair.
He circles your nipple and clit at the same time, every touch winding you tighter until you’re practically shaking, right on the edge-
- then he stops.
Leaves you dry, whining. You barely have time to register the loss before he brings his hand to his mouth.
Holy fuck.
He sucks his fingers clean. Purposefully. His gaze stays locked on you while his lips part, tongue dragging between his fingers, tasting you like it’s the first decent thing he’s ever had in his life.
Then he moves.
Guiding you down onto the sofa, he sinks to the floor without a word, his arms braced on the outside of your thighs. His fingers hook under your waistband and in one swift motion, he tugs. Pants and panties gone in a single move.
A shiver runs up your spine. You feel the drag of the fabric as it slips away, a slick string stretching between you and the cotton before it breaks.
You see him bite down on the inside of his cheek.
Oh, he noticed.
He still folds your stuff - because apparently, even like this, he can’t stop being him - but it’s rushed now, like he’s pretending it matters. His hands are shaking a little. His focus is shot. He’s already back where he wants to be.
His pupils go wide, dark swallowing gold, there’s nothing collected left in him. He’s looking at you like a man starving, but then he giggles. Again.
It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing (omg is that a cunt!?!?!?!?! Wooooooah! Okay… it’s probably just the tequila).
You can’t help it - you giggle too. It’s contagious, almost… sweet, until your hand slides back into his hair, guiding him forward. He follows easily, his breath warm against your inner thigh. But he detours (come on, now), pressing open-mouthed kisses up your skin and nipping at the soft flesh.
“Aaron-“ It feels wrong to call him that. Who is Aaron?
He whines, but finally gives in. One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. He tastes you, savors it, moans into you like he’s the one being touched.
His lips wrap around your clit, and he sucks (literally, figuratively, and metaphorically.)
You can’t hold back the sound that tears out of your throat; it feels too good. You yank him closer by his hair, and he starts devouring you, loses himself completely. His mouth moves frantically, flicking, shaking, devouring you with an eagerness that borders on worship.
Through the haze, you catch flashes - the veins standing out in his hands as he grips your thighs, keeping them spread when they try to clamp around his head. The tension in his forearms, the tremor in his wrists.
He’s so into it. Such a munch it’s almost... illegal?!
He’s so gone, mouth everywhere, tongue sliding up and down your folds, messy and uncoordinated, pausing to kiss you, to suck, to drag his tongue through you again and again. When he slips the tip of it inside, you arch so hard into him your vision whites out.
He moans again, a deep, guttural noise that you feel more than hear, and it hits your clit perfectly.
He’s so overwhelmed he can’t seem to decide what to do with himself, alternating between making out with your cunt like it’s something precious, the next (barely) remembering this is supposed to be for you.
So, he fucks into you with his tongue, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly with every movement, and it’s so good you can’t help but arch, the tips of your toes curling as molten heat starts pooling low in your stomach.
He pulls back just enough to find your clit again, mouth wet and greedy, and you feel it - two of his thick fingers sliding through your slick, gathering it at the tips before pushing inside. The stretch knocks the air out of you. He fills you so easily, and when he curls them - just right, just there-
It’s-
“Cold-” you gasp, the word barely forming.
He looks up, eyes glassy and unfocused, still lazily flicking your clit with his tongue. It takes a second for your words to sink in. Then it hits him.
He freezes. Pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling completely empty. The light catches instantly on the gold band around his finger, glistening wet, smeared with your slick.
The ring.
You see it hit him like a punch. His face changes completely. He stares at his hand, transfixed, still trying to catch up with his own breathing.
He’d completely forgotten it was there.
It’s second nature by now - the way it just stays on through everything. When he drives. When he works. When he washes dishes and grumbles that it makes his hand feel weird. It’s always there. Always been.
He doesn’t really notice it anymore. It’s just part of him.
So why the hell could he forget now?
The band is obnoxiously thick, he’d picked it that way on purpose. When he first bought it, the jeweler told him the size would “balance out his sausage fingers,” laughing as he said it’d be impossible to miss.
And yet - he did.
Because why would he think about it? Why would he ever need to take it off? Everyone knows he’s married.
You know.
Everything suddenly feels colder. He finally drags his gaze away from his hand and looks up at you, and it’s devastating.
You don’t know what to say.
He exhales through his nose.
Shit.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, calm. Way too calm.
He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t gesture, doesn’t even look at the ring. He doesn’t need to. You know exactly what he’s talking about. Still, for a second, you’re not sure if you heard him right - if he really just asked that.
Does it bother you.
Like he’s already accepted what he’s doing, already stepped over the line, and now he’s just politely checking if you’re okay being the accomplice. If you’re fine fucking a married man.
You blink at him, searching his face, trying to understand whether it’s remorse or curiosity flickering behind his eyes.
It’s impossible to tell. He looks too calm for either.
“Does it bother you, Aaron?”
“I asked you,” he says simply. His hands slide back up your thighs. You shiver when the cold metal brushes your skin.
