New: Track Work - You're at a conference dinner in New York, too many gin and tonics deep when Aaron texts you. (surgeon!reader, angst, probably too much pining, ruining the friendship)
🤍 End Up Together - You love Aaron, Aaron loves you. But you don’t talk about it. Oh, you’d never. Until your mom says a thing, and feelings finally tide over. (fluff, angst, mutual pining) (personal fave)
🩷 Let Me Love You - How do you love someone who won’t let you? Or: You’re in the same city as Aaron, trying to keep it cool. Maybe catching lunch with him wasn’t your best idea though. (fluff, angst, mutual pining, suggestive content)
💚 The Middle - Aaron visits you in the U.K. Because Jack misses you. Obviously that’s it. (fluff, ex babysitter!reader, family dynamic)
🖤 Tuesdays at the Office - It's a fairly normal day at Quantico, except that you hid your underwear in Aaron's go-bag, and now you're having a bit of a mental breakdown about it. (fluff, smut, lawyer!reader)
Summary: You're at a conference dinner in New York and Aaron texts you something so dry that it leads to a small nervous breakdown in the restroom.
Warnings: Probably incorrect usage of medical terms, reader has too many drinks. Pining. Lots of unresolved feelings as usual. Ruin the friendship kinda vibe?
a/n: I wrote this inspired by s8e23 (brother hotchner). Beth doesn't exist here.
word count: 1.8k
Big cities don’t intimidate you — how could they, after you’ve spent most of your adult life in D.C.?
From the box of a room in the GWU dorms to your current two-bedroom apartment just off Dupont Circle, you’ve always liked the buzz of the city. The marble columns in front of prestigious buildings. The slightly overcomplicated subway system.
But here in New York, everything feels… heavier somehow. Almost a little oppressive.
And you can’t quite figure out why.
Is it the sky high buildings, basically working like glorified wind tunnels? Is it the endless traffic? The masses of people, even inside this very restaurant?
Or maybe, just maybe—is it the third glass of gin and tonic sitting right in front of you?
Well.
Probably.
At least that's what a certain FBI unit chief would tell you. In a strict, slightly self-righteous tone, even if his eyes would stay warm. And kind. Always kind.
Sometimes hazel, if the light is just right.
But alas, Aaron is in D.C. right now. And you’re here, at a conference dinner in New York, pretending to listen as Dr. Hafsah from Seattle — very renowned for her meta-analysis of wound-closure techniques — goes on and on about said techniques. And normally, as a trauma surgeon yourself, you would be hanging on to every word.
You should be hanging on to every word.
But you can’t even pretend to keep up tonight.
Because your mind is working against you.
How, you ask?
Oh.
Oh my.
Exhibit one: Why do you even know the exact angle of sunlight it takes to turn Aaron Hotchner’s eyes hazel?
And why do you keep imagining it?
Aaron at home, making dinner while Jack babbles about dinosaurs and flags or whatever his newest obsession is, and you’re just there, listening, watching, like it’s something sacred?
Seriously. Why is that on your mind?
You reason: It must be the exhaustion from two conference days. The lateness of the night. The gin and tonics.
But still, no matter what you blame, the thought is there. The longing is there, and it feels almost… inevitable. Pressing in on you from all sides — and you hate it, hate yourself for feeling this way.
Because he’s Aaron.
Sean’s brother. Jack’s dad. Haley’s ex-husband.
One of your oldest friends.
And you can’t even begin to explain how foolish even the idea of it would be. How outrageous, how ridiculous.
But still.
Somehow it’s all you can think about. Aaron is all you can think about. And it’s tiring and confusing and —
“Hey.”
The sound of your name startles you a little, rips your gaze away from wherever you’ve been staring at. Your drink, maybe, or the string of fake-looking lilies adorning the table.
“You’re being awfully quiet tonight.”
When you lock eyes with Ethan across from you, the artificial glow of Hudson Yards outside the window almost blinds you — because when did humanity decide to substitute all oil lamps for halogen lamps? Was there a vote that you missed? A referendum?
Again. Alas.
“Just tired,” you offer lamely, and take a sip of your lavender gin.
Ethan lifts a brow.
“Why? The day’s only been twelve hours long.”
Ha.
You smile wryly, noticing that his eyes seem less sunken than usual, and that there’s a faint red tint to his cheeks. Which is interesting.
“Maybe it’s because I don’t usually spend this much time with you?”
Your colleague blinks, a hand flying to his chest. “Wow. That’s — that’s a lie, first of all,” Ethan points out, and despite the grin on your face, it’s not like you can refute him.
Out of all people at work, Ethan is probably the only one that you voluntarily spend breaks with. The person you lock eyes with when your TMD tears through a briefing with no sense of mercy. Who you lean on during shifts that just won't end, and who always cheers you up with a piece of golden gossip.
“Okay,” you admit with a shrug. “Busted.”
His eyes narrow for a moment, and like a true friend, he dives straight into a retelling of your mishap during this morning’s panel discussion. Your eyes roll to the other side of the world.
“Again," you say for the millionth time today. "I thought she meant secondary closure. Are you going to let this go eventually?”
A laugh. Vigorous head-shaking. You can’t fight the small scowl that settles on your face.
“For what it’s worth, I found your perspective on negative pressure wounds very refreshing.”
Your gaze drifts to the man beside Ethan, a friendly face that you have seen at a few other conferences during the years. Middle-aged and... Dr. Sheik, maybe?
“Have you read the Stanford study from last year?”
And suddenly Ethan and you and three other people are fifteen minutes deep in a discussion of abdominal wound therapy, completely innocent on your part, really — yet to your advantage as it turns out that the people-ier a conversation, the easier it is to slip out of it innocuously.
So when your phone screen lights up saying 1 new message from Aaron Hotchner after you’ve had three drinks, it’s not like you can be held accountable for your actions, right?
Especially not for the thump in your chest.
Hi. Hope you’re doing okay? I just checked the train schedule again and apparently there’s track work right outside of Philadelphia. So we might be delayed tomorrow. Just FYI.
But by the time you reach track work, you have to start over from the beginning — slower this time, as something uneasy settles in your chest. Disappointment maybe, or disbelief. Because this matter-of-factness compared to your thoughts about the coming weekend?
It feels like a punch in the gut.
Like you are, in fact, being a ridiculous fool. A completely overworked and chronically single fool who is absolutely, positively nuts to think about Aaron Hotchner’s eyes in golden hour lighting while he is thinking about trains.
A wall of emptiness hits you. You feel… undignified, somehow.
So what do you — an esteemed trauma surgeon, successful, decent looking, objectively a catch — do?
You reply with a simple Okay. Tuck your phone away and force yourself to focus on the conversation happening right in front of you. And like anyone would, you order another drink.
Annoyingly though, and not at all surprisingly, your phone buzzes again not even five minutes later.
That seems like a short reply. Are you okay?
And it’s almost criminal. The way your blood pressure rises, the way you stare at the message far longer than necessary — right until the waiter places a fresh glass of G & T in front of you.
“Thanks,” you say with a small nod, and involuntarily catch the words framed for medical misconduct somewhere on your left — which, what? — and Ethan’s eyes meet yours, alarmed in the same way yours must be. But all you can actually think is: I don’t know. Am I okay?
Because way too much is happening at the same time, and you’re probably not okay.
“I’ll be back in a second,” you say just loud enough for Ethan to hear. “Bathroom.”
Your legs feel heavier than they should when you get up. Your throat feels dry, brain a little fuzzy, like you’re balancing on a stick instead of simply walking through a restaurant.
The sign pointing to the restroom is white and grey, very minimalist, and for some reason it reminds you of that one time at The Giant Rook, Aaron’s team’s usual outing spot, and how very not-minimalist his technical analyst Penelope Garcia is.
Though that’s a lame excuse to think about Aaron. Probably the lamest you’ve come up with — and so you stop short right in front of the women’s restroom, typing with a sense of urgency:
I’m not really okay.
Delete that.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Whew. Delete THAT.
Sorry, you try again. Still at dinner.
And that sounds reasonable, right?
Accommodating, just a little nonchalant. Like there’s a high demand for your attention.
Which there is, obviously.
You watch the message get delivered as you reach for the door handle and head straight to the farthest cubicle, tucked into the corner.
The world tilts a little when you sit, and your eyes fall shut, but that makes it worse somehow.
You realise then that you’re drunk-drunk — with a completely untouched gin and tonic still waiting for you outside — and suddenly you’re far too far away from home, too far from the comfort of your own bed and a good nights’ sleep.
Your phone buzzes. It takes some effort to read the message, but once you do, it’s almost a little funny.
That’s not really an answer to my question.
It's funny because you imagine Aaron sitting at his kitchen table with the small light on, brooding over train schedules and track maps, comtemplating whether it's worth it to just drive to New York, and meanwhile there you are, communicating inefficiently. How dare you.
You reply quickly, almost grinning now, despite your slightly blurry vision.
I’m drunk. Does that answer your question?
Aaron's reply is immediate.
Oh.
Then:
But you're okay?
And wow.
That's the third time he's asked you in a space of ten minutes. Of course you're not okay. But you reply anyways.
Yes. Just a little tired.
Too tired and too drunk, in fact, to interpret his concern in a way that isn’t utterly self-indulgent. Though you would never tell him that.
Instead you tap on the contact photo where he and Jack smile widely into the camera, Jack's tiny hand on top of Aaron's, both proudly presenting the gold medal from last year's kid's soccer championship —and something sweet and sticky passes through you.
A homely warmth, a feeling of belonging that makes your heart twist.
Then your phone buzzes in your hand, and you swipe the picture away quickly, almost like you got stung. Except that what you see next isn't exactly better.
Do you want me to order you a cab?
The warmth suddenly turns to heat, a treacherous desire, and your mind, just for a second, conjures a wholly inappropriate image.
Aaron in the doorway of his apartment. Broad shoulders wrapped in soft linen, a hint of stubble on his handsome face, tired eyes, slightly unruly hair — and you, a little drunk, a little needy, utterly his for the taking. If only he reached out.
You don’t even realise you’re typing something until, suddenly, a message appears in the chat.
Only if it takes me to you.
You blink, slightly disoriented. Like you’ve just woken from a dream. A fever dream, perhaps, where Aaron is someone else entirely.
Not Sean's brother and not Haley's widower. Not literally the last person on planet earth that you should think about like this.
But... you just did. You just sent him that.
Every bit of warmth sweeps from your body, and a cold panic settles in. A beat. A hollow breath.
This is mortifying. The worst thing you’ve ever texted someone.
You hold your breath as three dots appear and disappear, then appear again. But nothing comes of it, and you’re forced to look back at your own damn words.
Why did you send that?
You must be delusional. Or a masochist. Because here you are, putting it all on the line in a NYC restroom cubicle. And for what?
Potentially ruining sixteen years of friendship? Risking losing the people you love most in this world?
Jess, your best friend. Haley, who you have already lost.
Aaron.
Jack.
You exhale sharply. Count to five while inhaling. Again, and again — as you find yourself wishing that you’d just left your phone at the table. That you had stopped after the first drink.
When your phone buzzes again, you consider just leaving it there, switching numbers and taking on a new identity.
Aaron Hotchner x hinge!reader
Genre: rom-com but the meet-cute is court-admissible
Summary: Hotch is so tragically single post-Beth that the BAU builds him a Hinge profile behind his back. You, mistaking it for the most obvious catfish in history, swipe right for the plot. When they dare you to actually show up, you discover the kicker: Hotch has no idea any of this is happening.
Warnings: Misogyny & harassment (non-graphic, creep gets wrecked by mr. Hotchner), age gap shenanigans (he’s 49, she’s… not), use of alcohol, Hotch sucks at flirting, r is a serial dater (but #4ThePlot)
Word Count: 4.4k
Dado's Corner: Issue #1 of this coming of old age series! This round leans heavier on r’s pov, but the plan is to slide into Hotch’s head in future installments (yes, I have disgustingly cute things plotted hihihihi). True to form, it’s a soul-sucking slow burn, so the devil’s tango will take its sweet time. Requests for these two? Always welcome!!
masterlist ; hinge!reader's hinge profile
Becoming single again after a “mostly happy” three-year relationship, all while still lugging around the seven-year-old divorce suitcase, isn’t exactly the midlife glow-up Hotch had in mind.
Throw in the fact that he’s a workaholic federal agent whose entire personality is case files, witness statements, and black coffee, and you’ve got a man clinging to structure like it’s a flotation device.
He’s also a dad who’s perpetually MIA from his nine-year-old’s life, which would be bad enough even if Jack weren’t on the cusp of maximum preteen turbulence. One minute the kid still wants his help with math homework, the next he’s slamming his bedroom door and muttering about “privacy.”
Hotch, naturally, responds to this looming chaos by tightening the screws everywhere else.
And because misery doesn’t just love company, it micromanages it, Hotch’s coping mechanism of choice is... paperwork.
Endless, joyless paperwork.
Form after form, report after report, neat little boxes filled with words that can’t possibly absorb his growing panic. Which would be bad enough if it only torpedoed his own sanity. But no, if he’s chained to a stack of 302s at midnight, then so help him, the rest of the BAU will be too.
Suddenly, “team bonding” means rolling into the office at 7 a.m. sharp. “Weekends off” are downgraded to urban legend. And “running a tight ship” starts feeling less like law enforcement and more like unpaid conscription.
In fieldwork, the BAU refers to this leadership style by its official, highly technical term. Not "drill sergeant." Not even "hard-ass."
No, the clinical diagnosis is: colossal anus.
And how do you deal with a colossal anus? Not easily.
It takes an entire box of red wine and a suspicious amount of vegan snacks (courtesy of Garcia) smuggled into one of Rossi’s not-so-secret house parties for the team to reach a dangerous consensus: their boss needs to bang - sorry, hang out with - someone.
Problem is… Hotch himself. Hotch as a man. Hotch as a concept.
Especially this pitiful grayscale version of him who has apparently forgotten how flirting works.
Case in point: a very eager woman at a jazz club once all but threw herself at him, leaning in with “So if you were to give me a tour of D.C., where would we go?”
All he had to say was “my bedroom” and the jackpot was his. Instead, he took it literally. He actually started listing his favorite historical sites.
Out loud.
For five straight minutes. It was like being seduced by a museum brochure.
Given the evidence, the team is deeply concerned about his performance with the opposite sex - and more alarmed by his inability to pick up basic signals, despite allegedly being one of the best profilers on earth.
So, fueled by wine (and Emily’s sudden talent for motivational speeches), they hatch a plan: build Hotch a dating profile. Operation: Hotch Gets Laid.
The next few days play out like a covert op.
Candid shots of Hotch are snapped in the wild and all of them get smuggled straight to Garcia’s lair. That’s where the team gathers, and the mission officially begins.
The ground rules are clear.
One: Hotch can never know. Not just because he would shut it down instantly, but because they’re not even sure he believes online dating exists.
Two: to keep him from tanking his own chances, they’ll manage the account themselves. A hive mind of digital wingpeople, logging in whenever a match pings.
Strategy sessions are held in Rossi’s kitchen. Profile edits happen at midnight. Someone is always typing. It’s a group project with the highest stakes imaginable: their boss’s sex life.
And of course they’re being honest. Totally honest.
With the victims.
Sorry… women.
The ones who think they’re chatting with a frowning, sleep-deprived federal agent, when really it’s a tag team of his subordinates trying to sell him as dateable.
To no one’s shock, it bombs.
Maybe their boss really is hopeless, destined to die alone - because if even the over-90 crowd is swiping left, what chance does a grief-soaked playboy with a filing fetish really have? The inbox is a desert.
Well… almost. There’s one message. From you. A polite little compliment. How generous.
"this is one of the best fake profiles I’ve ever seen on this app, hilarious."
You only type it because, honestly, who the hell puts “FBI” in their bio? It’s either a catfish or the most half-assed attempt at getting laid in online dating history.
You should probably report it before it reels in someone… less digitally literate than you. Someone who might actually be charmed by the suspicious number of suit-and-tie photos this guy has uploaded.
He’s too FBI to actually be FBI, which makes it extra suspicious.
So why did you even match?
