your husband lifts his gaze slowly from the newspaper he was reading.
"fun?" he indulges you, tilting his head slightly to search your face. you suggested something without a description intentionally to make him ask for an elaboration, meaning what you're about to tell him will either be very intriguing, or the complete opposite. he searches your features in an attempt to determine which it'll be. "what kind of fun?"
you pause to make him squirm in anticipation. "i was thinking," you murmur, tracing your finger along the couch's lines with your fingertip, a sign of nervousness. "we could try… being available to each other. like whenever one of us wants-" your face goes warm, "sex."
the newspaper lowers down to his lap so your husband can stare at you intently, but he doesn't move otherwise. he's seated with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his legs apart in a lazy manspread, looking way too composed for what you just suggested. your body is so tense right now that you feel the urge to take a cold shower before the conversation continues. why isn't he saying anything?
"available," he echoes your choice of words. "as in free use."
you nod, trying not to squirm in your seat. "mhm."
he hums, tongue running over the inside of his cheek, and his eyes drag over your body as if he's already imagining all the different ways he can catch you off guard and ruin you. just as you suggested.
"sweetheart," he murmurs quietly, folding the paper and setting it aside, "do you even know what you're agreeing to?"
you shrug, a guileless glint in your wide eyes. you couldn't seriously be asking him this. you, who cries within the first ten minutes of him fucking you and tries to crawl away from him when he's pounding into you, wants to be free use for him, constantly? "i trust you. there... shouldn't be any issues."
he leans back in his chair and lets a silence pass once more. he seems to be considering it. the longer he goes without talking the more you squirm. he lays a cheek in his palm, and continues. "and why do you want to be free use for me?"
your eyes widen and your lips press together. you're nervous but trying not to show it. "it's not just me, you know. both of us are available for each other. i just wanted to suggest it because it's been on my mind a while."
"mm. no other reason?"
you hesitate a second too long, and he notices immediately. his eyes narrow ever so slightly. "well," you fidget, toying with a thread on your shirt to break eye contact just long enough so you don't explode. "i just thought it might be exciting."
"exciting... how?"
you puff out a soft breath and try to play it off. "i dunno… like, getting dragged into a public washroom while we're out grocery shopping. or, like… in the car. pulling it over so we can go to the backseat. or while i'm doing laundry."
"so you mean you want me to be so desperate i can't wait and have to have you. right then, right there."
you fidget again, but nod. "mhm."
he laughs once under his breath. "that's cute. so if you're half asleep," he says, "and i want to wake you up with my cock inside you, you won't mind? or if we're on a hike and you're in one of those pairs of leggings i really like, i can put you up against a tree?"
you nod, but look away bashfully. "i said whenever."
he hums and looks away for a moment in an attempt to stay calm while he processes. then he looks back at you, tutting with a pitying look on his face. like you're a lamb up for the slaughter.
"you don't know what you just agreed to," he says affectionately, like he's sorry for you.
you frown, feeling like he's underestimating you. "yes, i do."
he smiles. "you really don't."
-
the first time he tries out your new agreement is when you're brushing your teeth with him the next morning. you're standing at the sink in just one of his old t-shirts, groggy, hair messy, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth as you blink blearily at your own reflection. he's behind you, pretending to brush his teeth too, but he's just looking at you.
your thighs are bare. the shirt rides up when you lean forward to spit into the sink, and he can see the crease where the back of your thighs meet your plush ass. he's entranced by the quiet way you operate when you're still half asleep and unaware of how good you look.
he swishes some water in his mouth and spits, setting his toothbrush back in the holder while watching you. you didn't notice he was ogling until you look up to meet his gaze in the mirror reflection to see him reaching around to pull you flush against his chest, lifting his hands under your shirt from behind to cup your tits. you don't wear a bra around the house, much to his convenience.
"just trying something fun," he murmurs into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there. you tip your head a little, a pleasant feeling washing over your body as his thumbs roll over your perked nipples. he then wraps his hand around your throat to tip your head back. "aren't you so pretty?" he coos, one hand toying with your breast while the other gives your throat a light squeeze. it does nothing for your sanity. your brain might as well be slipping out of your ears.
you try to respond, but all that slips out is a helpless little whimper, the toothbrush still dangling from your lips.
