[puredani]

I DO NOTHING BUT THINK OF YOU ❤︎ ryland grace’ s sweet angel cherry dr. pepper always blasting music jack abbot’ s doll occasional writer constantly sexualizing old men lover of cinema multifandom ryan gosling enthusiast . . . ♡ 18+ blog only.

YOU KEEP ME UNDER YOUR SPELL . . . visuals tags library recents

© puredani ‘26 do not claim my work as your own.

⟢ mailbox open ⟢ request open

[owenhcrper]

Project Hail Mary

[bbuuunnyyy]

pope tapping his lips whenever he wants a kiss MEOW

this is canon. idc, i make the rules! pope's not huge with words, more talkative some days more than others, and with you he knows he can be himself--giving you gestures, wordlessly grabbing you to hold you close, small acts of love where words aren't needed.

loves to make you your favorite dinner, bringing the plate over to you, setting it down to then tap his lips, causing you to sit up, giving him a quick kiss as a thank you. sitting out by the pool, he turns you to face him, tapping his lips so that you'll lean forward, getting lost in the feeling of the kiss. has you seated on a stool in the garage, watching him work on something for his next job, caging you in between him and the work table, tapping his lips.

one night you have the pie laid out on the dining room table, waiting for the boys to get home when you hear the front door open, heavy steps coming down the hallway. pope and his brothers walk in, job successful, grabbing the plates off the table. pope skims your waist as he walks behind you, moving to sit down, and you walk up, standing between his thighs as you tap your lips. he smirks, leaning in to kiss you--pulling you down onto his lap, tongue tangling with yours.

craig groans from beside you, plate scraping the table as he gets up, taking his dessert elsewhere.. <3

[sugartalkingwrites]

18+ MDNI

blah blah i know sammy bryant is just a total and utter sweetheart baby but i want to see him manhandle reader.

i was scrolling through twitter or x (whateva you wanna call it) saw this tweet about wives asking their cop husbands to try to take them down in 30 seconds and now just imagining asking husband!sammy to do it.

he doesn't want to hurt his sweet girl but they way you're looking at him doe eyed, pleading and tugging at his arm has him chubbing up in his jeans. he had come home, still in uniform when you blocked his way to the shower, shoving your phone to show him the video. "sammy, c'mon please? just once, i wanna what all these bad guys get when my husband is takin em down" your chin on his chest as your looking up at him.

"let me just go shower first and then–" "no, baby you gotta do it uniform! how am i gonna take you serious when you're trying to pin me down in some sweats huh?"

now standing in the living room giggling like a school girl as he tries to size you up, trying to play serious cop now. "you know how fast you were going?" "mmm nope!" "i don't like your attitude, little lady. c'mon gonna take you down to the station for some more questions." sammy's reaching to grab your wrist but you're pulling away giggling, it's cute but now he's too into it. he's got you by the waist hoisting you up and taking you down onto the carpet. the sudden force has you gasping, squealing when he's managed to get both your wrist behind your back, his foot already hooked around your knee as he's pinned you down.

your giggling and squealing like a mad woman but he's rock hard now as he presses himself into. your giggling is cut short when you finally feel his hard length pressed against you through his uniform. his work belt was laid out on the couch beside you so there was no mistaking this for his gun. he's panting and pressing his lips into his ear, one hand is holding both wrists and his other hand has snaked between your legs toying with your slick panties.

"and here i thought my pretty little wife was a good girl... no, good girls don't get this soaked from having an officer man handle em like this. so what are we gonna do about that huh?" he's taunting you as you hear his pants begin to unzip, already pulling out his cock to rub his leaking tip over the wet mess between your legs.

[mrsducky]

RYAN GOSLING as LARS LINDSTROM Lars and the Real Girl (2007) dir. Craig Gillespie

[somethinginyourbones]

Help Him Forget

A Bonded Pair pt.2 | pt. 1 is here.

Summary: Things with March changed in ways you hadn’t expected. You were friends now, like actual friends. His rejection hadn’t changed the way you felt, but you respected it. What happens one night when March is too weak?

cw: m/f, (18+), drunk March, just drunk enough to be stupid, mentions of violence, small injuries, March got beat up at work, comfort, friends-to-it’s complicated, wound care, reckless, pain kink, begging, restraint?, sweet dirty talk, handjobs, needy March, so much guilt, big angst.

—

The soap bubbles cling to your wrist as you wash the last of the dishes. It feels kinda weird, and not in a way, to do things like cleaning up after dinner with Holly. March was nice enough to either leave cash for take out or stock the fridge with things to cook. The least you could do was wash the dirty dishes, you thought.

It also felt weird because Holly had bailed. Yeah, that’s right. You came over for dinner and were about halfway through when Jessica called, bragging about something new and so totally cool that she’d gotten from the mall. Holly proceeded to inhale the rest of her food and booked it.

So you were alone, in March’s house.

It wasn’t weird. You had to keep reminding yourself.

It had felt that way once before when Holly would crash early, and you’d come up with excuses to stick around and wait for March. You didn’t have to do that anymore.

Weeks had passed since that first night you hung out with him alone, and contrary to your fears, March kept his word. Things weren’t even the littlest bit awkward. You still hung out with Holly and now you hung out with March too. You were friends, like actual friends.

Sure, the rejection stung, but with the amount of whiskey you’d consumed that night and March’s promise, it helped. It didn’t change anything. You still felt everything you had before, and maybe even more now, but you were content to let your fantasies live in silence.

If the only way you ever got Holland March was late at night, with your eyes shut and your fingers slipping beneath your bedsheets, dipping in and stroking until you cried out his name for no one else to hear, then so be it.

Those were the thoughts you were lost in now. You couldn’t help it. The sink was almost empty as you mindlessly watched the water swirl lower and lower. It was at the same moment the drain made that awful glug-glug noise, that something outside also slammed against the front door.

You physically jump, your heart pounding. You barely make out the sound of keys in the door, a soft click, and then a softer groan. March is colliding with the wall before you can move. His shoulder hits it heavily as he stumbles, leaning his weight into it.

You’re not sure why he’s stumbling. If he’s drunk or if it’s because of the dried blood on his shirt, and around his mouth and nose. His lip is split and there’s a nasty purple bruise forming on his right cheek.

“March…what the hell happened?”

Your voice finds him first. It startles him, and something flashes in his eyes when he does see you. It’s takes a minute for him to realize you’re really here. For a second you’re afraid he’s upset, but then you see his shoulders soften, and relax. He smiles.

Boyish and flashy, even covered in blood.

“I’m alright,” March says. That smile goes quickly though, a groan ripping past his clenched teeth as he pushes off the wall. He starts in your direction, towards the kitchen, but stumbles half way. You catch him.

“Hey. No. Jesus, you’re not. Go, go sit on the couch.”

You steer him towards the living room and immediately regret not walking him over to it. You awkwardly and nervously keep an eye on him as you grab everything. You open the fridge, pulling out a few beers, and snag the first aid kit from one of the upper cabinets.

March had successfully made it to the couch without further injury. He was sunken into the cushions, his head resting against the back. He peels his eyes open slowly, and what looks like painfully, when he feels you plop down beside him.

“Here. This is for your face. I looked but you didn’t have any frozen veggies,” you explain. You hold out a cold glass bottle beer as an ice pack substitute. March takes it and places it on his cheek, letting his head fall back again.

“Open that other one for me,” he mumbles.

You do. You pop the top off a second beer and place it in his other hand. “Tell me what happened.”