Are you genuinely attracted to a man who claims to be forty-nine, could literally be your dad, somehow has a suspiciously perfect hairline, and still thought posing with Ringo Starr and some other sweaty middle-aged man doing a peace sign was a good idea? Gross. And he doesn’t even look fun to talk to.
So why are you still here, still indulging this?
Truth is… you’re just curious. And curiosity, as flimsy as it is, feels like enough of an excuse to grant yourself the moral high ground to keep going.
Does that make you a serial dater? Absolutely not.
Serial daters are the ones who need a constant conveyor belt of first dates to feel alive. You’re not like that. Well… not exactly. You just happen to feel better when you have at least one date penciled in for the week, something to look forward to, a small performance to rehearse for. Without it, the days flatten out, and you start to feel like you’re missing something.
That’s different. Right?
Which is precisely why you and “Aaron” (or more accurately, this sweet woman named Penelope) end up arranging to meet.
You tried to negotiate a club (just to see that half-century-old specimen of a man attempt to dance to commercial hits he’s never even heard of) but no, the verdict is a bar. Neutral territory.
The messages all boil down to the same thing: if you don’t believe them, show up Friday. If you’re curious, go meet this so-called “Aaron.” If not, walk away and file it under ‘funny stories to tell your friends.’
Weird concept of fun these allegedly FBI agents have.
But hey - you’ve never gone on a date with a fed before, and if nothing else, you’re doing it for the plot.
You carelessly show up half an hour earlier than planned (you’d rather die than be late), sliding onto a barstool and praying your skirt doesn’t flash half the place in the process. A quick drink feels necessary, something to pre-game with, something to keep your hands from fussing too much.
Across the room, a live band thrums. The bass rolls through the floor, rattling your chest until your heart stutters and starts hammering faster - though this isn’t your first rodeo, it feels like it might be.
The glass that appears in front of you throws you off. Definitely not what you ordered. More like… a flute of pale, greenish fizz, bubbles sprinting to the surface only to fizzle out before the bartender even lets go.
You don’t even need a sip - you can smell the cheapness long before the acidity of a chemically tortured grape ever touches your tongue. And just to drive the point home, it arrives hand in hand with the most aggressively aquatic, locker-room-sporty cologne ever bottled. Your throat tightens. You almost gag.
“Champagne is always the best way to celebrate,” a man declares as he slips into the seat beside you, tongue flicking across his bottom lip.
Oh. Well. You’re not opposed to male attention (especially when it comes with a free drink) but unfortunately for him, you happen to know the difference between actual champagne and the kind that’s clearly been rescued from the discount shelf.
Perks of working in a kitchen that just last month cracked the TOP 10 restaurants in D.C. (TOP 10!! You still can’t say it without grinning like an idiot) you know good champagne when you taste it. Not to brag (okay, maybe a little), but the man’s so-called “grand gesture” doesn’t exactly make you want to fling your bra at him just yet.
Still, for all his lack of taste (uncultured, yes, but in a way that could be corrected with the right guidance), he’s objectively easy on the eyes.
Broad, tan, muscular, and apparently allergic to buttons - half his satin shirt undone, chest tattoo on full display. Untasteful, yes. Distracting, unfortunately also yes.
You straighten instinctively. “And what exactly am I supposed to be celebrating?”
You know better than to indulge a textbook peacocker like him, but curiosity gets the better of you - you want to see just how far he’ll go before he makes a fool of himself.
“Meeting me.” Of course. “How come a pretty angel like you’s sittin’ here all alone?” he smirks, leaning closer. Another hit of that stinky cologne assaults your nostrils just before his hand clamps down over yours.
Not a casual touch - no, that wouldn’t announce his alpha status loudly enough. He presses down so you can feel every dollar he has ever spent on protein powder and every plain chicken breast he has ever choked down, all to prove he can outmuscle the fairer sex.
It doesn’t impress you. If anything, it’s disappointing.
“I’m… actually waiting for…” You hesitate, weighing whether it’s time to pull the fake fiancé card. Odds are he won’t care - his thumb is already dragging insistently across yours, ignoring every polite attempt you’ve made to pull away.
You never imagined you’d be the kind of woman silently praying a man was Republican, clinging to the faint hope he might respect the sacred bond of marriage before God as your only means of escape. Still, desperate times. “…My fiancé.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he props his cheek against his fist, angling just so his bicep swells in your line of sight (tacky, at best.) His gaze dips to your bare hand, then crawls upward, allegedly aiming for your eyes, though you’re fairly certain the neckline of your dress doesn’t qualify as ocular territory.
A smug smile unfurls. “I see no ring, miss.”
Well, of course he doesn’t, given he’s staring at your-
“It’s getting cleaned,” you blurt. Oof. If only the world worked differently, if men could grasp boundaries without you scrambling for half-baked cover stories just to keep them in their lane.
He lets out this weird awkward chuckle (probably convinced it sounds seductive) and leans in so close you can feel his breath ghost across your cheek. “What kind of man,” the mouth-breather drawls in a forced low tone, steadying himself as his free hand creeps up your inner thigh, “doesn’t care enough about his fiancée to drive her here himself?”
Your mom-
“Everything alright here?” a very inquisitive, very low, and very, very, veeeery masculine voice rumbles behind you (the kind of voice ripped straight from one of those steamy audiobook narrations).
Just from the sound alone, you’d bet a dollar this man owns a castle, plans to keep you locked in it for 365 days, and will dare you to fall in love with him (with the added promise of some very creative, very kinky sex to kill the time).
You whip around, along with the creep.
He looks irritated at having his little performance cut short, but you… you’re stunned. It takes a beat to recognize him, because out of all the men in this bar (24 contenders here, 3.5 billion out there) the one who steps in, who rescues you from this unsolicited audition for America’s Next Molestation Case, is…
…your supposed Hinge date. (The same man who has no clue he’s on Hinge, no clue he’s on a date, and certainly no clue that the date is with you).
Not only is he real, but he is taller, sharper, and infinitely scarier than the photos his colleagues uploaded on his behalf. That Oscar-worthy frown alone sends goosebumps racing down your arms. Strong start. Very strong start.
The creep, however, clearly disagrees. He puffs his chest out, dismissive. “Chill, bro. We’re fine. Get the fuck away.”
Wow. Bald Bold words. The man has no respect for his elders.
Your supposed FBI date (Aaron, right, that’s his name) lifts his brows at him, the picture of disapproval. His eyes look almost round when he does that. “I’m sorry?”
The creep pushes up from his chair (finally) and steps in close to Aaron. Too close. They might actually kiss at this rate. “We’re fine, grandpa. Move on.”
Shockingly, Aaron doesn’t deck him. (Part of you wishes he would…) “First of all, don’t talk to me like that. Secondly, her body language alone makes it clear she wants nothing to do with you. The fact you ignored every single attempt she made to pull away and disrespected her boundaries is predatory.”
“Wow, chill dude, what are you, a cop?” *DING DING DIIIING*
Aaron arches his brows higher, mocking, but doesn’t bite. For some reason, he doesn’t need to brag. He doesn’t drop the “FBI” card, even though it would have the creep sprinting for the door. Instead, he fixes the man with that same stern, unblinking stare.
“I’d highly suggest you take your own advice and walk away. Because what you’ve already done is enough for a misdemeanor charge, and if you’d prefer not to spend the next year in a Baltimore cell, you’ll turn around and leave. Now.”
The guy finally registers that Aaron is serious (helped, no doubt, by that permanent angry-lizard stare.) He swivels to you one last time, scoffs as if you were the problem all along, mutters something like “man, you’re pathetic” under his breath, and puffs out his chest before slinking toward the door.
Congratulations: a real alpha male in action. Hurray.
Aaron doesn’t look away until the man’s outside, his gaze glued on him until the creep’s out on the sidewalk lighting a cigarette. Only then does he turn back to you, and suddenly the sharp edges of his face soften into something devastatingly sad.
“I’m so sorry people like him still hang around.” He sounds gutted.
“It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize… actually, thank you. For noticing, I guess.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
He slips his left hand into his jeans pocket, then pulls out a dark brown leather wallet, worn at the edges, with a discreet AH embossed at the bottom.
He flips it open, carefully removes a card, and steps toward you. Not too close - he extends his arm fully, as if keeping deliberate distance.
Again, up this close, he looks taller than in the photos.
And younger, somehow.
The bar’s dim light takes a few years off him, and there’s something disarmingly casual about the way he wears that black quarter-zip. Nobody under sixty dresses like this in a bar… and somehow he makes it work.
He hands you the card, a faint smile pulling at his lips. Your fingers brush - accidental, almost clumsy - because you’re not really watching the exchange. You’re too caught up dissecting his face, and for a split second you snag against the edge of his thumbnail.
Embarrassing, really, how much you notice it.
The cardstock is thick, expensive, the kind of paper that makes you unconsciously run your thumb along the edges. It’s the most official-looking card you’ve ever held (unsurprising, since it’s an FBI contact card).
In sober Times New Roman it reads:
Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner.
Wow. Fancy title.
And yet the surname for some reason upsets you, feels too sharp for him. It doesn’t fit the man standing in front of you, not with those warm, chestnut eyes. Eyes that seem far too gentle for all the hard, mushed consonants packed into his surname. You can only imagine the trail of broken hearts he must have left when he was… your age?!
“If you want to report that guy, don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll make sure he’s identified from the surveillance footage right away,” he says. Wow. Straight to business.
“Thank you… um-” And then what? Do you tell him about the date? He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on. Honestly, neither do you. You only came to see if he was real, and now that you’ve confirmed it, what exactly are you supposed to do? Talk to him? He’s like… twice your age.
“Something’s wrong?” His voice cuts in. You snap your head toward him, startled.
“Look.” Aaron gestures toward the chair where the creep sat minutes ago, then takes the seat himself. “Can I be frank with you?”
“Sure.” You’ve never felt so nervous - or guilty. Guilty about what, exactly, you couldn’t say. Maybe because you haven’t confessed the whole truth yet.
Or maybe it’s just him. His presence upsets you. Also, the words on his card - Behavioral Analysis - keep echoing in your head. Not exactly comforting. It makes you hyper-aware of everything: the pace of your breathing, the twitch of your fingers, the way your shoulders shift. As if he’s already cataloguing every detail.
His gaze dips to your glass, still full of the cheap champagne.
“I worry if you drink that, you’ll end up with a headache tomorrow. Just one glass of it could do the job. You’re really going to do that to yourself?” The words sound slightly condescending, but the smile he tacks on at the end is disarmingly boyish.
Fancy title, fancy taste. Sure. But you didn’t order it yourself, so that’s fine. Still - if you had wanted to be a masochist, why should he get to comment on it, let alone try to talk you out of it?
“I didn’t order it myself,” you laugh. The sound draws a chuckle out of him, lighter in tone (prettier, even, if you can call it that) than his speaking voice.
“Oh. Then it’s even worse that he thought you’d want something like that.” The way he catches on so quickly makes you feel strangely… in tune with him. Is that even possible? “So, what’s your drink of choice?” he asks.
“Don’t judge me.”
“Too late.” His brows lift, a miniscule smile tugging his lips, a bit patronizing but light. Dimples. He has dimples. You hadn’t noticed those before. “So, what is it?”
“It’s nothing special…” you hedge. You don’t know why telling him feels like walking into an exam unprepared, why you’re already bracing for failure. Maybe because it’s lame. Maybe because you want him to think you’re interesting. “I mean, sure, I could lie and say I go for aged reds - maybe a 2005 Pauillac, actually - but I’m not exactly trying to empty my savings account on one glass of wine. So usually it’s just a vodka soda. Slice of lime if I’m feeling fancy. Very… predictable.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with predictable. I’d be a hypocrite if I did.” With the slightest flick of his hand - so smooth you’d have missed it if you weren’t staring, captivated by how prodigious (arc.) his hands are - he signals the bartender.
“One vodka soda with lime and a Guinness.” Despite his talk of predictability, you were almost certain he’d go for a neat Macallan.
Aaron reaches for his wallet, and you get a flashback to his colleagues’ snarky Hinge prompt about how the first round’s always on him (“unless you get him too drunk. Good luck with that”). He pays before you can even think to protest (or pretend to… it’s always nice to be flattered with a free drink). Judging by the bartender’s face, he’s left a very generous tip too.
You murmur a thank you. He brushes it off with a flick of his hand like it’s nothing.
The Guinness takes time. Too much time.
The bartender starts the pour, filling the glass only two-thirds of the way. You tell yourself to listen to the band, to focus on anything else, but all you can hear is the slow glug of stout sliding into the glass, drowning out the silence between you and Aaron.
This is your chance to say something. To tell him why you’re here. Before the moment solidifies into something that feels like… more.
The stout has to settle for ninety seconds, an eternity. The liquid swirls, dark brown melting into black, bubbles racing upward to crown the glass.
Aaron starts drumming his fingers against the counter, a rhythm that makes your pulse race in time with it.
If you wait any longer, it’ll only get worse.
But if you tell him now, you risk shattering this little bubble - this rare moment where he’s just… kind. Kind in the way his eyes flick toward you, quickly, quietly, as if checking in without demanding anything back. You look away each time, terrified that holding his gaze will give everything away.
A man being kind without expecting anything. You can’t remember the last time that happened. Maybe telling him is the only chance you’ll have to keep talking to him at all.
To fill the gap, the bartender shifts to your drink. Tall glass, full of ice. You should say something, now, while the cubes rattle and clink. But instead, your mind spins: what if he doesn’t care? What if he already suspects? What if he laughs, finds it funny, forgives his colleagues, forgives you? But then… what if he doesn’t? What if you ruin this?
Vodka is poured, precisely one-fifth. The clear liquid flashes against the ice. You feel heat creep across your back, and it’s not from the alcohol. You’re sweating at the thought of him shrugging and saying thanks, but no thanks.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. From the corner of your eye, you watch him pull it out, hold it at a slight distance to read, and peck out a reply with one index finger - like a total old man… which, technically, he is. It’s ridiculous, but somehow it’s also the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen.
The bartender cuts a lime in half, squeezes the juice straight into your glass. He stirs, then tops with club soda. You should say something now. You’re running out of time.
Finally, he drops in a thin, dehydrated lime wheel - the kind that can sit in storage for weeks. Decorative, not fresh. A shortcut dressed up as effort. And you can’t help thinking that’s you too - pretending, trimming edges, hoping the illusion holds long enough to pass.
You’re not sure if you like Aaron - or if you just wish more men were like him. Nothing performative, nothing forced. Just a man being quietly decent in a world that doesn’t always bother.
Behind the bar, the stout is ready for its final pour. A thick, creamy head swells up, just over the rim. Aaron’s glass looks sturdy, whole, complete. Yours feels… fragile.
Two drinks. Two choices. You confess and risk shattering this, or you stay quiet and let it slide into something else.
Both glasses land in front of you with a dull thud. You pull yours closer, your fingers jittery against the condensation.
Aaron mirrors you, Guinness in hand. His eyes flick over, calm, unreadable.
“First date?” he asks.
“Yeah… though I’m not even sure it qualifies as a date.”
“Modern dating is confusing,” he says with a small shake of his head. Then he looks at you, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth as he taps the rim of his glass. “I’m sure they’ll think you’re great. You’ll do well. No reason to worry.”
What the-
“You’re talking like it’s a job interview!” You laugh, and he chuckles along.
“I- I’m not exactly an expert on the subject.” His brows lift, mouth curving open in that almost-condescending way of his. “The only advice I can give is that this might be the one time when it helps to arrive exactly on time. Less time to sit with the nerves.”
“Well…” you chuckle, stalling.
“Oh no,” he leans in just a fraction, almost teasing. “How long are you still waiting?”
“Technically? About ten minutes.” You catch yourself biting your lip. Surprise, surprise - I’m already talking to him, aren’t I? Panic flickers. “But… he cancelled.”
His expression softens. He studies you, eyes narrowing, pensive. You’re sure he sees through it (that he can read your bullshit like an open book) and you’ve ruined it.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last. It’s genuine, quiet, almost a whisper. The weight of it makes you drop your eyes.