"you're already shaking," he says softly, letting go of your throat only to glide his hand down the front of your shirt, past your navel, and into the waistband of your thin cotton panties. "and it's not even been a minute since i started. why're you acting like some helpless little virgin?"
you slip the toothbrush out of your mouth and drop it in the holder, using both hands to hold his wrist to keep yourself steady. "you're being mean," you breathe, embarrassed by how quickly he's unraveled you.
he hums, slipping his fingers inside your tight pussy to find you warm and wet. your hips jolt, but you don't move away. "i'm doing what you asked of me," he corrects you, his tone patient. "you said 'whenever,' remember?" he begins to lift up your shirt and tosses it onto the counter beside you, and your panties come off right after. then he pushes you forward so you're bent over onto the smooth marble in front of you.
he leans over your back, palm pressing down gently between your shoulder blades to keep you in place. "you know what your problem is," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, "you get way too ahead of yourself. then you ask for things you're not ready for."
"baby please," you whine, grinding your hips back, only for him to pull away. he's teasing you. you look back at him with frustration, wanting friction against your sopping core, but he's not allowing it.
you feel him hook a hand under your knee to prop your leg up on the edge of the sink for a better angle, and he tuts at how messy your little pussy is so soon. he spreads you as much as you can go, then nudges his clothed bulge against your core, listening to your breath hitch and breathy pants to leave your mouth. "hmmh... that spot... do that again,"
he hushes you patronizingly, tugging his pj pants just low enough for his cock to be free. you're completely bare in contrast. with a hand pinning you down and the blunt press of his cock between your thighs, he slowly, maddeningly starts to slip it inside with a purposeful roll of his hips, and the stretch immediately hits you. you feel so full with just the first few inches of his fat cock in you.
your mouth opens around a silent moan, eyes rolling back. your grip on the counter tightens while he rocks into you steadily, holding you firmly while his gaze flits from your hole sucking him in and the lewd look on your face in the mirror.
"you wanted this. look at yourself. look how pretty you are when you're being used."
you try. you really do. your eyes flutter open just long enough to catch sight of your own flushed, wrecked reflection, your hair a mess, mouth parted, as he slowly fills you up to the brink, tip kissing your womb. his hand gathers a fistful of your hair to tip your head up.
your head spins as he thrusts into you roughly, flesh slapping against flesh making nasty sounds that echo off the bathroom walls. "y-you're... haaa gonna be late f'work," you moan as he fucks into you deep and rough, his thick cock curving just right inside you to keep bumping against your sweet spots.
"shit... y'wanna talk about that now?" he tugs your hair a little to make you squeal, using it to keep you in place like it's a handle. "i'll grab breakfast on the way there," he says into your skin. "this is more important."
you reach behind blindly because you're desperate to feel your husband or hold him, but he pushes you back down, then leans down to push his chest flush against your back, his skin hot against yours. he nudges his cock deeper in you at the new angle, moving a bulky arm to wrap around your neck and fuck you in a chokehold.
he groans against your ear, rutting harder now, his rhythm starting to lose control while your back arches for him, trying to take more even though you're so full. his hips snap forward with more force and he chuckles into your ear when you let out a garbled, " 'm gonna cum..." followed by a loud mewl. he groans, slamming into that one spot that gets you to tighten up around him each time his mushroom tip gives it a kiss.
"hmm, ask nicely, sweetheart," he nips your ear and bottoms out with an obscenely wet squelch. "mmmm.... c-can i... fuck, c-cum? please, 'm gonna..." your eyes screw shut and your pussy gushes around his thick shaft, leaving your thighs slick and shaky.
he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you so his cum can shoot as deep inside you as he can. he doesn't pull out right away. arms wrapped around your middle, nose pressed into your hair like he's anchoring himself.
"god," he mumbles, still pumping you full, and there's now a creamy ring where his cock enters your cunt. "filled your little pussy all up, didn't i? now i'll feel bad leaving you like this."
you're too wrecked to answer, slumped forward against the sink, letting him hold you up. he reaches for a washcloth by the towel rack and dampens it so he can clean you up, giving you little kisses the whole time while you cling onto him. he keeps praising you, too. "did s'good for me, pretty baby."
he leaves you with a soft peck on your cheek. "ill see you later tonight..."