“Bad day.”

You growl softly, and see a faint smile on March’s lips at your annoyance. He’s doing it on purpose. You grumble, “No shit.”

March laughs and then groans again, clutching at his ribs. He leans up to take a drink, and finally notices you rummaging through bandaids and bandages, medical tape and ointments. He looks at you, while you’re too focused or too annoyed with him to look back up, he’s not sure. He looks though.

“It was the right lead. Followed everything, all of it, down to these two guys. They found us before we found them though,” March explains quietly.

“How’s Healy?” You ask as you pull out some q-tips and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

March’s eyes follow your hands. “He’s fine. Got a shiner of his own but he was bigger than both of them. Lucky asshole.”

You snort, laughing. It’s March who speaks again. He nods towards the first aid kit supplies. “What’s all this?”

“I was gonna clean up your cuts.”

You say it plainly, and something about it makes March giddy.

He’s had too much to drink. He knows this. Today was shit, for a lot more than he’s letting on. He should send you home.

The very opposite comes out of his mouth. He tries to look as carefree as possible, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes again. “Knock yourself out.”

The truth is, his heart is pounding inside his chest. He can feel the couch cushion dip as you move, and hear the first aid kit rattle as your knee bumps into it. He hears you sigh.

“I…I can’t reach this way. Come here.”

Before March’s eyes are even open completely, your fingers are curled into the fabric of his ruined shirt. You’re pulling him towards you. He takes the unopened bottle of beer away from his face. “Where?”

“Here. Lay your head in my lap.”

You fall back onto your ass, sitting flat, and slipping your feet to the floor. March just stares at you, your legs.

This is such a bad idea.

He can feel the booze pumping through him, making everything feel way too sluggish. He feels the pain in his body. Everywhere he was kicked and hit and dragged today.

You’re looking at him so sweetly though, your face open and soft, like you just want to help. You look so fucking pretty, and March is too weak to do the right thing right now.

He drains the open beer before slowly swinging his feet around and throwing them over the couch’s other armrest. March leans back. The back of his head meets your thighs.

When he opens his eyes again, and looks up at you, well March realizes how truly fucked he is.

And then you smile at him.

He clears his throat, a little forcefully, awkward.

“Hurry up. I’ll fall asleep like this,” March grumbles.

You just laugh at him, sweet, syrupy. “I wouldn’t mind.”

He knows you wouldn’t. He knows how you feel, or at least he thinks. March isn’t sure which is worse. The knowledge that you want him, or if that night so many weeks ago was just a drunken lapse in your judgement.

Something that you regret.

That’s worse, March thinks.

He wants you to want him. He shouldn’t.

You’re leaning down even closer now, already carefully dragging a q-tip around the gash that’s on the bridge of his nose. March doesn’t know if he should close his eyes or not. If it’s weird not too. His eyes flicker all over your face. Your skin, your hair, your mouth.

It’s slightly open, your lips parted in concentration. March can feel your breath fan across his forehead.

“How bad is it, doc?” His voice sounds too deep, too raspy.

You let out something between a giggle and a playful groan. Your normal response when he says something ridiculous and cheesey, and dad-like.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” you retort back, smiling.

You apply ointment with a new q-tip, and then clean around the inner edges of his nose, wiping away the blood that’s still staining his skin. It takes longer than it should because March keeps scrunching and wiggling his nose, complaining that it tickles. You both fall into laughter.

March feels like he’s fading a little. The alcohol and exhaustion tug at his bones, and he’s so so comfy here. In your lap.

He gets a little quiet, his eyes heavy as you pull out one last q-tip. Your voice has dropped to a whisper. “One last one.”

March only nods, his eyes slipping closed. He feels the wet cotton touch the split on his lip gently, but then it’s gone.

There’s silence, then your voice. “I’m sorry, I…I need to…”

March’s eyes shoot open when your thumb meets his bottom lip. His whole body goes rigid as you pull it down, following the cut to the inside of his lip.

You don’t seem to realize. March does.

One because you’re fucking touching his mouth, and two, it hurts. It stings the worst here. He can’t help it. He clenches his teeth, which only cause the muscles in his face to tighten. His bruised cheek explodes in a wave of hot pain.

He groans deeply.

“I’m sorry, almost done,” you apologize, and promise quickly.

The one on his lip was probably the worst of all. It had split, of course, but his tooth had also cut the inside. It was jagged.

March tries to control his breathing. You swirl the cotton swap and…March feels his eyes roll back a little. Heat spreads through him again. From his face, down to his toes that are still in his dress shoes…It settles low in his belly.

Oh. No.

Fuck no, March thinks.

He’s hard.

He’s laying here with his head in your lap and he’s fucking hard.

Before March can even consider sitting up and de-escalating this whole thing, you pass across the cut once more, really digging in. You needed to make sure a piece of his tooth hadn’t broken off and gotten stuck.

March lets out what he thinks is another groan of pain. It only registers to him that it wasn’t when you stop moving.

It was a moan.

He’d moaned, out loud, with your thumb still holding his lip. His cheeks burn immediately.

March’s eyes are open and staring up at you, glassy and kinda wet. His voice comes out wrecked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

He watches as you swallow, your throat working. You seem a little stunned. The q-tip is gone. March doesn’t know if you dropped it or what. All he knows is that your thumb is still on his lip. Not really pulling anymore, but simply resting there.

March is frozen.

He should get up. He could. He could stop this whole moment, just like he did last time. He could make the right choice. March could be responsible, be smart, and careful about this.

But then your eyes flicker across his face, and down his body, and March groans again, equally embarrassed and turned on. He instinctively covers the hard outline of his cock with his hand. “Don’t…just, ignore it.”

“You’re…”

“Don’t,” March groans, but then he sees your face. It’s filled with disbelief. Your voice follows.

“I didn’t think you…”

March listens to your words as they trail off. He got the gist of what you meant and now his ears are ringing. “Didn’t think I what?”

Your eyes snap back to his. “Wanted me. Like that. You turned me down before.”

March had to have a concussion. He had to, because in what fucking world could you possibly think he didn’t want you????

March practically squeals, his voice jumping a few octaves. “Because I was trying to be responsible!”

He watches as the blush rushes across your cheeks.

You blush hard for him. It makes his dick twitch.

He lets out a deep breath, his voice lower now, softer. March whispers, “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not fucking dead.”

There’s silence. Just as March is getting ready to sit up, he feels you move. Your thumb. It’s slow but instant. The pain.

You slide your thumb across his lip, directly over the harsh split. You press down, and March chokes.

“Wh…agh, what are you doing?

Your thumb dips in, and then out again, smearing his spit across his lip. It burns. “Taking care of you.”

March doesn’t understand. His head spins. Everything feels so heavy. The booze in his system, the pain that seems to be directly connected to his dick. It feels like live wires. Each swipe of your finger sends a shock to his groin.

“Take your cock out.”

March’s ears start ringing again, hearing those words come out of your mouth. He whines, and hesitates for only a second before he’s ripping the fly of his slacks open. He shoves everything down just enough.

You watch as his cock bounces free, slapping up against his dress shirt. It’s bigger than any of the others you’ve seen. Above average. Your eyes zero in on the head, the slit.

Your mouth waters.

You wanna dip your tongue into it.

You imagined it so many times. Countless nights fantasizing about him fucking into you, using you.

Your own mind is swirling. After everything, you never thought you’d see it, or have Holland March at all, let alone like this.