“Hey.” His voice lowers, coaxing you back. “If you get too caught up in your head and need company in about…” He checks his left wrist, where a Rolex gleams. He could’ve used his phone to avoid the show, but you’re fairly sure this is just an old-man habit. “Ten minutes, that booth-”
He points to the empty table in the corner, a single leather jacket slung over it. Still, you can’t help but smile - he’s just as much of a freak about showing up early as you are. You’ve got something in common.
“It’ll be filled with half a dozen federal agents, very generous and very heavy-handed with shots. We’re lame, but they’re less boring than I am. So don’t shy away from joining us. The distraction helps.”
He’s so kind. Too kind. Your eyes burn. “Thank you, Aaron.” You don’t know what else to say. You do, actually, but it breaks your heart to admit it. “I wish more people were like you.” Yourself included.
He gives a half smile, falters before rising from his stool. His hand comes down on your shoulder. Cold from his glass, damp from condensation, and yet… warm somehow. You tilt your head up to hold his gaze. Those eyes. Earnest, unflinching.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” he says softly. The warmth in the words pools in your chest. “We’ll be there.”
You wait a second before answering, just to keep his hand on your shoulder a moment longer. “Don’t overdo it with the shots, or you’ll wake up with a headache. One glass will do the job.”
His mouth curves. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
you can trade one partner for another, one friend for another, one city for another, and still you have the same internal work to do. That’s what you are left with, yourself, the work, and the way it all connects to everything and everyone you have ever encountered.
It's a fairly normal day at Quantico, except that you hid your underwear in Aaron's go-bag, and now you're having a bit of a mental breakdown about it.
A/N: So this premise is a liiittle ridiculous, but honestly very fun. Reader is unhinged and a lawyer at the FBI (because we love a workplace romance), boyfriend Aaron, established relationship, happy ending :)
word count: 6.6K
warnings: mdni, suggestive content, soft phone sex, lots of fluff
______
It’s a fairly normal Tuesday morning at Quantico, perhaps a bit quieter than usual—the air outside crisp, November rain pattering against the windows—and Gina, your office mate, is working from home.
The little one's sick, you know. Any chance you can scan the top ten from File Pile?
Of course, you replied, already thinking of all the music you could play out loud today. Maybe a bit of Michelle Branch or Destiny’s Child, or perhaps Bach, whose sharp melodies have been put on your repertoire by Mr Old and Sophisticated.
(And you get it. They do enhance even the loosest sets of argumentations into airtight fortresses. Not your words, Aaron’s.)
It's kind of scary, actually.
Just what the FBI pays you for.
But first, you have to get through the dreaded department meeting at 8.30 AM, and if waste of time were a person, it would be Deputy General Counsel Brody.
Okay, she's not that bad. But she's not exactly enthralling either, which is why you feel a heavy weight lift off your shoulders the moment she says Dismissed, and slip out of the conference room in a beeline for your office to get some actual work done.
AKA: Answering emails. Lots and lots of important emails.
Like the one from SSA Hatchett, asking for clarification on a subpoena. Or Everett Fox, a prosecutor from Alabama, who needs help interpreting FBI evidence for an upcoming trial.
It’s a little concerning, really. The width of your smile, the involuntary skip of a heartbeat just at the sight of his name.
Subject: Case 09-VC-7652—Thoughts?
Hi,
I've been going over the latest forensic reports for this case, and we may have a jurisdictional issue with the evidence handling. (Oh? Interesting.)
I’d love your take on this if you have a minute. (Oh please. For him, you have hours, days, years.) Specifically, any precedent on multi-agency chain of custody that we might have overlooked. (Overlooked? That’s basically unheard of. Hotch might be the only agent NOT frequenting your inbox, at least not for legal counsel.)
Let me know what you think when you get a chance. Appreciate it.
Best,
Aaron
You sit there, quietly blinking at the computer screen. Reading again, and again.
Something something evidence handling. I’d love your take on this. Something something. Chain of custody. Overlooked. Appreciate it.
What the—
Why is he…asking you this?
He knows about U.S. vs Dawson, he was in the damn courtroom when the jury announced the verdict—while you had just started college. So what exactly is he trying to achieve here?
If he wants to talk to you, he could just call. You’re his girlfriend. Surely that’s allowed while being on a case?
(Not that you’ve been privy to many on-duty phone calls yet. So maybe it is looked down upon?)
(Huh.)
You shake your head, pointedly marking his email with later (you fool) because 1. you never get to the things marked as later and 2. you’re dating an actual fool. A clown.
For his age, you really would have thought he’d be less about playing games.
You however? Totally mature. Grounded. Always rational. Especially in an office setting. Where you’d never even think about anything other than cold, harsh legal truths (or twists, if it comes down to it. Because god bless America, or something like that.)
So you’re definitely not thinking about Sunday morning, just about 52 hours ago—but who’s counting—when Aaron got the call. That one, you know.
And, what’s worse? You had just boldly rolled on top of him, eager to access the expanse of his chest, which was humming underneath you, purring with love and affection and need, an inconvenience between his legs you would have happily taken care of.
(Especially after you’d been exiled by Jack for the whole of Saturday because It’s called boy scouting for a reason, silly!)
(You were distraught, Aaron apologetic. He’s seven, he tried to reason, Girls still have cooties.)
Sure.
You’d laughed it off, reminded yourself that you’re not competing with Jack. Went home, maybe cried a little while watching Troy for the sixth time because Brad Pitt is just too pretty.
And then, after all that you’d endured, you had to watch in horror as Aaron reached towards the nightstand, toward his damned phone—while looking you straight in the eyes, with the outline of his hard cock pressing deliciously against your core—and clicked Accept.
Like a traitor. A coward.
Your brows shot up because Excuse you? Sir? We were kind of in the middle of something here?
“Hotchner,” he spoke into the phone, sounding ever-composed, like he was not currently beneath his panty-clad, horny hotshot of a girlfriend (respectfully, of course) and you wanted to scream, maybe pretend you were straight up getting railed by her boss right there, in JJ’s ear.
Maybe she’d hang up then.
“Remember the Oklahoma Strangler?”
You did in fact, remember that one. 02-HR-3002. An unsolved case from Gideon’s last years with the Bureau, and one you studied in criminal law AP class.
Ugh.
There went your late breakfast and the Nationals game you had managed to get tickets for (mostly to convince Jack that you do not have cooties). All of it gone, the window of opportunity closed, tied off, hammered shut.
By the means of one (1!) simple phone call, barely two days after he came home from the last case.
Aaron’s free hand found your nape as you slumped against him, fingers curling into your hair, steadying you. Holding you. Like he was thinking something along those same lines.
You wondered: Was it too much to ask? To have a little piece of your own boyfriend?
“I think we may have an imitator,” JJ said. And Aaron asked Where do you need me?—like that wasn't completely inconsiderate.
“Can you be at the airfield in an hour? I’ll call the rest of the team.”
But you weren’t even listening anymore. You were possessed, wrapping your legs tighter around Aaron’s hips, letting him know exactly where you needed him.
And Aaron didn’t miss a beat. Of course he didn’t. His hand landed on your ass immediately, stilling you. Encouraging you, as far as you were concerned, and it took every ounce of self-control not to whine. Not to circle your hips or press further, for the sake of both your sanities.
Mature, right?
“I’ll be there,” Aaron said, short and sweet. To the point.
Yes, you thought. Now hang up. We’ve got things to do.
And the second he did, your lips were on his, smothering him. A little rushed, maybe frantic as you finally—fucking finally—started to move your hips against his.
“Honey,” Aaron mumbled, lips still on yours and matching your rhythm perfectly. You sighed into his mouth, delighted by the feeling of him. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you leaned back, eyes squeezing shut as gravity pulled you impossibly further onto your boyfriend’s cock. Your hands rested on Aaron’s chest, keeping you steady, while his guided your hips. “I’m good to go.”
Referring to the wetness between your legs, of course.
Aaron’s brows raised at that, half-smile adorning his face.
“I can see that.”
You gave him a look, deadpan, death glare, the works.
“May I remind you—“
“No.” The smirk was gone then, suddenly, magically, and you bit back a smile.
“It happened one time,” Aaron said through gritted teeth, right before he grabbed your waist and flipped you over. “Once.”
Still. He came in his pants. With you on top of him, kissing him. (Strictly innocent, of course.)
And then, while pushing your panties to the side, “It’s not gonna happen again.”
“Good,” you heaved, and your lips parted as he finally, finally slipped inside of you.
And well—
Did those very panties end up Aaron’s go-bag twenty-two minutes later?
For all you know, maybe not.
Because ever since he leaned over your limp figure in bed and kissed you goodbye, you’ve been…waiting. Apprehending.
Fantasizing all the ways he could react when he finds them, hidden away in the side compartment.
Would he send you a stern text, reminding you of professional boundaries?
Or would he call you, grunting and groaning, straining in his pants and asking you to talk him through it?
The thought sends a shiver down your spine, festering into a low, ever present ache between your legs.
You want him to call, right here, right now. Even if only to hear his voice, because that alone would be a relief for you.
But it’s been more than two days, and he hasn’t said a single thing, no calls, no texts—which makes you wonder, has he not found your little gift? Or is he playing the long game?
And what on earth are you supposed to do with this cryptic email that’s still staring back at you from the screen?
The telephone rings, shrill and unexpected. You jump a little, taking a deep breath before you answer.
It’s Krowzinsky from the DOJ, calling about U.S. vs Boyd, a recent BAU case.
The defense is pushing for unlawful search on grounds of the Fourth Amendment.
(Oh yeah? What about an unlawful search on your grounds?)
(Conducted by Aaron, of course. And that's it. That's the thought. Never to be had again.)
(Because wow.)
"That's a reach," you reply, voice surprisingly firm. "As long as the warrant demonstrates probable cause beyond profiling, the challenge won’t hold.”
I’ll need a formal write-up reinforcing that.
“Sure, I’ll draft something and add the precedents. Expect it by EOD.”
So you do what you always do: reviewing, flagging, building airtight arguments, all while ignoring that stupid email in your inbox.
(And pushing down all of your feelings like it's a health hack.)
Sometime around three PM, you see a mob of butterfly-clip adorned hair passing by your office—Penelope Garcia, with a cup in hand, definitely on her way to the kitchen.
And just like that, your window of opportunity opens again.
You wait for approximately five seconds, glancing between your devastatingly silent private phone and Aaron’s name in your emails, giving him one last chance.
(He’s usually so good at reading your mind, knowing what you need before you do. But nope. Still nothing.)
Downright disappointing. Hurtful. Tragic.
He also has a knack for exposing your dramatic streak. You correct him every time, which usually starts a full-blown linguistic debate and ends with definitions scribbled on little love notes, placed on each other’s pillows.
(Aaron’s last one read: “Dramatic (adj.): overly emotional, exaggerated. See also: your reaction when I forget to bring your favorite chocolate.)
(Your response: Theatric (adj.): stylized, expressive, captivating. See also: the way I walk into a room and ruin your concentration.)
(So yeah.)
You heave a breath and lift from your seat, graceful, composed, theatrical, like there’s not a worry in this world.
The hallway is long and sterile, filled only with the echo of your footsteps—which is signature FBI. Because god forbid there’s a wall picture in a federal building. (If you think about it long enough, anything can be a political statement. A flower, a mountain range, maybe even a giraffe.)
Penelope is by the coffee machine, right next to the small kitchenette, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like Damn you, Hatchett.
(There’s an ongoing coffee war. Something about who’s responsible for the next brew.)
(Hatchett seems to be on the winning side.)
“Garcia,” you pass by her to extract a cup from the hanging cabinet, and she straightens perceptibly. Maybe a touch embarrassed.
(Like you care about BAU vs Hatchett.)
Then, with a blue and yellow FBI-issued cup in hand, you scan the counter.
“Looking for something?” Garcia asks from beside you, and your gaze lands on her, watching as she sifts through a lower cabinet.
“Not sure,” you reply truthfully, a sheepish smile playing at your lips. “Maybe I just needed to move a bit.”
“Don’t I get that,” she says, her voice a bit muffled from the cabinet. “You should try stretching! It’s so good for the lower back. Although mine is probably a lost cause.”
Garcia laughs, and you do too, still clutching the empty cup. When she resurfaces, coffee filters in hand, she smiles back at you, bright and genuine—a real sunshine, and suddenly you wish you had more touch points with her professionally.
“Can I offer you some? Since I’m making a new batch right now.”
Your head shakes before you can think. “No thanks, I’ll just have some green tea.”
(Because that’s what Aaron would have you drink.)
(The caffeine is steadier, better for your digestion, and it’s less…stirring.)
Right. You’re definitely stirred.
“Fancy,” Garcia says off-handedly, as she fiddles with the coffee machine.
You turn on the kettle and wait. Fret over the fact that this woman right next to you was probably just on the phone with your boyfriend. Maybe even a video call.
It should be normal. It is normal.
She’s his subordinate, works with him on a daily basis—and yet you can’t help but feel…envious. A bittersweet pang deep in your chest, a sense that you’re losing out—which is stupid, you know it is.
What sort of couple would you be if you spent every waking moment together? If you were actually jealous of his team, of all people?
That’s like being jealous of his son.
Ridiculous.
And yet, there’s this nagging feeling in your chest—is he ignoring you purposefully? Did he not like the gift you gave him? Does he think it’s stupid, immature, out of line?
You inhale slightly, eyes focusing on Aaron’s empty office across the bullpen, the half open shutters, the picture of Jack and him on the desk that you can’t see from here but know is there. Because you took it, printed it, framed it for him.
Not knowing he would take it to work, of course.
It reminds me of that day, he explained when you asked, a little frazzled. Jack’s excitement when we boarded the cruise, your hat flying into the Potomac River.
That wasn’t funny, you countered, but Jack definitely thought so, talking about it all day while Aaron pretended to commiserate with you.
I’ll buy you a new one, he promised, gently rubbing your shoulder, and you smiled sadly at him.
You’ll have to take me to Rome for that.
And he kissed you then and said, I will.
(As if either of you ever take enough vacation days for that.)
“So how’s it going? Any progress on the case?”
(What you want to ask: Is everyone okay? Has Aaron mentioned something? When will they be back?)
Garcia shrugs slightly, tilting her head, “It’s going.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. That’s about all you need to know.
“How long do you think this time?”
It’s a dangerous question, probably letting on too much, but the last case took nearly two weeks, and you don’t know if you can do that again.
Garcia’s putting coffee powder into the machine, one scoop after the other, with a clinical precision that you admire.
“Hard to tell. Probably a few more days,” she shrugs. “Why?”
You shrug too, although your throat feels tight. “I just need a few details for the Boyd trial from Hotch. The defense is quite—aggressive.”
You’re surprised at how reasonable that sounds.
Garcia takes a look at her watch. “They’re driving to a crime scene right now, so Hotch should answer the phone. Or maybe try Reid if he doesn’t. He’s a human filing cabinet, that one."
You nod gratefully, “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Back in your office, you study Boyd’s case file over and over, determined not to call Aaron or Reid because you like to be self-sufficient. Maybe a little petty too, thank you very much.
By half six, you’ve finished the draft for Krowzinsky and lean back in your seat.
The green tea is empty, your stomach grumbles.
To: Aaron Hotchner ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Case 09-VC-7652—Thoughts?
Aaron,
I took a look at the reports, and I see what you mean. There’s enough ambiguity in the evidence transfers that it could be challenged later if we don’t establish a clearer procedural chain. U.S. v. Dawson comes to mind as a relevant precedent—similar multi-agency complications led to admissibility issues.
I’ll pull relevant case law and send over a summary. In the meantime, I’d suggest flagging this with the lead agency before the warrant approvals go through. Let me know if there’s anything else you need from me on this.
FYI, I’m sending you a second email in a moment about the Boyd trial. Krowzinsky asked for clarification on the admissibility of the BAU’s profiling analysis, specifically how it holds up against Fourth Amendment challenges.
Best.
To: Frederick Krowzinsky ([email protected]), Aaron Hotchner ([email protected])
Subject: Boyd Trial
Attachments: 09-HR-2625_profiling admissibility.pdf
Hi Fred,
Hi Aaron,
Please take a look at the attached draft for the Boyd trial. I outlined precedents U.S. vs Miller and U.S. vs Krakaw, reinforcing that the warrant was issued based on forensic and witness statements rather than behavioral indicators alone. Let me know if you want me to expand on any part of it before it moves forward.