-
it doesn't stop after that morning in the bathroom. that was just his warm up, after all; his first taste of what you gave him. the second the floodgates opened, there was no closing them. poor you.
there's the time in the gym changeroom, right after your shared workout ends. you're both sore and sweaty, and you duck into the locker room so you can grab your stuff and head home with him to shower. however, the second he sees your flushed skin and damp chest through your sports bra, he doesn't hesitate to tug you into one of the showers and sit down on the bench, tearing off your clothes and tugging you into his lap.
he'll stuff your panties in your mouth so your moans are muffled, and fucks up into you hard and fast with no shame, even as he hears people talking and shuffling about behind the flimsy shower curtain. "you're gonna make a mess on me, aren't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "you like knowing someone could walk in right now and see you like this? my sweet girl, cockdrunk in a gym shower?"
he makes you cum on his cock, stuffs you full of his seed and leaves with you once the coast is mostly clear.
next was the hike. you're halfway up the steep trail with him, on a quick break on the grass off the main path. you'd just bent over a little to re-tie your laces since your boots had been far too tight, when he'd come up behind you, grinding against you and palming your ass through your leggings in broad daylight.
"shouldn't bend over in front of me unless you want me to do somethin' to you," he mutters, voice low and warm at your ear as he presses himself closer, fingers kneading into the backs of your thighs.
he doesn't give you a second to argue before he's guiding you face first to a tree and dropping to his knees. he pulls your leggings down just enough to get what he wants, and the air hits your slick folds pleasantly. you whimper, bracing yourself as he spreads your ass to have your pussy fully presented to him.
"gonna be quick," he whispers, "just a little taste." he mumbles, before shoving his face right into your cunt.
you gasp loudly and your hands shoot up to brace against the tree bark right in front of you and dig into the wood. you tremble and let out a shaky breath when he licks a slow, nasty stripe from your pussy up to your clit, shaking his tongue a little so it slobbers over every inch of your drooling pussy lips, occasionally prodding your hole.
his hands are firm on your thighs to spread you open wider, dragging your hips back toward his mouth while he eats you out filthy and sloppy. his nose nudges your clit, tongue flicking in and out of you, then slipping deep inside.
you bite your lip and your eyes, wide and panicked, glance toward the trail. anyone could walk by since you're not that far off the path, hidden, but not well. if someone wandered off long enough, they'd find the two of you.
"god," he moans into you, closing his mouth around your pussy lips and sucking gently, then going back to make out with your pussy. "taste so fuckin' good, babe. made for me." your orgasm hits so fast that you barely have time to warn him, pushing back against him so you cream right into his mouth.
-
you intended to have one wholesome weekend without your man ravaging you on any available surface in the vicinity. a family gathering that your parents are hosting. you enter the countryside house with your husband's hand on the small of your back to guide you inside, smiling politely as your relatives greet you both with warm hugs and laughter. everyone is in a good mood, sipping drinks, chewing on appetizers. there's music playing, and scents drifting from the kitchen.
he lasts about twenty minutes into the evening before he leans down to whisper filth into your ear while everyone else is distracted in the dining room. "you keep looking up at me like that and you're not leaving this place without my cum dripping down your thighs."
you stiffen, body heating up with arousal instantly, even as your face stays composed for the sake of your family standing two feet away. your husband knows exactly what he's doing. he brushes his lips just under your ear again, letting his breath brush over your skin while his palm subtly slides down to squeeze your ass through your dress, making you yelp.
he's all over you most of the evening. hands holding your hips from behind, cupping your ass, arms around your waist, smelling your hair... blatant public displays of affection. he keeps whispering things. "you're dripping through this dress," he murmurs while you're getting drinks in the kitchen. "do you even know what you look like right now?"
you try to push him away, but he's already behind you, brushing your hair over your shoulder as if he's helping, just to kiss the back of your neck. he's all over you right up until you take a break to get away from the party for a bit before dinner. you choose your childhood bedroom as an escape, needing one second away from him before he decides to finger you at the dinner table or fuck you in one of the bathrooms, but he follows you shortly after.
you just entered your old room, not realizing the door didn't click shut behind you. you make it two steps before he grabs you and pins you down onto your back in your old twin bed.
you jolt. "baby! where did you- what are you- "
"shhh," he murmurs, lips already brushing your neck. "just missed you. five minutes."
your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you tip your head to the side for him, breath catching as he kisses behind your ear and tugs the straps of your dress down your shoulders and pushing it under your tits so he can cup your bare mounds. his thumbs brush over your nipples until they stiffen under his touch, and he groans at your soft whines, pinching and rubbing them with his fingers while he kisses down to your chest, laving his tongue over the swollen peaks. he's practically slobbering on them, one bulky hand playing with one while his mouth works on the other, sucking sharply and then releasing with a wet pop.
he drags your panties down and off your ankles, spreading you into a shameful position to get a good look at you.