To be the one calling the shots.

You were, weren’t you? That’s what it felt like.

A soft whine pulls your attention back to his face. There’s a look there you can’t place at first…a pout?

He’s been letting you stare, drink your fill, and now he seems almost impatient. You can’t help the laugh that slips out.

It only makes March squirm again. “Please…”

It’s a little bit of an awkward angle, and you realize you need to switch hands. So you prop one of your legs up. It doesn’t change much, but you can slip your arm behind March’s head now, bringing that hand to his face.

Your fingers take their place on his bruised cheek. The other hand slides down his chest, to his belly. March makes another noise, still laying in your lap, his head just raised slightly.

You silently wonder if he’s always like this or if it’s the alcohol, or the day he had. Maybe all three.

“You don’t have to…”

March’s voice comes out so softly you almost miss what he says. You get lost in his eyes for a moment, and then you smirk. Gentle but daring, teasing. Your voice, like silk, touches him as much as your fingers. “Have to? Like you don’t know the truth already.”

He shakes his head like he really doesn’t know.

So much happens at once for March. He feels your warm breath on the shell of his ear, and your hand finally wraps around his cock. The grip is feather light but it’s so so good.

“I want to touch you, March. Don’t lay there and act like you don’t know I’m attracted to you.”

Something about the way you say it lands softer and sweeter, more than dirty, which makes it worse. Your words aren’t empty. They mean something.

“Fffuck. Fuck,” March grunts.

You hum, tightening your grip and squeezing him as you stroke his cock. Up and down. The skin of your palm catches. Dry. Not painful but uncomfortable. Not that you think March minds much considering the sound he makes.

Something guttural, and sweet.

You press the fingertips from one hand into his warm cheeks, gripping and squishing them, forcing his mouth to open. You bring the others right before his lips. “Spit.”

March doesn’t even blink at the command. Those blue eyes have gone hazy, and glazed over. He lets the saliva pool across his tongue and practically drools it onto your hand. He’s a little messy with it. Dirty. It makes your tummy do the thing.

It makes the next words slip out before you realize, just as you slick his cock. “Good boy.”

March whimpers.

From the easier glide or the words, you’re not sure. All you know is that he’s physically shaking now.

His hips lift, chasing, fucking up into your grip.

You hum sweetly at him, your own breathing shallow, panting against his skin, mouth right by his temple. He sets a brutal pace and you meet him there. “Thereeee you go. That’s it, baby. Show me how you’d fuck me.”

“Gggh! Want…wanna fuck you so badly. I couldn’t stop…couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. All fucking day. Oh, fuck…please…”

March cries. He begs. Pleases and don’t stops falling out one after another. You don’t even know if March knows what he’s asking for, but then his head falls back.

Suddenly, his mouth is right there, aligned with yours. Something deep within you aches, recalling the brief feeling of your almost kiss. The withdraw.

You want it. Badly. More than you’ve ever wanted anything, you want to taste him. Even the lingering blood you would undoubtedly taste from the split in his lip.

You pull away though, as March arches towards your mouth. You let your fingers, all four, clasp over his own. You control the angle of his head, turning it away.

You press your forehead to his temple, voice low. “When you kiss me, we’ll both be completely sober. Yeah?”

He whines and you try to ignore the slight sting in your eyes. You focus on him. His cock. You just want to make him feel good. Help him forget.

His thrust aren’t so much thrust anymore, as they are dirty little grinds. Your grip is tight, the pace slow. You focus on the tip, working the head, the underside of it. It’s so wet. Squelching audibly and mixing with March’s muffled cries.

He’s close, but you can tell he needs something else. Something March himself is far too gone to voice.

You lean down, hand still over March’s mouth, his breathing ragged against your knuckles. You bring yours to his neck, and then you lick him. He squeals.

There’s twelve hours worth of work and sweat and March coating your tongue now, and all you want is more.

You whimper too, and then whisper, “I’ve touched myself so many times thinking about this. You look so pretty, Holland…Let go…come for me, baby.”

And you take more. You bite him, sinking the sharp points of your teeth into his sensitive skin. The next strokes to his cock are just shy of too much, and all of it, everything, sends March flying off the ledge.

He comes hard. So hard you can barely keep him in your lap, with the way his body locks up and then bucks.

You don’t let go. You keep going, stroking him well past what’s comfortable, and abusing his neck. When you pull away, you’re met with the darkest, meanest looking bite mark/hickey you’ve ever seen.

March’s come is everywhere too. It’s dripped between your fingers like sticky slime, but warm. You like it.

How it’s warm because it was inside his body, and that’s how you know you’re a little odd, because that only makes you want to eat it. To put your fingers in your mouth and suck them clean.

Wow, yeah. You really need to come, you think to yourself, laughing breathlessly.

You look back to March, who’s…not moving.

His eyes are closed, and you feel it then, the weight of him now, heavier than before. His body’s gone slack in your arms.

“March…March. Baby,” you say quickly, worried.

You tap one of his cheeks, and he…he groans softly, eyebrows and nose scrunching is almost…annoyance???

He mumbles something incoherent and turns his head slightly, burying his face into your stomach. Cuddling.

You sit there. Dumbfounded. Confused.

What the…Had he been that drunk? Drunk enough to pass out that quickly, right after?

…Too drunk to know what he was doing?

Your throat starts to close. You need to get out of here.

The concoction of feelings swirling around inside you makes it hard for you to stand, but you manage. You slip from beneath March, lowering his upper body to the couch, where he simply sinks into the cushions with a soft mumble.

You’re not sure which thought is louder, and worse. It’s not like you’re pissed that this didn’t go farther, that you didn’t get to come. You didn’t need anything in return. You just wanted March to feel good, but maybe you…assumed.

That or the searing ball of lead that’s sitting in your gut right now, greased and coated with guilt. What if you were wrong? What if you were supposed to be the “responsible” one this time, when March needed you to be, and you weren’t. What if he hates you when he makes up?

You try to ignore it, the stampede of thoughts and emotions spinning too fast. You quickly wash your hands and clean yourself up in the kitchen, and then bring a warm damp rag from the linen closet to March.

As confused as you feel, there’s no way you can leave him like this. He’s still exposed and now filthier than he was when he walked in. You clean him gently, tucking him back into his boxers. You don’t bother with his belt, and there’s simply no way in hell you’re wrestling that shirt off of his dead weight.

You dap at it the best you can, getting the majority of it off. Little splash stains are the only thing that’s left.

Tossing the rag into the hall hamper, you just kinda stand there for a second. Stuck. The house is eerily quiet.

With a deep sigh you walk back to the couch, snagging a knitted blanket from the ottoman. You drape it over March’s body, and let yourself stare at him. All of it hits you at once.

That this might be the last time you get to see him, and be here, in his home.

Your fingers find his hair, running through it once. Your voice cracks as you whisper, “…Goodnight, Holland.”

—

(Sorry for the wait. Classes have started again! If there’s any mistakes, I’ll fix them soon. I had so much fun writing this one though, and part three is gonna be soooooo good 😏 how do you think March is gonna react?)

Taglist: @willow-vixen @imafangirlofeverything @radiantdanvers @live-logs-and-proper

[alltoowsll]

So I have a new roommate now. The chore wheel’s pretty lopsided.

PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026) dir. Phil Lord and Christopher Miller

[hashtagmyblog7]

PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026) dir. Phil Lord, Christopher Miller

[puredani]

pls put me in a headlock grace.