Thanks and best.
You watch as the email goes from sending to sent, then close everything and shut down the computer. Take a deep breath and stare at the ceiling light for a bit, thinking What a day.
The sun is already down when you step outside the building, and the train ride to your apartment in D.C. is smooth, not that you pay a lot of attention when you’re stuck not thinking about your boyfriend.
Instead: Dinner. The responsible choice would be veggies and rice. But are you responsible?
Sadly, yes.
You know the worth of nutrients, ingrained by your mother early on—and how can you justify criticizing Aaron’s diet every chance you get when yours isn’t up to par?
(Damn it. There he is again. Rerouting to veggies…rice….eggs.)
You call your mom while the pan is sizzling, just so that you have something else to occupy your mind with. And maybe so you don’t feel completely alone in this world.
Then: Sinking into your couch with the most recent Keira Knightly romcom on the TV.
And the movie’s fine, just ridiculous enough to keep you lightly entertained until—just after the emotional climax—something beeps from the far corner of your hallway. And you know that beep. Curse yourself for not turning it off, because now you’re curious.
You have to know who’s sending you emails, even at 10:53 PM.
So you heave yourself off the couch and pad past the still messy kitchen towards your enticing work bag that is dangling something in front of you, a promise, a fantasy. And sure enough, Aaron’s name lights up on the display.
Your stomach flutters.
From: Aaron Hotchner ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Case 09-VC-7652—Thoughts?
Hi,
thanks for looking into this. Let me know if you find anything else relevant in case law. I’ll talk to the lead agency tomorrow before we finalize warrant approvals.
Appreciate the update on Boyd. Your analysis on the profiling challenge is solid. I’ll review your notes in the morning—unless you think there’s something urgent I need to weigh in on now?
Apologies for the late reply. It’s been a long day.
Aaron
From: Aaron Hotchner ([email protected])
Subject: 09-HR-2859 - Forms for Review - Submission to Strauss
Hi again,
Attaching the Case Action Report, Evidence Transfer Authorization, and Jurisdictional Summary for 09-HR-2859—please take a look and flag any issues before they go to Strauss in the morning. The jurisdictional summary might need slight adjustments, but the others should be straightforward.
Let me know if anything stands out. Thank you.
Aaron
You squint for a moment, trying for the life of you to figure out why he’s sending you these forms now. Is he behind on paperwork? If so, why didn’t he delegate to you in the first place?
You could’ve filled these out with the file, easily.
Your tongue clicks—and finally—you cave, dropping your work phone back into your work bag and retrieving your private one instead.
Empty inbox. You want to scream.
Go to bed, Aaron.
It’s curt, to the point, and an order you know he won’t take.
Also, will you stop with the silent treatment?
He could just tell you if he didn’t appreciate your little gesture. It was supposed to be a joke anyway. Nothing serious. But trust Aaron Hotchner to be offended by a pair of panties in his go-bag. That old stickler.
You’re loading the dishwasher when a reply comes.
What silent treatment?
And you scoff. Because he’s kidding, right?
He calls before you can even entertain the possibility that you’ve got this all wrong, making you jump, panic perhaps, and most devastatingly—drop the plate you were holding.
You watch in agony as it shatters all over the kitchen floor.
Fucking hell.
Angus from downstairs is going to knock on your door in exactly sixty-two seconds, telling you to keep it down and Have you not read the house rules?
Yes, you have. He’s put a print out in your post box three times.
Apparently you’re surrounded by old men and their vices.
Call me back please, Aaron texts you, while you stand in a sea of ceramic shards with socked feet, thinking of your mom and her insistence on wearing slippers—and just how nice those would be right now.
Then, well—you cry.
Not in a cute way either, where a single tear spills from your eyes and theatrically rolls down your cheek. No, it’s in a what-the-fuck-is-going-on way, with red eyes and a snotty nose, questioning all of your life choices and your own sanity.
Why didn’t you get those reduced slippers from Michael’s last week?
Why did you drop the fucking plate?
And why on earth did you have to fall in love with an emotionally-constipated field agent, who’s gone more often than he’s not?
Leaving you alone to clean up the broken pieces. Literally. Figuratively.
All of the above.
You crouch down, bent at the knees and carefully collect every bit of ceramic visible to bare, teary eyes while you try to come up with a way not to resort to hoovering up the rest—because Angus would never forgive you.
At some point, when most of the shards are in a paper bag, you slide to the cold floor, sitting with your back against the cupboards, the paper bag next to you like a symbol of your downfall tonight.
Then your phone rings again because apparently, now Aaron wants to talk to you. Your head falls for a moment, and you wipe your face, clear your throat. Taking a deep breath, you reach up and fish the phone from the counter.
Better to get it over with, you assume.
“Hello,” you say, and it comes out weak, sniffly. Not at all how you meant for it to sound, and you clear your throat again.
There’s a pause on the other end, a beat of silence before his voice comes through, soft, gentle. Even more than usual.
"What’s going on, honey?"
God no. You let out a laugh—a short, breathless thing while you quietly preen at the pet name, which you don’t get a whole lot with Aaron. He doth prefer legal names.
"You mean aside from shattering my favorite plate to pieces?"
His confusion is tangible through the line. “The one with the olive branches?”
“Yeah,” you nod, and your voice is raw, wrecked. “Now I’m one accident away from losing every souvenir I have from Rome.”
One plate broke during the flight back, then the summer hat on Potomac River. And now this.
You should’ve bought something easy, like a postcard, or a fridge magnet.
Something indestructible.
“Is that why you’ve been crying?”
You try to straighten up, to regain your composure, but his voice is so gentle, so understanding, that it disarms you with every syllable.
And who are you kidding? You’re sitting on the tiled kitchen floor like some tragic romance heroine. Except this isn’t Keira Knightly’s latest romcom—it’s just late, and you’re tired, and you miss your boyfriend, even if he’s an old school grump who doesn’t appreciate your friskiness.
"Yes," you murmur. Then, “No.”
You don’t even know anymore.
Aaron exhales like he doesn’t have the patience for this game.
Your lips press together, imagining him in his hotel room in Detroit, suit jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up, surrounded by case files and his laptop. Maybe a cheeky Bourbon on his nightstand, although he doesn’t make a habit of drinking during cases.
So maybe just a glass of water.
“Sweetheart.”
He prods, but doesn’t push, not yet. He just waits, giving you space to fill the silence.
Your head falls against the cupboard, eyes blinking up against the cooker hood LEDs, drifting over the dirty pan, the soy sauce you haven't put back inside the fridge yet.
"I thought you were ignoring me," you say, your voice small, ashamed. "I thought—I don’t know. That I crossed a line."
"Crossed a line? How?" Aaron sounds genuinely confused, and you close your eyes, your stomach turning as you finally realize that he doesn’t even know what you’re talking about. That he hasn’t even found your little trinket while you’ve been having a downright meltdown over it.
And even worse, you’ve ruined it now, for both of you, even if it hadn’t crossed a line.
You grimace, feeling heat rise up your neck. Because it’s too late now.
"I put—something in your bag."
Dead silence.
"What did you put in my bag?"
You bury your face in your hands. "Aaron."
"No, seriously, what—?" You hear rustling on his end, the distinct sound of a zipper sliding open. He’s checking now, digging through his go-bag while you sit there in misery.
You wait, heart hammering, until—
"Wait. Wait—is that—" He stops abruptly, and you hear him inhale, sharp and sudden.
You close your eyes, mortified. "Yes."
Another beat of silence.
And then, to your horror, laughter. Real, actual laughter—from Aaron Hotchner, Mr. Serious Eyebrows and Stilted Glances, which in any other situation, would be music to your ears, a symphony. But right now?
It's agony, betrayal.
"You—" he tries, but it’s useless, he’s still laughing. "You put lingerie in my go-bag?"
"Not lingerie," you correct instantly, defensive. "Panties. That’s different."
"Right," he says, amused. "Very different."
You groan and consider hanging up on him to save the last bit of dignity you have left.
(Alternatively, you could smash your head against the cupboard. That sounds fair.)
"Are you mad?"
"No," Aaron exhales, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentle. "Why would I be mad?"
You almost melt right then and there, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
"I don’t know," you admit. “I thought it could be sexy, like a little pick-me-up while you’re gone, but then you didn’t call and I thought—”
You let out an exasperated sigh, though not in a way that holds real frustration—just in a way that makes it clear you’re vulnerable and tired and maybe feel a little ridiculous.
“You thought I was ignoring you because I don’t agree?” Aaron finishes your sentence, mind-reading as ever. That’s frustrating.
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Aaron goes on, and you can hear him grin through the phone, which—sadly—doesn’t help the sick feeling in your tummy. “For the record, I find it very sexy.”
You blink, breath catching in your throat. "Aaron."
“What, sweetheart?” he says, another laugh on his lips, and for some reason, he sounds decades younger. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No,” you insist, and you can’t hold back the tremor of embarrassment in your voice, “not like this.”
You wanted him desperate, begging for you. You wanted to be in control for once, dangle yourself in front of him so he would hurry the fuck up and come home to you.
You didn’t want this—Aaron’s low hum, brimming with amusement, so much so that you can hear the smirk in his voice while you’re sitting in the debris of your favorite plate with wet cheeks and an impatient, yearning heart.
“Well, I am sorry I didn’t find them sooner.” His tone is teasing now but careful, like he's aware he’s treading into vulnerable territory. "This conversation would’ve gone very differently if I had.”
Oh God.
Your eyes squeeze shut, thighs pressing together in a subconscious movement, and you hear the unmistakable rustle of fabric. Is he laying down?
The idea of him on his hotel bed, with your panties right there makes you tremble, makes you swallow, shifting against the floor. Your tummy spins, heat rising up your neck, and not from embarrassment this time.
“Yeah?” It comes out as a squeak more than anything else.
Aaron chuckles lowly, the sound sending something warm and insistent through your veins.
"Yeah," he confirms, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ll have to thank you properly when I’m back home.”
Your face burns, and it’s incredibly unfair how much power he holds over you, even from miles away. You press your fingers to your temple, your eyes remaining shut.
"Are you really coming on to me while I’m mourning a plate?”
Aaron exhales a laugh. “Too soon?”
You wipe under your eyes with the edge of your sleeve, cheeks flushed, heart lurching. “Maybe a little. I’m still embarrassed about all this.”
“Don’t be,” his voice turns serious, and somehow even more intimate. You swallow around the emotion welling up again. Not the tears this time, something softer, heavier that makes you want to get on the next flight to Detroit.
(Not that you checked departures during lunch break today. You’re not that desperate.)
(The next one leaves at six AM, so it’s pointless anyways.)
There’s a pause. Then: “I appreciate it.”
You laugh quietly, unexpectedly, and let yourself sink deeper to the floor. “So…you’re not about to give me a lecture on professionalism?”
Aaron hums, “Do I seem professional right now?”
And you hear another rustle on the other line. Then a hitched breath, a zipper going down, and your jaw drops—
Your heart is pumping. Your toes curling, because this is insane. He’s insane.
“Aaron—”
“I told you it’s been a long day,” his voice is breathy now, and your lips press together, much like your thighs. You can’t believe you’re on the cold kitchen floor, sitting beside a pile of broken crockery while he’s touching himself.
Touching what’s yours.
“Is this okay?” He asks, and you nod, although he can’t see you.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says next, though it’s more of a murmur. “Because I missed you. Think about you all the time.”
Fuck. That’s—you don’t even know what to say. You just look around your apartment, trying to figure out the fastest way to get horizontal that doesn’t involve ceramic shards.
“What do you think about?”
Aaron curses, and you can hear him—the friction, the way he’s moving on the hotel bed, and you bite your lip, hard. ”I think about…Lake George.”
Warmth clogs your throat, paralyzing your tongue in a wet heat, and you give up. Wholly, completely surrendering to Aaron’s pleasure—yours could come later, when you’re savoring this memory.
“I think about you on the dock, honey. In that sundress…fuck, you can’t even imagine—”
You bite back a whine. Because you can, of course you can. You were there, captivated by Aaron’s denim jeans and the grey sweatshirt—so casual, so forbidden—a walking and breathing temptation instead of the cold, harsh front he puts on at the bureau.
(And to this day, you still thank the guy who hacked into your work computer, who gave you the privilege of seeing Aaron Hotchner unravel like that, like this, right in front of you.)
Your head tilts back against the cupboard, thighs squeezing together in a rhythm that feels good, not quite satisfying, but good. Just about enough.
“I wish I were with you right now,” you press out, voice gravelly, almost like it’s not your own. You swallow, eyes fluttering shut as your hand drifts to your stomach, tentative, like you’re asking permission from your own body.
“I’d kiss you,” you go on, voice low, almost reverent. “Let you pull me close. Touch you the way I did that night.”
Aaron groans—not loud, but guttural, like the memory is too much. Your hand descends further, slipping between your legs, just resting, kneading at the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs.
“Fuck, honey,” he breathes, and you know he’s close—but so unbearingly far at the same time.
You hold on tight to the fabric of your sweatpants, knuckles probably turning white as you imagine your boyfriend on a stiff mattress in the midwest, shirt half-unbuttoned, dress pants unzipped, the edges of his belt haphazardly dangling beside him.
And you ache, deeply, everywhere.
“I know, baby,” you say softly, voice understanding, encouraging. “I know. Let go for me.”
And he does—he crescendoes with a faint groan, some incoherent mumbles, and a deep, hearty exhale that sounds like relief, like decades worth of weight fall off his shoulders, all thanks to you.
(Just like that first time, at the safe house by Lake George, where you smiled graciously and said—Let me take care of you.)
(It doesn’t have to be a whole thing, just tonight.)
(Please.)
Hard to believe that was a bare eight months ago.
“Did you—?” Aaron’s voice is soft through the phone, still a little breathless.
Your head tips back against the cabinet door behind you. Your hand is still resting between your legs, a gentle pressure against the dull ache that hasn’t quite gone away.
“No,” you admit, voice shy but honest. “I was just listening to you.”
There’s a pause. You can feel him blink through the phone, hear the humor in his voice when he says, “That’s… weirdly honoring.”
You hum, biting back a grin. “I was aiming more for worship, I think.”
Aaron laughs, and the sound wraps around you like a blanket. You imagine him stretched out on the hotel mattress, arms flung wide, phone balanced precariously on his chest, eyes closed and blissed out. The image makes you feel warm, happier than any orgasm ever could.
(Although, to be fair, that’s potentially a lie. Orgasms make you very happy.)
“Maybe I’ll leave you a voice message later,” you tease.
And oh. The way Aaron’s breath catches, the way he hums, low and rumbling, sends a shiver down your spine.
“I’d be delighted,” he says.
You smirk. “Sure you would. Evidently you’re a bit of a freak.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You put used underwear in my bag and I’m the freak?”
“Hey,” you reply. “I’ve always been very transparent about my needs.”
(You think about that cabin, where you kissed him first. Where you recounted every single time he stepped into your office with his stupidly tailored suits and even stupider case files, asking for your help while you were absolutely down to get on your knees for him.)
(And you did, that night. Several times.)
“Crystal,” Aaron says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Maybe he’s thinking about it too.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just breathing in tandem, connected over four-hundred and seventeen miles and through a thousand threads of memories, of affection.
Then, softly: “I’m sorry I haven’t checked in more.”
“It’s okay,” you say, because it is—kind of. “I’m sure you were swamped.”
“No, it’s not,” he replies, “I don’t want you to feel like I’m ignoring you. Ever.”
“Okay.”
“You were crying when you answered the phone,” he says, like he’s trying to make sense of it, to start a conversation that you’re not ready to have, at least not tonight. So you offer:
“That might’ve just been about the plate, actually.”
Half-joking, half-true.
(And much better than: Yeah, I was crying. Because I love you, you big dummy.)
“Sure,” Aaron says, voice quiet, maybe a little guilty. “But still. I’ll do better. I’ll send you an actual text message tomorrow, something that isn’t about case law. I promise.”
You laugh at that—light, unguarded, slightly incredulous. Because you know he’s not much of a texter, old man and all. But maybe there’s hope yet.