“Aaron, I don’t- I don’t get what you mean by-”
But you don’t get to finish.
He surges up, closing the distance between you, his mouth crashing into yours, desperate, like the realization just made him need you even more.
His hands are everywhere - grabbing, searching, and dragging you closer by the waist, his heavenly touch edged with the cold brush of metal.
You freeze for half a second, brain still trying to catch up to what’s happening, to how wrong it should feel (or if it should, at all-). But instinct wins. It always does.
Your hands find his belt, still locked in a deep, hungry kiss while fumbling with the buckle. The metallic clink cuts through the air as you undo it, pull it free, shove his slacks down, and find him - thick and hard - against the soft fabric of his boxers.
Oh wow.
You palm his erection through it, feel the heat, the damp spot of precum he’s left. He can’t help but hiss into your mouth the second your fingers press against the wet head.
“Please,” he whimpers. Of course it’s vague as hell. Cryptic to the last.
Please what? No, okay. You’re not about to make him say it - please fuck me - even though the thought of hearing those words in his perfect, restrained voice makes you clench around nothing.
You’ll spare him the humiliation, keep his saintly swear-free record intact. And he should really never say you don’t do anything for him.
You strip him down until he’s bare beneath you, nothing left but the loosened tie still hanging around his neck (and yeah, you might need that soon). You sit back, straddling him, just looking.
It’s unfair how beautiful he is.
You could take your time.
Trace every inch of him with your tongue. Follow that line of hair, taste the salt of his skin, lap at the bead of precum glistening at his tip while your hand wraps around all that girth-
But patience isn’t exactly your strong suit. Not now. Not when the alcohol’s still in his system and you’re racing against the possibility of whiskey dick. You need him while he’s like this.
You give him just a couple of strokes from base to tip, pumping him, your cunt clenching around nothing just from holding his weight in your hand and watching him tilt his head back against the couch, his lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to make a sound.
You position him at your entrance, teasing the bulbous head as it presses right where you want it, grinding your cunt against him. Slick drips from your folds like honey, coating his girth and trailing down the sides as he breathes shakily. He doesn’t say a word, probably thinking you’re taking your time to ease into it.
You’re not. You’re taunting him. Drawing it out just to watch him unravel.
It’s addictive - how he looks at you, how he whimpers quietly, waiting, eyes wide and so goddamn earnest it almost makes you feel bad.
Fine.
You sink onto him slowly, the first push stealing all the air from your lungs. A sultry moan leaves your lips as you sink down, inch by inch. The stretch feels unreal, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, your walls clamping around him so tight it’s almost too much.
He’s thick. He fills you up so, so, so good.
You feel his rough palms settle on your waist, thumbs stroking over your skin. Tender.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, the sound of it alone making your walls clench around him. (#humbling.)
Another moan slips out of you when you feel the blunt tip of him kiss your cervix. The jolt steals your breath, your head tipping back as your hips find a rhythm, grinding against him, slick coating his skin, your swollen clit dragging across his lower stomach with every motion.
The friction rips groans out of both of you, the living room heavy with the sound of it - wet, reckless, echoing through the quiet, past any respectable hour.
His hands roam up your sides, tracing your waist, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. You arch into him when his mouth finds you, catching a peak between his lips, sucking hard, humming against your skin as his teeth graze lightly.
You ride him harder, thighs slapping against his, every thrust punching another sound out of you.
“You feel so good, Aaron…” you pant, pace picking up until all you can think about is taking him deep and deeper inside you.
He mumbles something against your breasts, barely coherent - something about how tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how this is such a good pussy. The words slur halfway through, like he’s losing track of his own damn data, too far gone to remember what he’s saying but unable to stop.
It sends another spark straight through you. You tug on his tie, pulling him closer, and he just melts into it - lets out this low, breathy chuckle that vibrates against you, still flicking his tongue over your nipple like he’s drunk on the taste of you.
You want more. Always more. So you twist the silk tighter around your hand, pull again until it bites against his throat.
He’s gone - completely gone – intoxicatedly giggling through the next moan, head tipping back against the couch, mouth slack and pink.
He smacks your ass once, then again. (Behave, bottom!) Your voice breakis around his name, leaving your mouth far too pornographically to ever be mistaken for anything innocent.
You’re not sure you’re going to survive him.
Tingling pleasure starts to spark up your spine when he grabs your waist and pistons his twitching cock into you, his hips snapping roughly against your thighs, the head of his cock finding that sweet spot inside you over and over until the coil in your belly winds dangerously tight.
“Aaron, I’m-” The words die in your throat, splintering into a cry.
Your head falls back, eyes rolling, mouth open as your body takes over - every nerve sparking, every thought obliterated by the way he fucks into you. All you can think - all you want - is for him to come inside.
It’s a terrible idea.
Disastrous.
But you’re too far gone to care, too cock-drunk on him to remember why it would matter, too lost in the heat to even pretend you’d stop him.