[hollandmarrch]

RYAN GOSLING in THE NOTEBOOK 2004, dir. Nick Cassavetes

[puredani]

I think about you everyday Noah Calhoun.

[bbuuunnyyy]

being brett richards’ pretty young thing— walking into the station in your little white kitten heels, tiny little dress and shoulder bag. <33 he’d be bent over, working on something when someone calls out to him, “richards!”

looking up, he sees you standing there, hands behind your back as you smile all pretty and he coos, “awh, look at you, princess. visitin’ me at work?”

as he starts to walk over to you, you nod, biting your lip. when he gets close you reach up, putting your arms around his neck to kiss him deep—can’t help it when you see him in uniform like that. <33

[bbuuunnyyy]

i need more badge bunny reader and sammy sooooo yummy

cw: cheating!

i had a cute little thought last night while i was watching southland of badge bunny reader getting all cute, doing her makeup and putting on an outfit she knows sammy likes, walking over to the station to bring him a special lunch she made.

she’s all nervous in her pink lil outfit, carrying the bag close to her chest, pretty legs on display. walking in, she spots sammy immediately, lighting up like a christmas tree as he kinda has a stricken look on his face—and you notice why.

he’s already got a lunch. :( probably made for him by his wife, who’s trying harder with him these days, so you put your arms down, little pout on your face as sammy stands up clumsily.

“baby—baby, hey, sweetheart.” you sniffle a little, hugging yourself now as he comes over to fuss on you, tucking your hair behind your ear, holding your face so he can see you, giving you a little kiss on your cheek.

he plucks the bag from your hands, smiling, “here—just started eatin’ anyways, i’ll have yours, baby.” you give him a little smile, so he kisses you, murmuring, “there’s my girl.”

you perk up as he takes your hand, walking you over to where he was seated with some of his buddies on break, sits you on his lap as he makes a big deal on how good everything tastes. “so good, sweetheart—so sweet for me.”

────୨ৎ────

inspired by my rewatch of southland where episode 1 he says “sweetheart” so much it makes my brain go bbbrrrr <𝟑 .ᐟ

[puredani]

ryland grace cumming on your face while you wear his glasses… <3

warnings/tags. blowjob & handjob, cumming on face, no use of y/n, sub!ryland, use of ‘honey’ & ‘baby’, not proofread !!

You were wearing ryland’s glasses as you steadily bobbed your head up and down his cock. Your hand was wrapped around whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth; you gave a brief squeezes that’d make him buck his hips, causing the head of his cock to hit the back of your throat.

He’d profusely apologize as soon as he hears you gag around him, “m’ sorry baby— you just feel so good.” He whimpers, petting your hair. You just smile up at him and pull off of his cock with a soft ‘pop’ sound. You lick the corners of your mouth with your tongue, tasting the precum that was dripping out the sides of your mouth.

You begin pumping his cock in your hand, holding a tight grip on him. Your other hand rested on his thigh to try and keep him steady, you look up at him, blinking innocently. “Y’ gonna cum, ry?”

A low groan rumbles from his chest as he nods, “god- yes! can-can I cum on your face?, I’ve been good.” He whines, looking down at you with a small pout. Your lips curve into a smirk upon hearing his whiny begs. “you like when I suck your cock wearing your glasses huh ry?”

He nods once again, humming in agreement. “I love it- I love it so much!” He squeaks as you speed up your movements. Your thumb makes circles on his tip, watching more precum leak out and drip on the wooden floor that you were currently kneeling on.

“go ‘head honey.” You give his cock one last final squeeze and he’s shooting his cum all over your face. His head falls back with a loud moan ripping from his throat, a gasp falls from your lips as strings of cum land right on his glasses.

“oh god- yes, thank you!” He rambles, legs shaking from the climax. You lean forward and press comforting kisses on his thighs, whispering soft praises. You feel Ryland’s grip from your hair loosen and hear his breathing slow down.

His head falls forward as his eyes flutter open, regaining his vision. His gaze falls on you; your face was painted with white strings: including his precious glasses that he used everyday to see more clearly. The sight makes his cock twitch, “wanna take a picture?” You whisper, pressing one last kiss on his thigh.

“Yes.” His response is quicker than you would’ve expected. He reaches over to the side and grabs his phone, rushing to open up the camera app.

a/n: finally had to motivation to write something for my favorite scientist. ryland def loves taking pictures of you naked or covered in his cum, he doesn’t even hide the pictures, just has them all over the place in his camera roll.

[wesandresons]

x

[puredani]

a literal angel.

[groovyangelkisses]

⋆˚✿🍒𐙚⋆˚ minors, do not interact, please ⋆˚✿🍒𐙚⋆˚

pervy!jack abbot x sweetheart!reader who misplaced her contacts & now has to come into work with her glasses <3

jack is absolutely suffering watching the frames slip down your nose as you work. your soft hair falls out of the claw clip and your cheeks are red with movement and anxiety.

the oversized frames make you look so innocent, and jack has to hide the grunt leaving his chest when he hears your soft “oop!” as you wipe a smudge off of them in the break room

his jaw is hanging down, licking the back of his teeth as you do the most mundane things. nodding along to a patient and adjusting them, blinking and tilting your head in confusion at shen’s jokes, even just lifting them into your hair to rub at your sleepy eyes for a minute.

“leave-leave ‘em on sweetheart, fuck.” he pants, scrubs pulled down to his ankles as you pause sucking him. you’re knelt in front of him, gazing up at him adoringly. halfway through pulling your glasses off before his desperate plea. you settle them back on your face with a little smirk.

jack’s absolutley wired as he grips himself, squeezing at his base with one vascular hand and his heavy balls with another as he throws his head back. “not-don’t-don’t wanna cum inside today, baby. lean back, fuck, lean back”

making you lean back on your haunches as he pulls at himself, grunting, and all it takes is one doe-eyed blink and smile for him to finish. his cum coats your glasses, blurring your vision as he cries out, one hand stabilizing himself on your shoulder.

“fuck… so fuckin’ good…” he trails off, swiping his fingers through the cum covered lenses, before bringing his hand down to your mouth. “so fucking sexy, four eyes.” he teases with a smile and heaving breath <3

[laceyluvver]

Cockblock and a half

summary: your boss keeps calling at the most inconvenient time, right when you’re on the edge of the highest pleasure. finally, you get your retribution. 

warnings: MDNI, smut, non protective PIV (wrap it!), slight overstim, slight dumbificafion, oral f!receiving, fingering.  

wc: 5.5k

Delicate fingers trail up from your ankle, dragging from calf to knee. Leaving a wake of goosebumps behind. Your hips jump forward and a light sigh crawls from your lips. Impatiently, you pull his hand up and rip down your own underwear, and finally, fingers push into you.

Your eyes squeeze close and you’re not quiet this time, a loud squeak comes from the back of your throat. A desperate hand grabs onto his forearm, gripping hard as your back arches off the mattress, the cool air rushing in and sticking to the warmth on your skin.

“Oh my god!” You sigh.

His thumb jumps up, rubbing deep, round circles around your clit, just skirting the edge, enough to make your eyes roll back. Your abs jerk you forward as you creep closer to the edge, pulling his torso down to meet yours, teeth sinking into his shoulder, leaving a line of red indents. This muffles the loud cry that leaves you. It was like you were running towards the edge of a cliff, ready to jump off and dive into a sea of endless pleasure.