“How generous,” you murmur, a small smile playing on your lips.
“You deserve it,” he says.
And you close your eyes at the words, letting them settle deep in your chest. Because this is it. He’s it, and you realise that you do, in fact, love him. You love him—and you'll find the courage to say so.
Aaron visits you in the U.K. Because Jack misses you. Obviously that's it.
A/N: I suck at writing beginnings, or endings. So this is a very small snippet in the middle of what could be, but isn't just yet. Aaron Hotcher x fem ex-babysitter reader.
Warnings: None. Excessive spa delights. Pseudo co-parenting. Aaron is a history nerd.
———
More pools should have skylights.
That’s simply a fact—because looking at the starry sky during a crisp November night in Edinburgh, while your whole body is submerged in steaming hot water and primed by water jets?
Soul changing. Life altering.
Even when the stars turned out to be just airplanes flying into EDI, you still felt like a brand new person.
And to think that you weren't even familiar with the word hydropool twenty-four hours ago, or the concept of an ESPA full body scrub—really, it seems that you have much more to learn during the next twenty-four hours.
Which is why— at eight pm SHARP—you have a 50-minute hot stone massage booked, drinks included. Because you’re not a barbarian.
And it’s currently 07:43.
“You know,” Aaron says from the armchair by the window, his proclaimed spot in your shared family room. “I’m starting to think you only came here for the treatments.”
You let go of the knot of your hotel-issued bathrobe, and look at him.
Duh.
"Nothing gets past you, huh?"
Aaron blinks, then he shoots you a disapproving look. That one, with his brows drawn together and his lips forming a straight line. Today it seems to say: Feeling good in my body? Enjoying the time I have on this earth? No thanks, that’s not really my cup of tea.
The hardcover copy of Secrets of Edinburgh: Facts, Funnies and Fables in his hand makes it even less intimidating.
So you sigh, because there’s nothing else to do.
Your gaze drifts to Jack, who is out cold after Aaron dragged you through a tour of the castle and Holyrood Palace on the same day—which frankly, even you found to be a little torturous, and you’re not seven years old.
You said it once, maybe twice, and then you stood and waited at every historical plaque and eleventh-century floorplan that Aaron insisted on reading—until finally, hungry, exhausted and bored, Jack threw the tantrum of this side of the century.
Major surprise there, you had muttered under your breath, wiping Jack’s tears and snotty nose while simultaneously directing Aaron to the selection of snacks you keep in your backpack at all times. For cases just like this.
(Except that you moved to London nine months ago, and you don’t usually have cases like this anymore.)
“Maybe today was a bit much,” Aaron says into the silence.
You huff a humourless breath, though your gaze doesn’t stray from Jack, fascinated by his steady breath and the fact that you’ve witnessed this little man grow from a head-empty-no-thoughts baby into a second-grader—with preferences and dislikes and ideas.
(Today he said the word trebuchet like it’s normal. And then he cried because his sock felt weird.)
“No way," you say. "Who told you that?”
Technically it’s sarcasm, but it leans more on accusation. Because you told Aaron. Jack told Aaron, but no—Father Hotch wanted to take a look at the medieval arms collection. And the fine arts collection. And Queen Mary’s herb garden.
You let him, of course—who are you to deprive a man of a historical herb garden?—, but you took Jack to the museum café for a cookie and a hot cocoa, and mayhaps a small splurge at the museum shop. Nothing big though.
Just the book that Aaron is currently leafing through like it’s the US criminal code—and while you haven’t checked that one out yet, you’re pretty sure it’s not covered in sparkly unicorns and gargoyles with speech bubbles.
(One reads: Six centuries on this ledge and still no coffee.)
(Which is why you bought it.)
“Maybe we should just do the science museum tomorrow.”
You look up from Jack’s sleeping figure, blinking at Aaron.
“Wait—you’re saying you want to skip the botanic gardens? Are you sure?”
There's a flash sign going through your head: Who is this man and what has he done to did-you-just-confuse-anise-hyssop-with lavandula Father Hotch?
(It's lavender. Lavandula is lavender, and Aaron is pretentious.)
He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off, waving a single finger in the air.
“No. No take-backsies. Because that’s the best thing you’ve said to me all week.”
Something tugs at Aaron’s lips, disbelief, maybe a furtive grin, and he leans back in the armchair. The Secrets of Edinburgh balances precariously on his thigh, pink unicorn cover up.
“Really? That’s the best thing?”
You shrug, then adjust the bathrobe before it slips off your shoulder.
Aaron’s gaze drops for the shortest moment, no more than a millisecond, but it’s long enough to make your heart flutter.
———
Aaron has seen you in casual clothes a million times before—asleep on his couch, with your trusted fleece blanket haphazardly wrapped around exactly half your body, or in his old GWU shirt after Jack puked lunch all over you.
It’s only until mine is out of the dryer, I promise, you’d prefaced, before Aaron could say a single word about it.
He’d shaken his head. Don’t worry. It suits you.
And Aaron, well—he didn’t even realise what he’d said until later that night, when you had long gone home, and he hoped, he rationalised.
You had that boyfriend back then, and he was just divorced. Surely you didn’t think—
Surely you still don’t.
He doesn’t.
This—two weeks in the UK—is him simply being a good father, reuniting you with Jack, who has been asking about you every day since you moved to London.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Though—as nice as this room is—he wishes that you’d let him book the hotel.
(Why would I ruin the surprise? You had smiled on the train yesterday, toothy and excited, but Aaron could mostly focus on the way your thigh pressed against his.
Because you shouldn’t have to pay for this, he argued and you laughed, dismissed him with a wave.
Oh please, I’ll get my money’s worth.)
Now that you certainly are. But what about him? What is he supposed to do with all of these…images?
You, in a loosely secured bathrobe, flushed and glowing from something called ESPA treatment.
Life changing, Aaron. Let me tell you.
You, first thing in the morning—hair unruly and eyes small, but still alert enough to send housekeeping away.
Didn’t I put the sign out? I’m sure I did.
You, in a wool-knit sweater and a raincoat, waiting patiently as he studied the chamber where Queen Mary’s secretary was stabbed four hundred years ago.
I’m afraid this will take a minute, Jack. Let’s check out the second story. The view’s supposed to be great.
Because you knew there was a storm brewing. Because you know his son inside out.
But you also know him, and with every passing day, he grows more painfully aware that he’s never actually paid much attention to you.
Or: You're in the same city as Aaron, trying to keep it cool. Maybe catching lunch with him wasn't your best idea though.
word count: 2.5k
warnings: unspecified age gap (i think? in my mind reader's in her early thirties), suggestive content/mdni (no smut)
A/N: reader is strauss' daughter, it's not really a plot point but technically maybe 'forbidden' love, Aaron is divorced and very much emotionally unavailable, angst, fluff, lots of pining and thinking about that one time because we love to see it(!), also this is part one of a three parter that's already fully written yay
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Summer is around the corner, you can feel it in the evening warmth, the happy couples strolling around Washington Avenue Park and in the ever prettier-growing sunsets. Everyone’s excited, buzzing to leave this rainy excuse of a spring behind.
You’re buzzing too, although maybe it’s less because of the weather and more because of Aaron—SSA Aaron Hotchner—who’s here, in Philadelphia, just like you are.
Your mother mentioned it on the phone this morning, all nonchalant and offhandedly, like the mangled bodies of two young women found in Navy Yard just a couple miles south from your hotel isn’t much of a point in her life, or yours, for that matter.
And admittedly, it’s not. As the daughter of BAU section chief Erin Strauss, you've heard about too many gruesome murders and human abysses to classify this case as anything other than the ordinary.
But Aaron, here, right now?
That’s a plot twist if you’ve ever seen one.
I believe they’re staying at the Rittenhouse hotel, just give him a call if you want
You’re not sure why she let you know, and she probably shouldn’t have. This is a work trip, strictly work, and now all you’ve been able to think about is... not the client meeting for a five hundred plus attendees wedding next June or the workshop you’re hosting this Friday. Not even the damned email about your upcoming VAT declarations.
No, it’s dark hair and blue eyes and stupid micro expressions that have taken up your whole day—even here, now, as you sit on a park bench with the sun about to go down. On the river, no less. A sight for sore eyes.
And yet.
You clasp your phone tightly, trying to refrain from texting Aaron. Although, maybe, you could check the GPS, just in case.
And well. It’s a seven-minute walk to Rittenhouse hotel from here—four hundred and twenty short seconds separating you from Aaron’s hotel room.
But…no. You stuff the phone into your purse.
He’s working. For all you know, he’s probably still at the local PD, trying to put the puzzle pieces together, to perfect the profile of whoever has those two poor souls on their conscience.
And even if he’s not, what are you holding out for, really?
A stifled conversation in the hotel lobby, having to explain to his team why you’re there, at their hotel, knowing you have no chance at getting what, or who you really want?
No thank you. You’ll stick to take-out sushi and watching Shark Tank in your hotel. You have an early morning tomorrow anyways.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
It’s barely midday when you get a call the next day—from a Quantico landline number, the Quantico landline, perhaps.
“Mayor Stevens asked for a proposal from me, specifically?”
“Well yes,” Lucy, the Mayor’s assistant and an old high school old friend of yours says from the other end. “You left a great impression at the Deputy’s reception.”
“That’s—“ you pause, not quite sure you heard her right, but you are smiling stupidly. “That’s amazing! How fast do you need it?”
Lucy seems pleased. “I’ll email you the details as of now. How about the end of next week?”
Her tone sets something off inside you, and finally you cave, sending a text:
Hi, you’ll never guess who just offered me a job!
Okay—the chance for a proposal, but who’s counting?
You feel elated, like the exhausting years of suffering through gastro work hours and taking the leap to start your own catering service are finally paying off. And now you have the Mayor of all people, asking you to cater for the annual City Council Gala?
What a revelation.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
POTUS?
Ha. Close.
Just tell me, please.
I will. Are you by any chance available for lunch?
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Aaron is, in fact—and he looks good, unfairly good in a perfectly fitted dark grey suit and a red tie that brings out his honey-colored eyes like it’s an olympic sport. Prettiest Eyes gold-medalist, you think, right as he slides into the opposite side of your booth.
“You’re early,” he says in greeting, already busying himself with the menu. It’s piddling, really—because this is an Italian place and you both know what he’s going to order. You may have even checked the website beforehand, to make sure that they have it.
Fool that you are.
“Maybe you’re just late,” you counter, scanning him while he scans the menu. There’s a sense of exhaustion hidden behind his handsome features, the deep line between his brows, faint bags beneath his eyes, tiredness oozing from every pore of his face.
You wonder how the case is going. But, do you even want to know?
“The porcini pasta, please,” Aaron tells the waitress, and you bite back a smile.
Some things truly don’t change.
You follow up with the ricotta cannelloni and a water for two, since Aaron didn’t get a drink for himself, thanking the waitress as she turns to leave.
Then it’s just you and Aaron.
Aaron and you, like moths to a flame that is threatening to burn you both.
“So,” you say timidly, meeting the older man’s eyes. “It’s been a while, huh?”
About two months, you’d say, since the last time you’ve seen him at Jack’s birthday party. Images of a Spiderman cake and dance challenges flood your mind, followed by Aaron thanking you later that day in his kitchen, with a flushed expression from all the excitement. You’d wanted nothing more than to cross the threshold then—to hold him, touch him, feel him.
Just like New York, eight long months ago.
“Yeah, how have you been?”
The question is unassuming, impersonal, like you don’t text at the speed of teenagers some days.
Laughable, really.
“Good. Perfect.” If you ignore all the long nights spent alone, letting your mind wander.
Aaron nods, his eyes anchored on yours. Heat rises in your chest from the intensity.
“You’re really keeping up the suspense here, you know.”
Oh. Right. A face-splitting grin appears on your lips.
“Mayor Stevens wants my proposal for the City Council Gala.”
Aaron blinks, then his lips pull into a bright smile, one that actually reaches his eyes—and for anyone else, it would have been a rare sight.
But not for you.
Not when you used to babysit Jack for two years, and stayed late to clean up after dinner more days than not, with the conversations straying from Jack’s wellbeing to…other topics.
Innocent things really, like your best friend's birthday party and what you should get her. Or that new Brad Pitt movie you couldn’t wait to see or—most frequently, your dreaded law degree and how desperately you wanted to get it over with.
Which usually got him talking about his law degree, and how much he loved working as a persecutor.
Big help there, Aaron. Thanks.
Until—well, you didn’t just talk anymore.
But that’s irrelevant now, right?
Right now, you’re friends. Acquaintances meeting up in Mario's diner at lunchtime in Philly, because it’s what you do, apparently, when you love someone who won’t let you.
“That’s amazing,” Aaron says, and it sounds sincere—proud even, which warms your chest in the sweetest, most delicious way. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” you reply, trying to focus on the current moment, on his kind, earnest smile and the crinkles around his eyes caused by it, the way he’s leaning towards the table, towards you, like he’s being pulled in.
It’s hard though, nearly impossible not to get caught up in all of the stickling, red hot want flowing in your veins, even when he’s lectured you about the Don’ts a million times.
We can’t do this. Your mother—
Please, Aaron. Don’t talk about her right now.
Okay—and then he kissed you, like his life depended on it, and walked you backwards until the back of your knees hit the hotel bed and every New York City street light and siren faded into the distance.
You were lost that night, but found yourself in the feeling of him. In his careful touches, in the way he held your hand, skimmed the side of your chest, grazing your skin like you were the most precious thing in the world while he spelled out every single thing he loves about you, every thought he’s had, and made it all happen.
God.
How are you supposed to just—not want that again?
“Do you think—” you say, but your voice is rough, embarrassingly so, and you stop short. Your hands clench into fists beneath the table, feeling your face heat. As if sitting across from Aaron isn’t already torture enough, your brain just had to pull one over on you like that?
Thanks for the memory. And fucking thank you, Aaron Hotchner. For giving you the greatest night of your life, and then forcing you to forget it.
You cough a little, mostly to cover up the trepidation in your voice and lean back into the booth.
“Do you think she likes seabass?”
He doesn’t know.
“Mhm,” your lips purse, letting your gaze drift across the restaurant before it lands back on Aaron. “Maybe butternut squash risotto then? Something like I made for Thanksgiving last year?”
“That was good,” Aaron agrees with a nod, smiling just enough for your stomach to flutter. “Whatever you come up with, I know it will be perfect. It always is.”
Your eyes close for a moment, trying to appease the voices in your head. Because that gentle tone of his and the kind eyes are a trap, working against you, luring you deeper into the abyss of Aaron Hotchner and his immanent, unwavering patience that drives you so, so mad.
It’s frustrating. How he can give you all of him, let you see him, feel him in ways that irreversibly changed you, and then just—let you go.
Like nothing happened.
“Thanks, that means a lot,” you say, although it comes out a little strangled. You clear your throat and to your luck, that’s just when the waitress beelines for your table.
A bottle of water and two glasses, placed neatly on the table in between you.
This time it’s harder to ignore Aaron’s gaze on the side of your face.
You suppose you shouldn’t dwell on the past. He’s told you over and again—New York stays in New York. We should just move on. Focus on our jobs. But hey, are you free this weekend? Jack and I are going to the Nationals game. We’d love for you to come.
If Aaron wasn’t so obviously in love with you too, it would be easier to hate him.
“Anyways,” you say pointedly, pouring two glasses of water and acting very nonchalant. “How are you? Any progress on the case?”
Aaron squints slightly but seems to let it go. He takes one of the glasses and shrugs vaguely.
“We have a few leads, but I think we’re staying for a while,” he eyes you carefully, “How long are you—?”
Your brows raise, chin tilts. You take a sip of water, dragging it out.
“My hotel’s booked till Sunday.”
Your eyes scream innocent, but the liquid heat in your stomach, the ache between your legs beg to differ. Desire clouds your every sense, furthered by how similar this is to New York—you and Aaron in another city, no Jack wants you to come to fall back on as an excuse, no overly critical boss and mother to hide from, just you and Aaron and the memories of we shouldn’t do this, but you feel so good, so good for me honey, where do you want me?
Your breath stutters, and when your gaze meets Aaron’s, you know. You know he’s thinking about it too. Live and in color. 4K. Remastered.