Your hand slips down between you, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and desperate until everything tightens, until the world narrows to heat and pulse and sound. The orgasm hits hard, blinding, ripping through you in waves as your body locks up, fluttering tight around him, milking him until he breaks too.
He groans your name, hips snapping up one final time before he spills. The warmth floods you instantly as he keeps thrusting, chasing the last tremors of pleasure, filling you until it’s spilling back out onto your poor sofa.
You collapse against him, chest to chest, boneless and trembling, every nerve still sparking.
His arms come up around you right away instinctively, pulling you close until you can feel every uneven breath against your skin. Warm praises spill quietly into your ear, even as the ring keeps brushing your spine each time his hand moves in tender caresses - frozen against feverish skin.
It’s distracting - almost as much as the smell of sex clinging to his damp hair, the trace of sweat and you mixed in.
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your fingers move anyway, threading through the tangled mess, finding the back of his neck, tugging him closer until he exhales against your shoulder and settles there.
Exactly where he shouldn’t be.
You let him stay. Just a little longer. Long enough that it almost feels… natural. Comfortable. You could fall asleep like this. Bodies tangled, skin still sticky, the air still thick with the proof of what you’ve done.
You keep forgetting someone else is waiting for him.
Dean's been at it for over an hour, head between your thighs, tongue inside your cunt.
You've cum more times than you can count- they've got it at every angle now, every sound you can imagine, moaning, gasping, begging. It's almost getting ridiculous at this point- you know they won't use all the footage.
But you're also not gonna stop him. You're not sure you've ever felt like this- it's overwhelming in the best way possible, your whole body feels like syrup, you're soaking over him, over the sheets. You'd be sobbing by now if you weren't so painfully aware of the camera only inches from your face.
He pushes his fingers into you again, deep and hard, curling in a way that makes your head spin.
Your hips lift off the mattress, he grabs hold of you quick, pushing you back down hard, "Stay still-"
You know they'll keep that. They'll make sure to keep anything he says. Those are always the parts that get the most replays- hell they're the parts you replay. When you're up late, watching his videos, hand between your thighs.
"-I didn't tell you to fucking move."
You don't know how it still works for you. You know it's not him, he even ran through ideas of lines he was gonna use before you started. He was very sweet about it, almost shy when you were alone- he's anything but shy now.
His grip on you tightens as he moves back to your clit, his tongue working against you rapidly. You're gripping the sheets, trying to keep yourself steady, your whole body convulsing as another orgasm starts to rise quickly.
"Fuck- please-"
He's already told you to beg, a couple times actually. You know he will again. It gets you hot just thinking about it, the stern tone in his voice. You bite your lip hard, trying to stop your hips from rising again. Your gaze falls to the camera, a reminder that you're supposed to be performing, you batter your eyelashes, let out another loud moan.
He pulls back suddenly, his sticky hand wrapping around your thigh, his other hand moving up to wipe his mouth. He looks like a mess, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, chin glistening with your arousal. He glances around to the set, speaking louder, "Sorry guys- I've gotta- I've gotta take a break."
The room picks up in a flash, people moving around, cameras resetting. People come running over with robes, one gets draped over your shoulders, a plastic cup of water pushes into your hands. You take a big swig of it, suddenly realizing how dry your mouth is.
People move around you, you see a few people checking the monitors, gearing up for the next shot. You glance at Dean, he's pulling in a shaky breath, pushing his hair out of his face with his long fingers.
You try to go over everything that just happened- why he wanted to stop. Maybe it's the way your bare heel had dug into his back the last time you came, maybe it's the way you tugged his hair a few minutes ago. Maybe he's just getting sick of being the only one actually doing any work.
He moves closer to you on the mattress, settling close enough that he could reach out if he wanted to. He looks up, gaze falling over you, then turns away fast, back to his own cup.
You speak quickly, nervously, "I'm sorry- did I-"
He cuts you off, leaning his head down slightly so he can speak in a hushed voice, "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart."
It catches you off guard, "What?"
He takes a swig of water, then speaks slowly, "If we keep going, I'm gonna cum."
You're still not sure you've understood him, "What do you-"
"I'm not kidding here, I feel like I'm gonna fuckin' explode- if they catch that on film my whole tough guy act is fucked-"
"We haven't even- I haven't touched you-" you manage to get out.
"I'll never live it down if I blow my load just from tongue fuckin' you- jesus-" he shifts awkwardly, you realize he's trying to hide his boner- it's not easy when his cock is larger than any you've seen before.
"You're gonna cum just from going down on me?"
"You're moaning like you've never had a guy touch you before- it's not exactly helping."
You raise an eyebrow, "I can stop?"
He grins at you, "Don't you dare."
Your heart skips a beat, thighs clench together. Forget any video- this is what you're gonna be thinking about tonight.
He takes another gulp of water, then looks back at you, "Just give me a minute to cool off, and I promise I'll fuck you so hard you can't walk tomorrow-"
Since Uh When👆🏻 @petersspidey - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