Suddenly, the enjoyable fantasy you were bathing in was cut short. The loud blaring ringtone seemed to bounce off the walls of your dates bedroom, and you woke up from your dream. It was an awful sound, pulling you into harsh reality, like being doused with ice cold water and you jolt up, pushing the poor guy down.

His fingers slide out of you as you scramble down to the floor, where your phone was still screaming at you from your jean pocket. Pulling it out, you look at the screen in grave displeasure. The one name you didn’t want to read at two am on a Friday night, after a successful date.

“Hotch.” Your eyes shut as you wait for the dreaded words to come through the phone.

“We have a case, be here asap.” His gravely voice scratches down your back like nails on a chalkboard.

Throwing your head back, you groan silently. “Alright, I’m on my way.” You take a deep breath in and pull yourself off the floor like you weighed a ton. “I’m sorry, I’ve been called into work, gotta go.” You say, giving the poor guy a sad smile while pulling up your jeans and your very not work appropriate top. It was a dark red, covered in rhinestones, a deep v neck that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. A pathetic wave comes from your wrist, and the cold air hits you quicker than expected, climbing into your car.

The elevator ride up to the BAU floor took an eternity, each floor button lighting up as you pass it. It slows on floor four, and you shuffle over as the doors slide open. Your eyes don’t leave your shoes as one of the guys from cyber crimes steps into the space. Finally, getting to floor seven, you give him a tight lipped smile before stalking into the bullpen.

You hear him before you see him, Derek laughing at something dorky Spencer had said. Then, a loud whistle comes from him as you walk into view. “Wow, I guess someone had a good night.”

“Not even close.” You laugh, rummaging through your desk and yanking out the go bag, throwing it over your shoulder.

“Bad date?” He pipes, his eyebrows pulling together, concerned.

“Great date.” You sigh, giving a pointed look to Emily, Pen and JJ. All of them leant on Emily’s desk and she shakes her head.

“Again?” She asks, a disbelief in her tone.

“Again!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up before walking to the bathroom to get changed into your work clothes.

“Is this one of those girl’s night things I don’t understand?” Derek asks, a sassy hand on his hip.

“You don’t even know the half of it sugar.” Penelope shakes her head, the feathers she had stuck in her buns swaying back and forth.

“Round table!” Hotch barks to the group from the catwalk, his head nodding towards the conference room.

Everyone filters into the room, all taking their usual seats around the table. The projector screen pulls down slowly, and Penelope stood awaiting her go.

“Where’s-.” Hotch started, but was quickly silenced by your light jogging into the room, pretty much throwing yourself down in the chair.

“Good night?” Dave asks with a smirk. You glare at him darkly, like ice shooting from your eyes, a scowl forming on your face. “Ok!” He turns away from you to the screen.

Penelope clicks on the remote, and the projector whirs. Three photos of brunette woman pop up on the screen, and then gruesome ones follow up. “Here’s our victims, Lila Grey, Jess Jones and Kira Walker. All found slaughtered in alleyways, necks cut.” Pen squeaked, looking away from the screen.

“The Glendale police department want our help in locating the killer, they can’t figure out where in the city he is or who he is.” Hotch says, “Wheels up in 20, debrief on the jet, he’s escalating.”

-

The jet was warm, a stark comparison from the runway, that was biting cold and climbed through the fabric of your shirt. It was still a marvel to you that you had a private jet, it was smoother than an economy plane.

Magnolia files were plopped down in front of you, the back of Hotch’s suit comes into vision and he sits down in his regular seat, back to the small kitchenette. His eyes didn’t even cast you glance but that gets pushed to the back of your mind when your eyes are filled with puddles of blood.

“Seems pretty cut and dry right?” JJ calls, “Middle-aged, probably single, woman hating.”

You were all in agreement, “What did the women do for work?” You ask, staring at their photos.

“They all worked in finance, behind the scenes.” Derek says, “So maybe financial incentives?”

“They have a list of suspects for us to look at once we get there, two of them can’t be located so that’s our priority.” Hotch commands, “But rest till we get there, I know I interrupted your sleep.”

“Well most of us.” Emily jokes, nudging you with her shoulder and a catty smile spreads across her lips.

“Shut up.” You say with gritted teeth, and a light slap to her shoulder and you couldn’t help the bright red heat that spread across your face. Catching dark eyes across the jet, you somehow think you turn more red and focus on the file in front of you.

It’s early when you land, the sunrise just peeking through the clouds and shrouds everything in a bright orange hue. You stare out of the window of the police precinct, a cup of strong black coffee. Spencer was drawing on the whiteboard figuring out a geographical profile for the two missing suspects while the rest of the team checked on the others already interviewed, just to double check.

You stare at the map, the huge circles not making any sense. “What have you marked?”

“Where they were killed and their addresses.” He stated, stroking his straight tie.

“Add in their workplaces.” You say, Spencer adds the dots to the whiteboard. Connecting each women’s three points into a triangle and he circles it in a bright red. “Call Pen!” You instruct Spencer and he pulls his flip phone out, refusing to succumb to modern technology.

“You’re on speaker.” He tells her as soon as she picks up.

“Pen! Look for previous offenders in a three mile radius of Davis street.” A stressed hand pulls through your hair. “Look for previous assault offenders, battery, bar fights, domestic.” You list off, a nod from approval from Spencer.

“Sorry pumpkin! But there’s no one with a previous history in this area.” She says, deflated, before apologising and leaving the call.

“Stupid geographical profile.” You scoff, shoving yourself into the chair.

“Maybe we could add.” Spencer starts but you cut him off, tone harsh and sharp.

“We’re not gunna find him!” As it came out you felt the unneeded venom. “Sorry. Just frustrated.” You give him a weak smile and the rest of the team appear in that moment.

“Everything ok?” JJ asks, looking between you and Spencer.

“No result from the geographical.” You shrug with a sigh. “I’ve also looked over lots of people work priors. They either don’t normally branch to women or are back in prison.”

Morning turned to evening and you hadn’t left the same position from earlier, the whole team looking over files upon files. Hope was slowly dwindling as a large pile of takeaway coffee cups piled into a mountain.

“Alright, let’s call it a night.” Hotch says, leaning back and standing up. “Unfortunately for the hotel two people have to share. They were fully booked for the night, no cancellations.”

A collective groan comes from the team, that’s the last thing you all wanted to hear after a long day. The short ride to the hotel was a quiet one, silent prayers hoping, wishing to have a room to yourself.

-

“Ok, let’s draw draws.” Derek says, pulling out the straws he kept in his go bag. You all had decided when Strauss wanted to stiff you with sharing rooms, you’d draw straws, keep it fair and by chance. This led to Spencer rambling on about probability and how it wasn’t really fair due to preconceived notions on picking. “It’s bossmans turn to share so whoever draws the short straw, get cozy!”

Derek pulls his first, long. He sighs and holds them to Dave, long. His smile was brass and unwavering and he heads off to bed before anyone else had pulled theirs. Spencer pulls his, long. Derek finally gets to you, putting them in front of you.

You cast your mind back to Spencer’s rant about preconceived notions. You knew you were privy to picking straws on the right, due to being right handed. A leap of faith, you pull one on the left. It stops a second after you grab it and you shut your eyes in disappointment.

Everyone else releases the deep breaths they were holding. You tried to not show Hotch your face, trying to not deeply offend him.

Begrudgingly, you drag your feet behind Hotch, not missing the sympathetic looks from the rest of the team, waving them off weakly.

“Well there goes her nightly plans.” Emily snorts to JJ, tapping shoulders as they walk away with a snicker.