His weight on top of you, hands entwined in yours, kissing you all the way through, like he couldn’t help himself.
“That’s not—” he shakes his head, breaking eye-contact, and you can barely suppress a scoff.
“I know,” you nod instead. I know my place, is what you mean. What he means. "You've told me enough times."
He has the audacity to flinch—a fact that shoots hot rage straight up your spine, as if he wasn’t the one who put you in this place, eight months ago.
You huff a breath, angry, frustrated. Because why can’t he just give in already? Let you be his, completely and irrevocably?
You burn for him, every second of every day. And he just takes it in stride, like he doesn’t trust his son’s life with you, like he doesn’t call you just to hear your voice during a rough case, like he doesn’t feel this too.
It’s riveting, to keep you at an arm’s length, giving you just enough to make you hold on, to hope he’ll claim you one day in a desperate attempt to make things right. To make sure you’re not going to leave.
But at this rate—what else are you supposed to do?
“Yes,” Aaron says then, pretending—and failing to stay neutral. It’s more of a grit, the word pressed out through teeth, his voice strained, hoarse, because even if it’s not what he meant, it is what he thought. What you thought.
You stay silent as he takes a gulp of water, watching the way his hand clenches around the glass, how his throat moves as he swallows. Then, “How are you spending your time until the workshop?”
You let the words settle for a moment, before telling him about the client you’re meeting after lunch, and the flexible tickets you have for the current art exhibition at the Barnes Foundation tomorrow.
“Is she the one who carved her silhouette into the earth?”
You love Aaron, Aaron loves you. But you don't talk about it. Oh, you'd never. Until your mom says a thing, and feelings finally tide over.
A/N: a whole lot of unspoken/suppressed feelings, years of restraint culminating into...something, Aaron taking a chance, reader feeling conflicted, angst, so much pining.
Word count: 3.5k
The steering wheel is warm beneath your fingers, sticky even, from sweat and sunscreen and general car-grime that has accumulated in your old Nissan Altima over the years, complemented by faded, worn-out seat covers and the stubborn Black Vanilla Little Tree hanging from the rearview mirror. It’s pointless, really—its scent has faded into oblivion by now—but it clings there like a badge of honor, a relic from the past. This car has stood the test of time—your first car and you’re preferential to firsts, even if they’re a little stuffy inside.
First taste of ice cream (Jo’s Caramel Cookie Crumble), first time out of state (Sarasota, 1992) and your first ever love letter—to Craig Sullivan, devastatingly.
However lyrically—? A work of art.
“I can’t believe she said that, you know.”
Aaron’s crammed in the passenger seat, knees squished against the glove department and nightly shadows swallowed by jet black hair, but if you looked at him, really looked, you know you’d see the street lights reflecting in his eyes—bright, sparkling, taunting.
If.
You’re not sure you can ever look at him again.
___________
Such a beautiful ring, my dear.
It’s funny though, how life works. I always thought you two would—
___________
“She didn’t mean it.”
Right. Of course not.
Your jaw ticks, eyes drifting from the barely visible road to your phone. 0.3 miles until the next turn, left on Hill Drive, then another left and you’ll be straight on the I-95 to Washington.
ETA: 00:06 AM. 37 minutes to go.
“I don’t care if she meant it,” you say through your teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “She can’t just—“
Say what you’ve never had the courage to say? What you never dared to even think about?
Aaron and you. You and Aaron. Like a pendulum, two poles forever divided, but always connected. By something.
You remember being small, innocent, playing fetch with your neighbors’ son—Sean, not Aaron—because Aaron was always busy fixing your mother’s house or mowing the lawn for some extra cash—to get the fuck out of Manassas—and when he did, he left you, too.
You were only eight, but still. Sean was four, and practically lived at your house instead of next door. You never thought of it as particularly neglectful on anyone’s part—you just liked having a little brother to torment.
And before you were old enough to even grasp the meaning of love, Aaron was head over heels for Haley, blushing furiously whenever your mother mentioned the theatre club, when she teased him about being the worst fourth pirate in The Pirates of Penzance to date, and yet—and yet, maybe you liked Haley even more than Aaron.
She was the big sister you never had, but always wanted—and while Aaron threatened to punch Craig Sullivan for cheating on you with a girl from Eastwood High, in a god-darn tree of all places, Haley was the one who actually helped you through senior year.
Checking in on you from GWU campus, revising countless applications essays—she even took you dress shopping for prom, which you attended with Craig’s best friend.
Better to go out with a bang, right?
And it’s not like you thought about Aaron in any sort of way—ever—at least not until you really grew up and started to subconsciously compare any guy you met to Aaron and any of your relationships to his marriage.
A marriage that is now over—your once so highly esteemed picture-perfect image of partnership, of love, festered into something else entirely by the force of responsibility, by careless negligence and scathing loneliness.
Priorities, for short.
But it’s weird, right?
The man who chose his job over his own wife and son countless times—which you condemn, of course—flies in from Wisconsin the moment your mother calls from the hospital?
It makes you wonder, would he do the same for you? You know you would. Any day, even at three in the morning, without hesitation.
“I’ve been engaged for two months,” you point out finally, the words grating on your throat, “even as a joke, it’s not fair to Nathan.”
And although it’s not your truth per say, somewhere in this universe, in a dimension where you’re more worried about your fiancé than your ever emotionally unavailable childhood best friend, it’s a truth, at least.
You thought your mom liked Nathan; his happy-go-luckiness, the quirky glasses, always coming through with some sort of historical fact or grammatical pun.
He’s a teacher—a fun teacher. Reliable. Nice.
A real sweetheart.
Everything you should ever want. Everything you do want.
“You keep saying that like it’s already over.”
From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron’s hand landing on his thigh, the way he shifts in the passenger seat—and your chest constricts.
“It’s always ‘I’ve been engaged’ or ‘I got engaged’. Past tense, like you’re detaching yourself from the reality of ‘I am engaged’ or ‘I’m getting married’.” Aaron’s voice is quiet, a low, steady rumble that is void of any real affliction, like he’s solving a case.
Like he’s solving you.
“Really, Aaron?" you ask, unimpressed, but there's a subdued sharpness to your tone. "My mom just had a heart attack and you’re profiling me?”
Aaron mumbles, “Costochondritis,” as if that matters at all—as if you didn’t get a phone call sixteen hours ago and drove 180 miles to D.C. under the impression that your mother did have a heart attack.
And you haven’t been able to get it out of your head; the image of your mother, the strongest woman you know, in a hospital gown, talking with a slight voice and shaky fingers, her face pale and drained in a moment she thought could have been her last—and the one thing she chooses to tell you isn’t I love you, kid or I’m proud of you. No, it’s:
I always thought you two would end up together.
It makes sense, the both of you.
Like that’s at all an okay thing to say to your engaged daughter and in-the-midst-of-his-divorce surrogate son. And Haley, god, she loves your mom. She and Aaron chose you as Jack’s godmother—that way you’re officially part of our family, isn’t that beautiful?—and if it wasn’t for her being the second half to in-the-midst-of-Aaron’s-divorce, you would’ve asked her to be your maid of honor. Hell, you still might.
“Why does it bother you so much?”
You cast a squinting look at Aaron in the passenger seat, just for a moment.
Is he being serious?
“For a plethora of reasons,” you reply gravelly, trying to keep your voice level, “Nate. Haley. The fact that it’s absolutely absurd.”
You scoff sharply, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as you relive the scene.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? The way Aaron didn’t flinch when she said it—not even the bat of an eye. No surprise on his features, no denial.
As if he’s had the thought before, maybe even the conversation.
And that, the simple idea of it slowly ships away at your resolve, clawing straight into your chest, where a quiet, stickling truth resides, always there, hiding, lingering—the one you’ve never wanted to face—and never had the chance to.
“The question is,” you continue, signaling left to turn on Hill Drive, although it’s not like there’s any other vehicle around at this time of night, “why doesn’t it bother you?”
The moment it’s out, you regret it. Deflection means there’s more to the truth.
You remember the first time he said that to you, in his brand new prosecutor’s office, back when the USAO building was just a couple blocks from the National Gallery on 6th street, and you had just come back from taking a stroll to enjoy the architecture—or, more accurately: call Craig Sullivan from a payphone down the street.
You were sixteen, for god’s sake.
“Maybe because she’s not entirely wrong.”
Something in you snaps, shatters—and the world turns upside down. Your world, carefully constructed to hold everything together, to reconcile this feeling with that feeling, to keep everything neatly compartmentalized, safe, unchallenged.
Aaron and Haley. Haley and Aaron.
You and…someone else.
That’s how it’s always been.
Craig from high school, Jordan from college, then no one for a while—and now Nate, anchoring you to a reality where things are clear-cut, where your engagement means certainty, where Aaron is just Aaron, the brother-like figure, the best friend who has always been there although for you, at times, it’s not been quite enough.
But you never thought—
—yet here you are now, in your first car with the signature Black Vanilla Little Tree, and Aaron isn’t denying your mother’s words. He isn’t scrambling to explain them away. He’s just… accepting them, as though they’re not absurd at all.
“You’re joking,” you balk, but it’s not as sharp as you intended. Your voice wavers, thoughts whirring, desperately trying to keep this, whatever it is, at bay.
Aaron exhales slowly, hands pressing into his thigh. And yet, he doesn’t say a thing. He just has this look on his face, tired, weary, like he has had this conversation before—but not with you. Never with you.
With who, then? Your own mother? Sean? Haley?
Betrayal weighs on your chest, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.
“This is a joke.” You don’t mean to sound defensive, but you are. Defending everything you’ve ever thought to understand about him, about yourself. About boundaries, unspoken, but always there.
Heat sizzles beneath your skin, anger bubbling in your veins. From his words. His silence. Your right foot steps on the throttle as Hill Drive stretches ahead, empty and dark, giving you nothing to distract yourself from the growing heaviness in your chest.
“Please Aaron, enlighten me,” you snap, wondering if this is him finally reacting to Haley filing for divorce. Maybe he’s overcompensating, prodding at the stability of your relationship, testing the vigor of your choices because he regrets his own.
Maybe it’s the broken home he’s from—alcoholic father, a passive mother—and he just can’t bear to be happy, to see anyone else happy.
You know that’s unfair. But he isn’t being exactly fair either.
“Why do you think Nate’s wrong for me?”
And then, finally—
“I don’t think he is,” Aaron says quickly, decisively. “I think he’s good for you. But maybe different things can be true at the same time.”
You blink in confusion, frozen as your chest slowly fills with dread. Your eyes drop to the TomTom, the new-tech navigation device Aaron got you for Christmas three years ago.
Philadelphia’s a big city. I don’t want you to get lost.
But isn’t that exactly what you are?
Living somewhere between a fantasy and a delusion, balancing it out with careful calculations to not feel too out of control. Because what you do is what you feel, right?
Daily runs equals 10,000 steps equals feeling healthy. A busy calendar equals productivity equals feeling purposeful. And Nate checking a lot of your boxes? A steady foundation equals a happy relationship.
It’s a logic you thought Aaron, of all people, could appreciate.
31 minutes to go.
You hum quietly, carefully, like you’re bracing yourself for impact, a revelation, perhaps. A tipping point.
“What…are you saying?”
Your eyes stay on the road, grip tight around the steering wheel as your pulse kicks up. This isn’t happening. This conversation isn’t happening.
“That it’s…crossed my mind,” Aaron’s voice is gentle, the familiar rumble of syllables and words, hushed, like he’s running out of time, always. But for you, he makes time, he makes room. It’s music to your ears on any given day, and right now, if it weren’t for the adrenaline coursing through your body, you probably would have asked him to tell you again and again and again.
Because he says it so simply, like it’s just another fact about the world—as if it doesn’t unravel something buried deep inside you, something you’ve never had the nerve to examine or admit, not even to yourself. A threat to the foundation you’ve so carefully laid.
“Aaron—” you choke out, pleading, asking him to stop, to repeat. You don’t even know.
The time on the TomTom drops from 31 to 30 minutes, and it’s the longest sixty seconds you’ve ever endured.
Waiting for Aaron to say something, to do something, laugh it off, tell you it was just a joke, a test, anything that doesn’t mean what you think it means. But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t take it back. And for a moment, just one second, you allow yourself to imagine it—
Coming home from a long day at work, tired and exhausted, to a wall of warmth and Aaron’s favorite freshly cooked pasta—the one your mom always makes with lentils—and he’d greet you with a hug and a smile. Then you’d have dinner, talking about work and how Jack’s doing, maybe you’d be thinking about buying a house, about building a life together.
You’d drive to Manassas on the weekend to visit your mom and she’d finally have something nice to say about your partner.
You’d bicker about something stupid on the way home, like you always do, and he’d kiss it better later in the night, knowing just how much you could take, how much you wanted it, needed him—
“No.”
It’s sharp, panicked, cutting through the air like a blade, like a door slamming shut before something dangerous can slip through. Something you’ve kept under lock and key for a long part of your life.
The road blurs on front of you, but you blink a few times, force yourself to focus. And then the anger comes back, red hot in your veins.
“No,” you repeat, lower now, and your head shakes, “you don’t get to do this.” Your voice is thick with emotion, uneven, like the ground is shifting beneath you and you’re trying to stay upright. “Haley’s my friend. I’m getting married.”
“I know,” Aaron nods once, like it’s another fact he’s just…accepted. But his voice is strained, frayed at the edges, like he’s at war with himself, and he knows he’s losing.
Frustration rises in your throat, edging into something akin to fear—maybe a dooming realization that Aaron feels it too, that you might not be alone in this, maybe haven’t been for a while.
It makes everything worse.
“This isn’t fair,” you say, voice clipped. It’s not fair to Haley or Nathan or you, after all these years of keeping your mouth shut, after all the times you bit your tongue, forced a smile, tucked emotions away like secrets. When you sat across from your boyfriends and thought—Aaron wouldn’t say it like that. Aaron would know better. Aaron would understand.
Every moment you had to remind herself that wanting more would never be an option.
“I know,” he says again. “I’m just trying to be honest.”
Now that—
That does it.
There’s a beat of silence—deafening, devastating silence. You glance at the rearview mirror, and before you can think about it, you slam the brakes. Aaron jerks forward in the passenger seat, caught by the seat belt. His right hand snaps to the dashboard to steady himself.
“What are you—” Aaron starts, but you don’t let him.
The moment the car stills, you stare at him, eyes wide, streetlights flashing through the windshield, casting fractured streaks of gold and shadow across his face, and for once—Aaron Hotchner looks caught off guard. But you’re too angry to revel in it.
“You want honesty?”
The heat behind your words builds fast, sharp and unforgiving, spilling out before you can stop it. “I have been watching from the sidelines for years, Aaron. I was happy for you, for Haley and I never said a thing because it would have ruined the life of everyone I love.”
Your voice is rough, edged with something close to regret—not for holding back, but for never getting the chance not to. You shake your head slightly, swallowing hard, forcing down the ache rising in your throat before locking your gaze on him.
“And you throw this at me now? When it’s finally my turn? When I finally found someone who—”
You stop short, words catching like a lump in your throat.
Someone who ticks all the boxes? Someone so opposite that you couldn’t possibly compare him to Aaron?
This is a farce. A cruel joke you’ve played on yourself for years—pretending you don’t care, convincing yourself that holding back was a choice and not survival. That your careful decisions, your curated relationships, your picture-perfect stability meant you’d won.
But the truth is, you’ve been fighting against this from the very beginning—against him, against whatever this is. And what’s worse?
It makes sense, the both of you.
Ultimately, it’s the truth. You know it is.
Aaron’s jaw shifts. His gaze flickers toward you, unreadable—but not indifferent. Never indifferent.
“Your turn?” There’s something careful in his voice. The weight of his words settle between you, thick and suffocating, pressing into the space where something shouldn’t be—but is.
Always has been, maybe.
“Are you getting married to prove something?”
Your stomach twists, brows pulling together in something that feels like being caught, ensnared in your own web of divisions and self-preserving lies, and for what?
A sense of control? A lifeline for something simpler, something less...impossible?