Hotch’s ears prick up at that, her hushed tone knowing that whatever that was wasn’t meant for his ears, especially because you shoved an aggressive middle finger in their direction. That only made Emily and JJ laugh more.

He leads the way to the room, carefully checking behind to make sure you’re still trailing behind him. You were, you looked exhausted. Feet dragging, bag dragging and rubbing your eyes. Holding the key card up to the censor, it beeps loudly and he pushes open the door.

One bed, he strode in the hotel room, putting his go bag on the small couch. “Sorry you have to share with me. I’ll take the couch.”

You rolled your eyes, you knew he was trying to be chivalrous. “It’s fine, and no. You won’t fit on that couch.” You shake your head. “You’re not the first man I’ve shared a bed with.” You joke, he doesn’t find it funny.

“I’ll take the side near the door.” He states seriously. You nod.

“Fine, you can have the first shower, I prefer to shower in the morning.” Your tone is harsh. He nods and you stare at his back, glaring daggers into his back hoping he’d bleed out and die so he couldn’t interrupt another one of your orgasms.

The shower turns on and rushes loudly. You pull on your pyjamas and slip into the sheets, staring longingly at your go bag, desperate for the release that was hidden away in a deep pocket.

He came out of the shower in just a towel. He was sparkling in the shitty LED light of the hotel room, he doesn’t look at you as he quickly rummages through his go bag, pulling out his pyjamas and muttering a “Sorry” then disappearing back into the bathroom.

Then he climbed into bed next to you, it was awkward and the two of you were ridged. Him because of the unwavering professionalism that suffocated his every move, and you still ever so frustrated of your lack of getting off. Realising the two of you had never shared a room before, you wondered what kind of sleeper he was. Emily was a wriggler, JJ a kicker, Spencer a mumbler and Derek a snorer. Rossi somehow had never shared a room with anyone on the team, you were convinced he rigged it.

He sat with a case file open and you sighed. “It’s getting late, can I turn the light off?” You ask, frustrated after thirty minutes of tossing and turning, the white bright hotel light hindering you.

“Yep.” His brows scrunch at your harsh tone. You look into his eyes, he’s profiling you, a deep breath sucked in and you flipped over.

“Night.” Your tone is clipped as the room is covered in a thick layer of darkness, you fall asleep quickly and set a quiet alarm for far to early in the morning.

You awoke to the first shrill ring of your alarm. Eyes pulling open into pure blackness. Sitting up, you take a couple moments to breathe, staring at your phone and reading a text from Pen.

‘How’s the boss?’

‘Ridged like a corpse.’

Your eyes gloss over him even though you couldn’t see him, you hadn’t woke once in the night to any movement or snoring, it was so… Hotch.

Wandering to the shower with your go bag, it spurts on, sputtering until it comes to a steady stream. You step in and the shower, it’s warmer than the hotel showers you were used to. An involuntary sigh pulls from you, hands running through your hair, washing out the shampoo. Your cheap body wash also being ran down the drain.

Before you knew it, your hands and slipped down south. Lightly touching, ghosting over yourself and you bite your lip. One of your fingers grazes your clit and a louder sigh crawls from you, you bring a hand to your mouth as you start moving in frantic circles.

Images of Hotch from the night before cloud your mind, his back muscles glistening in the hotel light and the faint glimpse of chest hair you’d seen when he hid away back in this very room. Before you could debate the morality of wanking to your boss who was one thin hotel wall over, two of your fingers slip inside of yourself and you bite a lip so hard you draw blood.

Your chest heaves and you lean against the shower wall. The white tiles were cold against the heat radiating from you, the contrast making everything more intense. Your mind filled with Hotch, arms, back, chest. That ten second glimpse was enough to send you spiralling. The warmth of him next to you in the bed had your legs trembling. Wandering, your mind jumped to what he would be like as a lover, would the strokes be deep or rough, you hoped rough. Teetering, closer and closer to the edge you were panting, deep in your fantasy you could almost hear his voice.

Except you could hear his voice, and he was pounding on the door.

“Hey! We need to get going and I need to brush my teeth.”

The shower turned cold, and you gasped loudly, jumping out.

A film reel plays in your head, there’s no way this is happening again. Every date, you finally get to the edge, the phone rings. No matter what time, nine am, two am, his voice always pulled you out of the deepest pleasure.

“Are you ok?” He shouted through the door, wrapping a towel around yourself you open the door to him standing right there.

“Yeah, there’s no more hot water.” You pull your lips together into a line, pushing past him so he can’t profile your flushed face. The bathroom door locks behind him.

You imagined taking an axe to the door psycho style, but then came to your senses, scrambling into your work clothes and running out of the room before he could finish up in the bathroom.

-

When you get to the precinct, Emily is already there. She’s pouring over case files and you sit down next to her, coffee already in hand.

“What have you got?” You ask.

“There’s this guy, lives just outside the geo profile and has a prior of car damage. Before you say unrelated, it was his ex’s car and she was in it.” You nod along and point to the very small yes pile.

“Somebody didn’t get a good night sleep.” She laughs looking at the tiredness on your face.

“He has a sixth sense.” You hiss quietly, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I was mid shower.”

“Yikes.” She grits her teeth and looks at you sympathetically. Then her sympathy turns to that sly grin she would get, when she was about to suggest something incredibly stupid. “You know.” Her voice is low, “There is one way to fix his sixth sense..”

“You’re crazy.”

“We all know you have a thing for him.” She tilts her head knowingly, you shake your head and look to the door.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Swallowing thickly, you refuse to meet her eyes.

“The rest of the team might not be able to profile you well, but I can.” She teases and nudges your shoulder.

You roll your eyes and scoff. Eyes staring at the file in front of you, swiftly moving on from Emily’s brash accusation. Fingers tapping on the wooden table, a smooth rhythm.

The rest of the day goes slow, dragging by, each second like pulling teeth. Spent pulling files and cross checking.

You hum and grunt all day, dozens of trips to the coffee machine, gulping them down. Derek catches Emily’s eye across the table, he nods towards you with a raised eyebrow. She waves a hand dismissively as you come back in, mug full to the brim. It’s five when you finally get a hit.

“Don Forbes.” Penelope states. “Has a matching record with Emily’s car guy, and his face suspiciously matches the one from the mugshot. He changed his name, that’s why we couldn’t find him.”

Hotch stands straight at that, pulling on his blazer he’d haphazardly shoved off during the day. You all follow suit, pulling on your vests and triple checking the gun was settled in your holster.

“Prentiss.” He states as she appears next to him, pulling her to a small corridor away from the team. “Is she ok to be in the field?” He nods towards you.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She nods, “She’s just..” She takes a pregnant pause. “Frustrated.”

Hotch furrows his eyebrows, “At the case?”

“She’s going to kill me.” Emily mutters and checks over her shoulder, seeing you strap Spencer into his vest. “You keep interrupting her, private moments.” She widens her eyes intentionally.

“Ah.” He responds flatly. Nodding that stiff nod he always did. “Let’s go then.”

-

“Don Forbes, FBI!” Derek calls through the door, banging on it loudly.

No answer, JJ peers through the window. “He’s running!” She shouts, and you and Hotch immediately run to the back of the house, Derek kicks down the door and the rest of the team file in.

As you round the corner, he barrels through his own back door and tries to barge through the back gate and into the woods that lined his home. But, Hotch grabs the back of his collar, yanking him back and throwing him down into his shed wall. Pulling his arms behind him and clinking the cuffs on.