“That’s not—” you exhale sharply, leaning back in the seat, your head falling against the headrest as you try to keep it together, scrambling to hold onto the reality you’ve built over the last three years, the one that was supposed to protect you, to help you move on.
Because you had to, after Haley announced that she was pregnant. It was the last straw, undeniable proof that Aaron belonged somewhere else—that there was no space for whatever you had convinced yourself wasn’t real.
So you did what anyone desperate to move on would do.
You left Washington. You packed up your life, relocated to Philadelphia, took on a different job, met new people—built something from scratch, far enough away that you wouldn’t accidentally run into old ghosts. You filled your days with work, routine, order. When you met Nathan, cheerful, fun, shining bright like the sun, it was like two jigsaw puzzle pieces entwining, factoring into a bigger picture.
It was supposed to be enough.
“I love Nate,” you force out, the words scraping against your throat, raw, uneven, too fragile to feel real. You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet Aaron’s gaze, because if you do, if you see whatever’s sitting in his expression, you might not be able to hold back.
He studies you, and for once, you let him, assuming—accepting—that you will not get out of this conversation unscathed.
“Because you choose to, yes.”
Your breath falters, letting out a hollow laugh, sharp, bitter—because isn’t that the truth?
A person chooses actions, feelings choose a person. It’s a cycle you’ve been trying to escape for years, by making calculated decisions, the kind that leave no room for recklessness.
Because recklessness is what led you here, on the side of a road with Aaron, unraveling years of restraint with just a few sentences.
“What else was I supposed to do?” The question is desperate, your tone reproachful. “Did you want me to put myself on hold while you were married with a kid? Always at your disposal when it’s convenient? That’s selfish, even for you.”
Aaron’s jaw tightens slightly. His gaze flickers toward the windshield, toward the empty road ahead, like the words have landed somewhere he isn’t sure he wants to explore.
“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Aaron says, his voice quiet, pondering.
De-escalating.
You let out a breath, shaking your head as something pulls at your chest—something heavy, similar to grief.
“You weren’t supposed to.” Your gaze softens in the dim lighting. It’s been a long day, and his hair is messier than usual. Unkempt in a way that makes him look younger, less intense, more approachable. “I guess you’re not the only one with a good poker face.”
It’s a try at lightness, at easing the blow of this conversation. But your momentum ends as soon as Aaron’s eyes meet yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says, murmurs, and it sounds sincere. “I never wanted you to feel that way.”
Suddenly you’re twenty-four again, sprawled across your tiny apartment floor, notes scattered and cradling a half-empty coffee cup in your hands, complaining to Aaron about legal terms like prudent person and quid pro quo.
He used to revel in it, you—a trained nurse, taking after him, fighting for patient’s causes, for justice.
It’s addicting, right?
And it was, just like him.
When you finally got that certificate, he was so, so proud of you. And you loved every second of it, loved it in a way you shouldn’t have.
That’s when you knew, six years ago.
Your eyes close, just for a second, but the weight of it doesn’t lessen. If anything, shutting out the world only makes it louder. The memories, the choices, the things you told yourself you were better off leaving behind.
None of it has worked.
So you open them again, the world settling back into place—but it doesn’t feel any steadier.
“What do you want then?” The words spill out of you before you can stop them. Sharper than you meant, but there’s no taking them back.
Silence stretches between you, long enough to feel unbearable, to make you second-guess, wishing you never had this conversation.
Because this might be the end of it all—the end of you and Aaron, Aaron and you, two poles forever divided by time and place and the weight of your choices.
Then, softly—too softly, like he’s had the same realization—, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t think about what can happen in a month. Don’t think about what can happen in a year. Just focus on the 24 hours in front of you and do what you can to get closer to where you want to be.”
“Don’t think about what can happen in a month. Don’t think about what can happen in a year. Just focus on the 24 hours in front of you and do what you can to get closer to where you want to be.”
Summary: Despite the ache in his thigh, Bucky has been avoiding the new massage therapist for quite some time now.
Note: Okay, so due to an unnecessarily hot gif (and I mean unnecessarily hot), the original post with this story was unfortunately put in tumblr jail last night. This is a repost of that story. Please help me by spreading this fic even if you've already reblogged the original. I'd appreciate it immensely ❤️
Warnings: Smut, smut, and purely smut - with a plot! Pining, teasing, edging, Bucky is highly stimulated from his massage. Slight age kink and with a fluffy ending.
Words: 6.1K
For five months, Bucky has avoided coming here like the plague. He has made up excuses, hid in his bedroom, tried ordering all sorts of remedies online, and has even resorted to massaging the aching thigh himself, but of course Sam - the rat - had eventually had enough of his moaning and complaining, and had told on Bucky first chance he got.
Bucky knows that his annoyance towards Sam is uncalled for - that his thigh has become a nuisance, a reliability that is keeping him from performing as well in the field as he used to, but even though he has long since realised that the strain in the muscle will feel a lot better after just a few rounds of professional massage, he's still been praying every night for it to go away on its own just to avoid finding himself in exactly the situation he's in now: visiting the in-house massage therapist who also happens to have his heart beating a little faster every time she smiles at him. You.
He knows there's no way out, that he eventually has to knock on the door in front of him and step inside your office, but his heart is racing like crazy in his chest and the jump from the window right next to him might not result in a particularly comfortable landing but it will definitely be more comfortable than the hell he surely will release upon himself when he feels your touch. It's a professional setting and the things he wants to do to you are fucking far from professional! He shouldn't even be having these thoughts; you're friends - colleagues even - and he's so much older than you. It's... creepy.
"It's just an hour, it's just an hour," he closes his eyes and breathes hard, hopes it's enough to calm himself down and forget about all the wonderful self-relief sessions he's had with you painted on the back of his eyelids. "- you can behave yourself for one hour..." he sighs and reluctantly releases the tense muscles of his right arm so the closed fist falls forwards and hits the door in front of him with a bang much louder than intended.
For a second, everything goes quiet.
He hopes it's because you have forgotten all about the appointment Sam fixed between you a few days prior, but then he hears shuffling on the other side of the wall, and it doesn't take long before the door with your name written on it swings open and reveals your bright smile that immediately warms up his abdomen.
"Bucky!" you exclaim happily and make room for him in the doorway, "come on in!"
"Thanks..." he mumbles more grumpily than intended and steps inside the dimly lit room that smells like flowers, warm citrus and that massage oil that has made your fingers more softer-looking than anything he's ever set his eyes on before. It's a setup for failure.
"I'm so happy you're here! I was wondering when you'd finally stop by," you chirp happily from behind him and even though he can hear the question in your voice, he's not about to answer why he hasn't sought your help sooner. "Sam tells me you pulled a muscle in your groin a couple of months back."
"Yeah," he clears his throat and avoids looking you directly in the eye, "it's no big deal, it'll heal..."
"I kinda figured you'd say something like that," you happily tilt your head to the side and search his face, "why don't you strip down to your underwear and I'll take a look at what I can do to help you."
Oh doll, you can do so much to help me! He clears his throat and bites back the unwelcome thought as he quickly pulls off his shirt and jeans.
"Okay, so tell me," you smile at him when he sits down on the massage bed and spreads his legs out to the sides so you have easier access to the affected area. "- exactly where is the pain located?"
Ready to get this whole ordeal done and over with, he quickly points to the area on his inner thigh that feels as if someone's plunging a knife deep into the tissue every time he takes a step forwards. "Right here - but it's really not a big deal. You don't have to do this."
"It's my job," you chuckle sweetly before you direct your gaze down to the area surrounding his groin.
Immediately, Bucky can feel his face grow hot as your beautiful eyes visually inspect the skin right below the hem of his boxer shorts, and he has to keep himself from instinctively closing his legs shut in silent embarrassment.
"Hmm, you do look a bit tense..." you scrunch up your nose in concentration and the warmth in his stomach deepens. You're way too cute for your own good. " - I think I'd like to start off by loosing up the muscles around your hipbone. Could you turn around and lie down on your stomach please?" you ask and look up into his eyes with a cute little gaze. He's never had you this up close before and it's definitely doing something bad to him.
"Yep," he croaks and immediately turns around so his burning face meets the hole in the mattress below him.
He can hear you squeeze out a gentle amount of massage oil from a tube next to the bed and you heat it up by rubbing it between your hands while he with closed fists and hypervigilant senses braces himself for the inevitable touch.
"Alright, Barnes. I'm gonna start touching you gently now," you say in a soft, professional tone and he cannot help but squeeze his eyes shut. "- don't worry, it'll feel good."
"Yeah," he clears his throat and desperately focuses on his jumping nerves to try and get them under control. Your words of comfort are not exactly reassuring when 'feeling good' is exactly what he's worried about...
"Here we go," you conclude in a quiet sing-song voice right before you gently put your hands on his upper thigh and start running your fingers over the tight bundle of painful muscles. It hurts at first but after just a few seconds of your fingers on his skin, he can feel the tightness slowly disappearing.
Professionally, you massage the aching tissue deeper and deeper, and Bucky feels how his jaw slowly eases up in time with the tension of his thigh. Your fingers are dancing over his lower half, squeezing the tight muscles and caressing his skin, and it doesn't take long before your warm fingers and the citrus in the air send his protective parades crumbling. Suddenly, his thigh doesn't really hurt anymore and he's so relaxed that he let's go of the tension in his shoulders too and his eyes automatically close shut without warning. A slow song is playing soothingly from somewhere in the room and while your fingers are working magic on his tissue, he feels himself disappear into it.
Your hands are slowly moving from the middle of his leg to the area right underneath the hem of his boxers, and your oily fingers suddenly slip down to his inner thigh where they warmly start kneading the skin.
You move his leg a little out to the side and briefly press in on a point near his crotch that has him soaring! Sweetheart, it feels so good, he almost groans and melts into the mattress when he suddenly feels a stray finger touch an even more sensitive area on his already burning skin. Ah fuck! He has to stop himself from whimpering as your warm palms soothe his sore muscles while the soft pad from your stray finger gently rubs and touches the sensitive spot on his gracilis muscle right where it attaches to the back of his pelvis. Shit, he feels amazing! He just wants your soft, oily hands to stay on him forever! Just wants them to rub and tug and slip further and further down between his thighs until they eventually slip inside his boxers and feel the warm, pulsing area where he really wants your touch! And if he's lucky, you might just ask him to flip around onto his back so you can climb on top of him in your cute little uniform and pull back the skin at the tip of his cock with your hands. Or your mouth. Or your glistening, tight, wet pussy. Fuck!
He hisses.
Involuntarily, and because he's so relaxed, he's accidentally managed to excite himself a little too much and now there's nothing he can do to stop it! He wants to - but oh God he can't! So when he feels the blood rush from his stomach and down to the only region he does not want it right now, he can only lie there and panic in silence.
He feels himself grow hard in time with his blurring vision and he wants to tell you to stop your motions, to let go of him and leave the room pronto, but how the hell is he supposed to do that without giving himself and his treacherous dick away? You can never know the effect you have on him! You're so sweet, and so young and innocent, and he's almost fucking forty! Fuck, he's sweating like crazy!
Blissfully unaware of the inner battle going on inside Bucky's head, you keep massaging his thigh heavenly, and even though he tries so hard to think of something else - anything else! - he can only think of the soft touch you're providing... Your hands are so warm and so oily and he's growing harder and harder by the second while your innocent fingers dance only mere inches away from his not so innocent erection.
Fuck, fuck, fuck what the fuck is he supposed to do now?
"Barnes, are you okay?" You ask him gently and slow down your movements so your hands almost come to a halt when you feel him tensing up, "- do you want me to ease up a little?"
"No, no, it's fine," he breathes and feels a fresh surge of blood streaming down to his crotch when your fingers stroke his thigh affectionately to get him to relax. As long as he stays on his front, it shouldn't be an issue. He has time to make the raging boner go away before you ask him to turn around.
"Okay, good. Let me know if you need a break," you hum and touch him gently while he thinks of baseball, of cold cups of coffee and stale crackers, of Sam's oldie slippers and the stain on the floor below him - anything to try and control the relentless erection that is pulsing and screaming and begging to be touched!
But no matter how hard he tries, his erection won't calm down. Not when you're touching him so sweetly.
"Alright Barnes," you say after a few of his panicked minutes and slowly take a step backwards. "Could you turn around for me please?"
Fuck...
He opens his eyes and fixates his gaze on the stain below him as his face heats up. "T-turn around?" he gulps and feels how his entire body suddenly seems to be impatiently pulsing along with the prominent erection.
"Yeah, I'd like to take a look at your groin now that we've loosened your muscles up a bit."
Jesus fucking Christ, he's sweating balls! How's he ever going to recover from this?
"You know what? It already feels better thanks!" he tries and hopes he sounds convincing and not too panicked.
"Yes, well you've been lying down for twenty minutes," you chuckle, "- it'll come back as soon as you start moving, trust me."
"I can always come back tomorrow if it acts up again."
"We both know you won't..."
"No, I promise. It already feels so much better!"
"Barnes, what's wrong?"
Fuck, there's truly no way out...
"Sweetheart," he clenches his eyes shut and prepares himself for your terrible reaction to what he's about to confess, "I have a bit of a - uh - a... problem..."
"A problem? What kind of problem?" you sound concerned, and if it hadn't been for the horrible situation he's in, his chest would've probably swelled with pride that you care for him.
"It's a - uhm, shit - it's a... guy's problem."
"Oh?" You become quiet for half a second and he can practically hear how the gears in your head turn until the penny suddenly drops. "Oh!" you let go of him as if you've been scorched by fire and he suddenly feels so much worse. Poor woman.
"Yep," his voice is thick and awkward, and he wishes he had jumped out the window when he still had the chance. Now he's gonna scare you away for good and it's all Sam's fault!
"Hey - hey, it's okay," you reassure him softly and put a hand down between his shoulder blades when his entire body goes rigid with shame. "Barnes, it's a perfectly normal reaction to a massage in that area! Please don't feel embarrassed about it - you're not the first client in here who's been experiencing a problem. Sometimes it just happens."
He feels a weird pang of jealousy when he thinks about how your sweet, innocent hands have made some of his male friends at the compound as raging horny as he is right now. He doesn't have the heart to tell you that it doesn't have anything to do with the massage itself and everything to do with the person who's giving it.
"Come on, just turn around for me, okay? I won't hold it against you. I know it's nothing personal."
But it is, he thinks to himself before he with a tight-lipped smile and clenched jaw turns around on the massage table. He knows you well enough to know that you won't let him go before you've looked at his thigh.
He gulps when he sees how tightly his boxers are draped over his hips and the massive erection is standing like a fucking pole vaulter in the air between you. "Jesus fuck, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," you smile professionally while looking anywhere than directly at his embarrassing vulnerability. "Maybe it's better if you sit?"
"Yeah, yeah maybe," he sighs in defeat and swings his legs over the side of the mattress as he pathetically tries to readjust himself so the erection tucked inside his grey boxers does not look as prominent as it did while lying down.
"You good?" you ask when he stops shuffling and he quickly nods in return. "Good - you wanna continue?"
Not really. "Yeah, whatever."
"Alright," you step over to him and professionally fix your gaze on his thigh, "could you spread your legs apart a little?"
"Sure," he does as he's told while clearing his throat, pretty sure that his entire face is currently a mixture between plum- and beet-coloured.
"Let me know if it's too much, okay?" you smile reassuringly and slowly reach your hands forwards.
"Mm-hmm," he clenches his jaw shut to avoid involuntary sounds when your small fingers finally touch his thigh again and you quickly resume your massage with a professional expression slapped across your face.
Carefully, you move the hem of his boxers a little upwards and squeeze out a gentle amount of massage oil into the palm of your hand before you make the mistake of looking him deep in the eye as your fingers find his skin again. The look you're sending him is giving him goosebumps and you gulp and briefly look away when he involuntarily hisses at the touch.
"Barnes, you - uh - you want a towel or something?" You ask and he can practically hear the discomfort in your voice.
More embarrassed than he's ever been, he looks down at himself and notices how the entire front of his boxers is now soaked in pre-cum. "Oh god!" He instinctively pulls his hand over to cover up the huge wet stain and feels how his ears grow impossibly warm. "Fuck, I am so, so sorry."
"It's okay," you hand him a small white towel to cover himself with.
"God, I'm so fucking embarrassed," he drops the cloth down into his groin and wishes he could disappear down into the mattress instead of facing this absolute hellish nightmare! "You must think I'm such a creep..."
"No it's alright," you smile sheepishly and start working on his thigh again, clearly feigning a professional attitude.
He sighs. He cannot believe he's doing this to you.
"Barnes don't worry, okay? I know you're a nice guy."
"Still..." he clenches his eyes shut as your small fingers find one of the sensitive spots on his inner thigh underneath the hem of his boxers and has to lock his jaw to avoid giving out a groan.
He can hear how you chuckle lightly from behind the stars that are blinking on the back of his eyelids.
"I'm glad you're amused."
"Sorry, sorry," you snigger softly, "I've just never seen you this discomposed before. I'll be quick so we can get you back to your room to take care of it," you joke to diffuse the tension.
"Yeah, thanks," he gulps and feels how yet another drop of precum leaves his leaking head when you press in on the spot again. He's so turned on he can feel his nostrils dilating, his thighs shaking, and he just wants to fucking reach inside his underwear and fuck his fist until he comes! God, this is so much worse than anything he could've ever imagined! He's going to kill Sam for this!
"Wow, you're really having a hard time," you smile a little to yourself as you steal a glance up at his pained expression.
"Give me a break, sweetheart," he groans with eyes snapped shut in embarrassment, "Your lubed-up hands are basically on my crotch and let's be honest," he gulps and slowly opens his eyes again, "- you're not exactly displeasing to look at."
Your eyes widen slightly at his confession before a proud smile tugs the corners of your mouth upwards. "What Barnes?" you chuckle proudly to yourself, "- you like the way I look?"
"Come on, don't pretend you don't notice half the guys here staring at you."
"Okay you got me there," you laugh sweetly and direct your attention back to your steady working hands, "I have noticed a few stray glances here and there - I just haven't noticed any from you, so yeah, I'm a bit surprised."
"Well, you can take this as confirmation that I like looking at you too," he awkwardly points to the throbbing erection between you. He figures it's better to discuss the elephant in the room instead of ignoring it. Maybe you can have a laugh about it later...
God, he hopes so.
"Hey, come on," you tilt your head to the side when you see his pained expression, "stop beating yourself up. It's a relaxed atmosphere in here and with the aromas and the music, I understand that some guys let go. It's completely normal."
"No, sweetheart, it's not," he sighs. "I don't know. At least not for me."
"It's not?" You chuckle while still working on his thigh.
"This has never happened before, I swear."
"So the fear of getting an accidental erection isn't the reason why you've avoided coming here?"
"No, sweetheart," he sighs and adjusts himself on the mattress, "it's not."
"So -" you bite your lower lip and fix your gaze on an undefined spot on his thigh to avoid his eye. "- if I understand you correctly; what you're basically saying is that you're hard because of, well, me?"
"Yep," he sucks in a breath of air when he feels your movements still and he braces himself for the angry rejection before he looks over at you. You're staring at him wide-eyed and doe-like with your mouth hanging a little open, not sure how to respond to his confession.
"I'm sorry," he croaks, "you must think I'm a total asshole..."
"No, no, no, not at all..." you shake your head and clear your throat while sending him a nervous glance. "I think you're quite cute, actually..."
His mind goes completely blank. He's been called many things in his life, but never that.
"...cute?"
"Yeah," you nod quietly. "I - uhm - I guess I've been having this teensy tiny crush on you so - uhm - yeah," you smile, all flustered, "- you know."
"You have a crush on me?"
"Yeah," you scrunch up your nose and lick your lips. "I mean... look at you," you gesture to nothing in particular, and he can feel his chest go all warm with pride as you look him over.
"So you're not freaked out?"
"No, no not at all," you admit with a shake of your head. "You've been driving me up the wall for ages, you know."
"I - I have?"
"Yeah..." you nod, "I've actually been hoping you'd stop by here so I'd have an excuse to, you know, touch you," you admit and now it's your turn to look embarrassed. "It's wildly unprofessional, I know."
"No, no you're good. You're being very professional about... this," he nods while pointing to his crotch. "I swear, if I wasn't so insanely attracted to you, I wouldn't be so... bothered."
"Yeah, you do look a bit flushed," you give him a crooked smile.
"I know..."
"So..." you bite your lower lip again and move in close enough for him to hear your heartbeat, to suddenly smell that you're aroused too and it's driving him absolutely insane! "...I have a crush on you," you stroke his thigh affectionately, "- and you have a crush on me."
He nods and scoots a little closer to you, careful not to scare your hand away from its close proximity to his crotch. "What are we gonna do about that?" he pants and puts a hand to your face, stroking your cheek and hoping to dear God that you'll let him kiss you.
"I don't know," you whisper and lean in close, stopping with your lips mere inches from his and with huge doe eyes staring straight at him.
"My god," he groans and runs his thumb over your cheek again, "you are beautiful," he whispers and slowly moves his face until his lips finally come into contact with yours.
The kiss starts off slowly. Bucky is careful not to pressure you into anything and simply just concentrates on the feeling of your impossibly soft lips on top of his. It's pillowy and wet, sensual and sexy and he's strung along, never wanting to let go of you.
"Peach," he whispers when your mouth strays away from his and starts moving down his jaw and throat. "Peach, you don't have to do this. Please don't feel pressured into anything just because I'm excited okay?"
"I'm excited too," you whisper and carefully place your hand on the tight bulge at the apex of his thighs so a bolt of lightening shocks through him. "- my excitement is just not as visible as yours," you place a wet kiss on top of his jugular. "You don't have to go back to your room to take care of this, you know," you bite back a smile as you stroke over his tight balls so his Adam's apple bounces uncomfortably in his throat.
"Sweetheart," he pants, not sure if this is really happening or if the sudden rush of blood to his crotch has him imagining things.
"I can help you..." you say quietly and move your palm over him so he gives out an involuntary groan.
"Doll," he sucks in some air and stutters his hips upwards, silently begging for more.
You understand his cue, and you lean in close so you can lick the shell of his ear as your fingers find their way underneath his waistband. As soon as your oily fingers come into contact with his burning skin, he can no longer hold back the moan that's been sitting on the edge of his throat for a good half hour now and he once again stutters his hips upwards when you close your fist around him and start stroking him slowly.
"Sweetheart," he groans against your skin and you give out a noticeable shudder when his hands snake under your shirt so he can caress the soft skin of your stomach. "Oh my God!" he whines and runs his nails over your waist, pulling you closer to him.
"You like this?" you whisper and tug his earlobe between your teeth.
"Fuck yes! I've been thinking about touching you since the first time I saw you."
"Yeah?" You pant against him and reach down to cup his balls with one hand while the other continuously strokes up and down his veiny shaft. "Been thinking of me all wet and naked for you?"
"Fuck," he whimpers and finds your pebbled nipples underneath your shirt and roll them between his fingers. "Yes."
"What have you been thinking about?"
"Your mouth," he breathes and pinches your nipples between his fingertips, "your slutty little mouth. All wet and tight for me."
"My mouth?" you giggle against him and gently bite down on his earlobe so he gasps loudly, "want me to make your little fantasy come true?"
"Oh god, yes doll! Please," he whimpers and you immediately drop to the floor between his open thighs, sitting on your knees and strutting your ass as you grab him by the root, rubbing his cock over your cheek and lips as he whines above you.
"Is this what you wanted?" you send him a wide-eyed look while your pink tongue finally pushes past your plump lips and lick the underside of his almost purple head.
"Fuck! Yes, yes doll! Please suck me" He hisses and feels his toes buzz when your tongue slowly runs over the slit at the tip, "ah baby!" he groans and watches how you flatten your tongue and wetly licks him all over his leaking head. "Please put me in your mouth, please!"
"I like you begging," you pant and lick him from root to tip, ending the long lap by closing your lips fully around him.
"Oh god, oh fuck," he shoots his head backwards, never looking away from the angel between his legs. Spit and precum is running down the side of his shaft and he swears, he's never felt this amazing before. He's about to explode just looking at you!
"Mmh," you hum around him, sending beautiful vibrations through his cock and all the way down to his balls.
"Look at you," he groans sinfully and notices how you clench your thighs together when he reaches forwards and strokes your cheek, "such a good girl for me, sweetheart. Are you getting all wet as you suck my cock?"
"Mmh," you nod with a muffled confirmation as your plump lips slide from base to tip and back down again.
"Ah - shit doll," he hisses while completely giving himself into you as he grabs your chin and strokes you affectionately.
"Mmh, Bucky," you whisper his name so sweetly and move your face so you can lap at his balls.
He throws his head backwards as your tongue stroke over the tight skin while your hand pumps him slowly. "Jesus fuck sweetheart," he moans and puts a finger under your chin forcing you to look back up at him. "Get up here. Now!"
Excitedly, you give him a hard suck before your let go of him with a soft pop and obediently oblige his command by climbing up on the mattress next to him.
"Mmh, look at what you're doing to me," he chuckles and leans in close so he can finally taste your lips again. Immediately, your tongue is inside his mouth and it's so wet and so warm that he grows even harder even though he didn't think it possible.
His hand snakes under your shirt again and you give out a small whine when he pulls it over your head.
"You have no idea how much I've wanted this," he pushes your breasts out of your bra and starts toying with your nipples. "It's crazy," he mumbles as he lies you down on the mattress and sucks your perky nipples between his lips, swirling his tongue around the bud.
Immediately, you arch your back and give out a sinful moan that reverberates through the dimly lit room and vibrates around his tighter than ever balls.
"Tell me what you want," he whispers against your skin and moves to the other nipple while his hand finds your panties underneath your white skirt. "God, you're already so wet for me," he whimpers and pushes his fingers underneath the hem of the soaked fabric so he can touch your warm skin.
"All for you," you arch your back and moan when he pushes two fingers inside of you, moving them rhythmically so they squelch and squeeze around your g-spot. You whimper and close your eyes, enjoying the sensations he's sending through your body, the tingle of warm flames that lick at the bottom of your spine.
"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," he repeats and licks your neck, "You deserve it."
"I want you inside of me," you moan and tug at his hair, the sensation deliciously toeing the line between pleasure and pain.
"You want me to fuck you?" He whispers and drags his teeth over your collarbone while his fingers pulsate inside of you.
"Yes!" You whine and pull at his hair again as a particularly loud moan escapes you.
"Oh sweetheart," he groans when his fingers slide out of you to the tune of a disappointed little whimper falling from your open mouth. "Don't worry, I'll fill you up," he kisses your collarbone and looks down between your sweating bodies as he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes himself half inside, giving himself a second to get used to the tightness that you provide. "Oh god," he whispers and pushes himself a little further inside, "fuck you're so sexy!"
"Fuck me, Bucky," you reach up and caress his chin as you wrap your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his ass and pushing him closer to you.
Suddenly, he's buried to the hilt. "Fuck me," he whispers and starts moving rhythmically to the sound of you squelching around him. "You are so fucking sexy!" He bites your nipples again, moving his hips slowly, sensually. "It's been so goddamn frustrating pretending that I'm not attracted to you when all I've been wanting to do is fuck you in every possible position around the compound."
"Yeah, think of what the others would say if they knew about this."
He gives out a whimper and can feel himself twitching inside of you at the thought before he starts rutting his hips faster, his hips snapping relentlessly into yours.
"You like that?" You smile naughtily and grab his ass, "you like that you're not supposed to fuck me?"
"Yes," he admits with a grunt and rolls his hips sensually, desperate for more friction.
"You like that I'm so young?" You clench tightly around him. "Wow, imagine what Sam would say! He would be so angry, you know that!"
"Fuck!" He gasps and falls forwards so his metal hand lands beside your head. He's close now, he can feel how every muscle of his body tenses up and he knows he just needs a few more snaps of his hips and he's coming - so he pulls out.
Panting relentlessly, he looks down at his throbbing dick, concentrating hard on not cumming all over the beautiful woman in front of him who's still whining and begging for his touch. "Not yet, not yet, not yet," he pants to himself and takes a deep breath before looking back at you. "Shit, you are so beautiful," he licks his lips and fixates his glance on your tiny fingers disappearing inside yourself.
Without thinking, he immediately falls to his knees on the floor beside the mattress and starts planting small, peppery kisses to the insides of your legs. You're soaking wet, moist all the way down your thighs, and he scratches his beard along the soft skin as he pushes your small fingers away, instead introducing his own digits and tongue to your swollen clit. "Mmh, baby," he mumbles against your wet skin and licks you all the way from hole to clit, giving the latter a hard suck that have you trembling above him.
You're tugging at his hair with one hand, pinching your nipples with the other as you arch your back and moan his name in time with the fingers he's thrusting in and out of you while lapping at your sex.
"Bucky, I'm so close," you whimper with eyes closed, your chest rising and falling in steady beats underneath your soaked nipples.
"Come for me," he whispers against your skin and ruts his hips into nothing while his fingers and tongue are working you expertly.
Your moans are rising in pitch and he can feel how you clench more and more around his fingers until it's so tight he's almost pushed out of you. "Bucky!" You half-moan, half-scream as you fall over the edge burying your fingers in his hair and - oh God, he's cumming too!
Without even being touched, cum is shooting out of him and pattering all over the linoleum flooring below his knees while his fingers and tongue are buried inside of you, and you pull so sweetly at his hair in desperation.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He grunts and ruts his hips into thin air as he keeps cumming even after you've released your hard grip around his hair. "Oh my god," he shoots back his head and can feel a drop of sweat trickling down his temple when he finally comes down from his high again. "Oh shit, oh fuck! Sweetheart, I - I just came all over your floor."
"It's okay," you smile blissfully and remove your fingers from his scalp, "I'll clean it up before... shit, SAM!" your sit up straight, eyes wide with horror. "Shit!" you hiss again and immediately scramble to the floor, looking at your watch and collecting your clothes from all over the room. "I have Sam coming for a massage in three minutes!"
"Not the kind of massage I just had, I hope" Bucky sniggers and quickly wipes up his cum with the towel he'd used to cover his erection.
"Don't worry, those are reserved just for you," you chuckle and pull your shirt over your head.
"I sure hope so," Bucky smiles boyishly and dresses quickly, stealing several glances over at you as you fix your makeup in the mirror in the corner. "Does - does Sam get erections when he's here?" he asks. He cannot help himself, he has to know. The thought alone has his guts squeeze uncomfortably at his insides.
"Are you kidding me? Sam sees me as a little sister, he would never!"
"Yeah, true," Bucky chuckles in relief and pulls on his shoes, "...Hey, uh, I don't know about you, but I really enjoyed this."
"Me too," you turn around and smile blissfully at him, "very much."
"You wanna - you wanna do it again?"
"Yeah," you snigger and lean your hip against the table he had you naked upon no more than a couple of minutes ago, "yeah, I wanna do this again! I think maybe fixing your thigh is gonna be a long process!"
"Yeah?" He smiles broadly at the joking expression you're wearing, "Same time tomorrow then?"
"God, yes! Can't wait," you laugh and give out a happy sigh as you cutely bite your lower lip. "Now run along before Sam comes barging in!" you chuckle, "I thought you wanted to keep this secret."
"Yeah... at least for a little while," he shrugs and feels his head go dizzy when you smile broadly at him.
"See you later, Barnes."
"See you sweetheart," he chuckles and winks at you before he's out the door.
As soon as he steps into the cold hallway, he's met by a sour looking Sam who's occupying one of the chairs outside your office, his arms crossed firmly around his chest as he angrily stares at Bucky. "How long have you been here?"
"I came ten minutes early," Sam hisses through gritted teeth and Bucky can almost see the angry fumes radiating from his friend's scalp. "- what the hell was that?"
"What?"
"Bucky, you better not be doing what I think you just did in there!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Man, what the hell is the matter with you?" Sam stands up, his angry vein already popping threateningly above his temple.
"What? You're the one who said I should go see her!"
"Yeah! For a massage!"
"I did get a massage!"
"Jesus Christ, Bucky! You're old enough to be her granddad!"
Romanticizing your own loneliness and turning it into a cool girl thing only works for like a few months and then it just becomes a throbbing black hole i think. Not that ive ever experienced anything like that