Everything turns into a blur, the heat crawls up from your legs, up your torso and to your neck. It’s like the world goes silent, only focused on Hotch and how his biceps made the fabric on his shirt pull tight.

-

Finally, Don had been questioned, confessed and checked, to be kept in holding to his trial. Breathing a breath of fresh air, the team stands outside of the precinct.

“Let’s stay the night, It’s too cloudy for the jet now.” Hotch nods, glancing up to the sky.

“Alright! Who wants to hit a bar?” Rossi rocks back on his heels, throwing his blazer over his shoulder. An echoing chorus of yes’s and please’s come from everyone.

“I think I’ll give this one a miss, I’m exhausted.” You smile and wave, quickly walking over to the car, ready to drive off.

A knock comes on the window just as you put the key in the ignition. Hotch is stood there, and you nod. He pulls open the door and climbs in.

“Not feeling it?” You ask and drive out.

“No. I’m also feeling tired.”

You glance out the corner of your eye, “I must be great in bed huh?” You joke and your eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant.” Bright red flush covers your face and you are thankful to be pulling into the hotel car park.

“I don’t doubt it.” He says smirking, climbing out of the car.

Following him to the room, he clicks open the door and you flop down on you flop down on the bed face first, you sigh, the cheap hotel mattress feeling like a cloud after a whole day of ridged plastic chairs. “Could you grab my pyjamas?” You mutter to Hotch.

“Sure.” He laughs and shakes his head at you, your head pressed into the pillow.

Pulling through your bag, he grabs your pyjamas, they were long sleeved and had a pattern of small forest animals dotted all over. Underneath, there was a pink vibrator, staring at it.

“You always bring this with you?” You hear Hotch ask and you lazily turn your head.

He’s stood there, holding your vibrator in his hand taking steps towards you. You scurry up, and sit on the edge of the bed. And he was walking towards you slowly, clicking it on. You wanted the ground to open and swallow you up. The embarrassment consumes you, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

“I know about your little predicament.” He smiles, it’s teasing and tantalising. He’s now towering in front of you, taking your jaw in his hand and’s forcing you to look up at him.

“Oh god.” You didn’t think you could get redder, but the heat on your cheeks becomes burning.

He clicks off the vibe and throws it to the side. Pulling you up, and putting a stabilising hand around your back. “This ok?” He checks in, you nod furiously.

Then, he kisses you. His lips are warm, and you already squeak, his arms hold you close, his chest was hard, solid, his muscles flexing as one of his hand snakes to the back of your head. You grab his bicep, fingers digging in. He groans into the kiss now, catching your bottom lip with his teeth.

Your hands wander, the cotton shirt smooth under your fingers. The top button pops open easily, the next one too. You hadn’t stopped kissing, his tongue dips into your mouth and your fingers fumble with the buttons. He was warm, everywhere.

Finally, the bottom button pops open, the shirt flows open. Pulling away from Aaron’s kiss, your eyes drag down his naked chest. Unable to control yourself, your lips attach to the base of Aaron’s jaw, and your hands feel him up. He’s breathy, you suck on his neck, not caring about the consequences tomorrow.

Pulling you off, he looks down at you, those pools of dark brown hypnotising you. He bends down, now focusing on your neck, in between teasing kisses he whispers, “I’m sorry for interrupting your fun.” His nose drags up the side of your neck.

“How about I make it up to you?”

You’re sure you melt at that, your legs turning to jelly. His strong, sturdy arms hold you up, sweeping your legs up, he throws you down onto the bed. The old springs of the hotel bed creak as you bounce. Sliding up to the pillows, he moves.

It’s predatory, the way he crawled up to you. Him the lion, you the helpless deer. His fingers popped open your slacks, yanking down your legs, coming face to face with your red underwear.

“For me?” He smirks, pinging the elastic back into your hip, it makes you jolt. It’s a light stinging pain, you don’t mind.

“You wish.” You cut back, a flashy smile on your face. He doesn’t like that, the deep, serious unit chief spreads across his face.

“You’re going regret that.” He growls, pulling the panties down your legs, leaving you bare to him. Before you even suck in a breath, his mouth is on you.

Licking a deep stripe up you, entrance to clit, a deep shudder pulls from your body. Landing on your clit, his tongue flicks softly. Sparks of pleasure shoot through your pelvis, and your hands grip onto the pillow surrounding your head.

“Oh fuck!” You cry out, your head shoving back.

He smirks against you, big, thick hands pulling your thighs apart, leaving you wide open, to his mercy. His licks turn into sucking, taking your clit into your mouth and your thigh muscle tenses. His teeth graze it, and you’re sure you saw stars.

Legs trembling through his tight grip, your eyes squeeze shut as you cum. He’s relentless, licking you through your orgasm, making your hips jump.

He looks up at you, his eyebrows peaked, chin shiny with your juices. “God.” You sigh at the sight.

“Not God baby, just me.” He smirks and dives back in. Going back to the rough licks and pokes he was using before. He licks another full stripe up you, pulling back and blowing cool air over your clit.

Your hands jump into his hair, it’s softer than you thought it would be. You claw at his scalp and you feel your abs tense. One of his hands snakes down, sliding up from the bottom, catching your wetness as he goes. His finger slips inside of you and you moan out. “Sir!”

You don’t even think about the title, but you feel him groan against you, the vibrations travel up you.

“You can give me another?” He asks, and another finger pushes in. He pushes up and brushes your g spot. You swear you feel your brain turn to mush, the constant stimulation, his tongue flicking your clit and fingers pumping in and out you. The tension builds in your abdomen and you nod furiously, the front bits of your hair fall in front of your face.

Through your hair you meet his eyes, “Use your words.” He instructs, non relenting.

“Yes, Yes! Yes!” You scream out, sure the dirty looks you were going to get from the receptionist tomorrow morning would be scorning. You cum on his face again, your body going limp and you spread out, chest heaving up and down, sweat clung to the shirt you hadn’t removed yet.

That came off in quick succession, Aaron crawling up your body, hands grabbing one side each, he yanks. The buttons fly everywhere and he pulls it off you, snaking his hands around your back and unhooked your bra, also pulling that from your body.

“My shirt!” You whine, “That’s my favourite one.”

He kisses you softly this time, a look of fake sympathy in his eyes. “Aww, I’ll buy you three more, in different colours.”

He’s back on your neck, sucking the skin in, giving you a deeper hickey next to the lighter one he’d left earlier. Your hips jump up and brush against his cock, and you gasp. His teeth scrape along your neck as you push up against him.

He undoes his slacks, pulling them down and his boxers with them and your eyes wander down.

“Woah.” You say before you can think about it, your eyes become as wide as saucers.

He drags his cock up and down you, covering the tip of his cock in your wetness. Your teeth clamp down on your lip, as it catches on your entrance and he pushes in ever so slightly.

“I’m gunna rip you open.” He says breathlessly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it.

Before you can even formulate a quip, he pushes into you, the stretch making your eyebrows pull together and a begging look in your eyes.

“Oh!” You moan, and he pulls out and slams back in, the sudden fullness sending you into a deep pleasure spiral.

He lowers himself down to his forearms, his head right next to yours, his thick forearms flexed and the veins popping out. His thrusts are uniform and rough.

“You going to cum again for me?” He asks, knowing he won’t last long in tight warmth you had surrounded him in. It felt like every time he pulled out, you sucked him back in.

“Yea.” You whisper breathlessly, and you sink your teeth into the flesh on his forearms. Mumbling the constant string of moans pulling from your throat.

Feeling like you’re floating, you’d never felt this amount of pleasure as his cock dragged deliciously against your g spot. “So-so full.” You squeak out, eyes rolling back.

“Where’s all that annoyance now huh?” You could hear the smirk and his thrusts get faster, transporting you into another world.

“Ah- ah! Aaron!” You suck in a deep breath. You’re sure your brain goes black, not capable of a competent thought. Your whole body trembles this time, the coil in your pelvis just begging to snap.

“Cum for me baby.”

That’s all it takes, you tighten around him, nails digging into his back and a silent cry comes from your throat. He slows slightly, however, still thrusting and bringing himself over the edge.

Pushing to the hilt, he releases inside of you. He places his forehead against yours and he slips out of you.

“You ok?” He checks in, stroking your hair.

“Yeah.” There’s a satisfied smile on your face as he quickly darts off to the bathroom, coming back with a wet rag and cleaning his cum off of your pussy and inner thighs, you shiver, still sensitive.

Once you’re clean, he clambers into bed next to you, pulling the covers over you, neither rod you bothering to get dressed.

“You know, I might have to make a complaint to HR,” You joke. “I’m sure that my boss cumming in me might come under sexual harassment.”

“Hmm.” He hums. “Well I think my subordinate rubbing herself in the shower while imagining me naked also comes under sexual harassment.” He jokes back.

Horror pulls over your face. “I’m gunna kill Em-”

He cuts you off, “Emily didn’t tell me about the shower, but she did tell me about you not coming for a while, well she implied it.”

“Then how?” Your jaw is slack and that familiar redness lights you up like a christmas string.

“I am a profiler.” He smiles. “Your face was very, very red.”

“Oh shut up. You’re the one who came out here in a towel and decided to just show me those back muscles.” You roll your eyes.

“My back muscles?” He smirks, smugness all over his face.

“Fuck off.” You huff, “Sir.” You add slyly.

It’s now his turn to turn bright red.

-

“Is anyone going to address the elephant in the room?” Derek asks after everyone is a couple drinks in, looser from the alcohol.

“Or do you mean the elephants that aren’t in the room?” JJ snorts, taking another sip out of her drink. Her and Emily make eyecontact across the circular table and start giggling manically.

“What? What did I miss?” Spencer tilts his head in confusion. “There’s no elephants in the room.”

“Hotch and y/n sitting in a tree.” JJ starts.

“What you think they’re kissing?” Spencer exclaims, pushing up his glasses in shock.

“Oh they’re doing a lot more than kissing. I can’t wait to tell Penelope.” She finishes, typing furiously on her phone.

-

an: heyy party people, thanks for reading this!! this idea was a long time coming so please please like and reblog it! i need that fbi agent so baddddd. comment if you want to be added to a tag list!!

taglist: @baileef222 @jellyfishhoarder @kai9999901

[jacksally]

PROJECT HAIL MARY 2026, dir. Phil Lord & Christopher Miller

[alinathinkstoomuch]

DRUNKEN INNUENDO

aaron hotchner x reader

18+ MDNI

summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!

warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug

wc: 8.7k

✰ masterlist

You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth. 

“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.

You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road. 

“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”

“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”

You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”

You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.

You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.

“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”

“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”

“You once reversed into a mailbox.”

You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”

“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”

You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed. 

“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.

You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind. 

That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.

“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.” 

“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”

We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct. 

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”

“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”

“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.

His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”

“So nothing, then?”

“Coffee. If they have it.”

“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.

Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.

You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.

Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.

Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.

“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”

“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”

You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi. 

You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.

Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷

You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.

“Any time today would be nice.”

He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”

“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”

He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”

The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you. 

“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”

The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork. 

A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.

You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul. 

“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.

“Nope. I want alcohol.”

He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.

You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower. 

Unfortunately it does not respond to either. 

You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice. 

“Hotch?”

Water is running. He does not answer. 

You try again, louder. “Hotch!”

“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.

“Are you decent?”

There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent. 

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol-related emergency.”

You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy. 

He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”

You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.

Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else. 

He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement. 

The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is. 

He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed. 

“Happy now?”

“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”

“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”

“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.

“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.

“You’re not joining me?” 

His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”

“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”

He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”

“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”

You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say. 

“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”

And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace. 

“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.

You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”

“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”

“That’s manipulative.”

You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”

His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips. 

“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”

He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it. 

“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water. 

The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.

At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.

“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”

“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”

You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”

He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”

“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”

“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.

“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”

You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you. 

You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”

“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”

Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.

“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”

He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”

“We can do this standing if you prefer?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”

You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”

You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”

His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”

“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”

“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”

“You’re on top of me.”

You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”

His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you. 

Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus. 

 “No—other side.”

You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat. 

“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”

You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.” 

You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”

His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”

“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”

“You’re wearing it backwards.”

“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”

He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.

He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it. 

“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”

You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”

“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts. 

“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”

You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.

You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”

“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.

You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.” 

He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.

His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.

“That’s it?”

“You asked a yes or no question.”

Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”

“You really want me to do that right now?”

“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose. 

“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”

“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”

He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.

“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals. 

“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”

“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”

You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”

His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”

“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”

“The jet.”

You light up instantly.  “This’ll be good.” 

“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.” 

“Do continue.”

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.

There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you. 

But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”

“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.

You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”

His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”

He swallows.

“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.

You nod. “You were my ride.”

“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”

“That zip was very flimsy.”

“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”

Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”

“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”

“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.

Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”

“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties. 

He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.

“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments. 

You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.

Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.  He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I want you on my tongue.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks. 

“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch. 

He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it. 

He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.

“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.

“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.

A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.

And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise. 

“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”

Asshole. 

You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.

He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice. 

And then he pulls back. Again. 

“Please what?” 

Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.

You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture. 

“Sadist,” you hiss. 

“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”

You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”

His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time. 

“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms. 

You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. 

He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs. 

“Hotch—fuck!”

He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access. 

“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.

“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.

Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”

He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine. 

You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”

“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”

You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever. 

It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state. 

“Hi,” you croak. 

He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”

“Your face is shiny.”

A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”

“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed. 

He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”

You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there. 

“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.

“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”

“Aaron,” he repeats.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”

For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.” 

You meet him halfway.

His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.

You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.

“Which ones are bothering you?”

“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”

He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.

“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.

The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch. 

You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant. 

“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.

You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.

“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”

So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts. 

That’s when you take pity. 

Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs. 

And then he’s bare beneath you.

You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.

That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip. 

You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”

You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”

His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. 

You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach. 

“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact. 

“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”

You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”

His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”

You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped. 

“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch. 

His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”

“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him. 

“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him. 

You still for a second. “Two years?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.

“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”

He does instantly. 

“You’ve been wanting this for two years?” 

He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan. 

“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”

“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”

“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down. 

His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine. 

“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”

Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.

You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.

A helpless cry breaks out of you.

“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”

You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time. 

“Aaron—” 

His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.

“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”

You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.

“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe. 

One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him. 

You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”

You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine. 

Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you. 

“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”

And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it. 

Your release slams into you like a freight train. 

Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming. 

Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet. 

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.” 

You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his. 

You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”

“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw. 

“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”

You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”

“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”

“A date?” you ask quietly.

“If you want it to be.”

You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”

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