"fuck, look at this mess," he thumbs over your pussy with light pressure, teasing you. "this for me?" you whimper a soft yes, causing him to chuckle softly. he leans over you again, playing with your hole while his other hand wraps around his cock to stroke it slow and firm from tip to base, aligning himself with your hole. he doesn't make it easy for you and put it in straight away, instead tapping his cock against your folds and listening to the nasty little squelches that come from you. he slides it up and down, delaying your pleasure to make you desperate.
you gasp and mewl, thighs already lifting for him as he lines up and starts to press in slowly. your body clutches around him immediately, the stretch making your head spin. "ohhh my- fuck," he groans, pushing in all the way until he bottoms out. "tight as ever. made to be fucked in."
you moan breathlessly and tip your head back, letting him start to plow into you. he doesn't waste any time in putting one leg up over his shoulder and thrusting so deep that his balls squish against the curve of your ass and his shaft forms a faint print in your belly from how huge he is. your head lolls back with each of his deep, grinding strokes.
"look at you," he whispers, eyes trained on your filthy expression. "getting ruined in your childhood room. all the innocent memories, corrupted by this one." he mocks you while fucking into you harder. you moan loudly, hands fisting at the sheets, then clawing his biceps, then running down his torso. you have no idea what to do with yourself right now. he's fucking you into oblivion and now you're completely out of it.
"bet your parents think you're still their good little girl," he pants, rocking into you, stretching you out with his fat shaft with every drag. you can feel every vein and the exact angle in which his cock curves inside you. "they don't know you're upstairs getting your pussy wrecked like this."
"please what?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to an unbearable pace. "please fuck me harder?" he punctuates the question with a sharp thrust so deep inside you your vision swims. "or please fill me up in my little princess bed?" he coos, grinding his pelvis against yours. your mouth falls open in a silent scream as a particularly deep thrust hits your sweet spot, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine while your back arches off the bed, pressing your heaving tits more firmly against his chest. you can basically feel his heartbeat against yours, thudding in time with his sloppy thrusts.
" 'm gonna cum inside you," he grits, pounding into you hard, cock scraping against your plushy walls and the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every inward thrust. "goddamn, look at me. want you to -haa- remember this." your nails scrape his back. you're crying out softly, trying to stay quiet, but you're so close. you clamp down on him so hard when it hits that he chokes on a groan, hips stuttering as he starts spilling into you with a harsh jerk of his body.
his cock jerks and pulses as he hilts inside you, the thick head flaring inside you as he releases ropes of hot cum pumps into your greedy cunt, your womb quickly filling to the brim.
within seconds, excess semen is already bubbling out around his shaft, dripping down onto the sheets beneath your ass. your pussy clenches and ripples, desperately trying to milk every last drop of him, and he continues rocking his cock inside you as he cums, fingers moving to play with your clit, and you cum shortly after, gushing around his cock and adding to the mess on the bed.
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Media - The Artful Dodger
Character - Jack Dawkins
Couple - Jack X Reader
Reader - Y/n
Rating - 18+ masturbation/ ejaculation/ Fantasies
Word Count - 2354
Jack laid in his bed staring at the ceiling. He felt so... Conflicted. He'd never been like this before. He’d seen a thousand patients in his life a good chunk of them women... But... Y/n. Humm something about her made him... So hard. He'd watched a hundred girls get undressed if not more. He was a sailor for god sake he saw it a lot. He's a doctor he shouldn't be thinking about his patients like this... Ohh but he was... Those curves. That ass. Those perky tits. He couldn't sleep his cock throbbing under his sheets desperate to be touched.
Jack's mind couldn't help going back to his examination of her earlier today. Unable to remove the memory of that goddamn body! Her skin was so smooth, like silk under his callus fingers, “Fuck,” Jack whispered to himself, his eyes closed as if trying to relive the moment. He could almost feel her warmth beneath his fingers, the gentle curve of her spine, the softness of her breasts. His cock twitched involuntarily, straining against the confines of his sheets. The memory sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt his hands begin to tremble with desire.
His gaze drifted towards the bedside table, where a small notebook lay open, its pages filled with scribbled notes and sketches of Y/n's anatomy. He picked it up, running his thumb over the rough edges of the paper, feeling a sense of unease wash over him. The drawings seemed to blur together, becoming less about medical observation and more about… fascination.
He tossed the book away trying not to think about it. But he knew he couldn't sleep like this. He tossed and turned for a good hour before giving up and humouring his stupid body. Letting his hand move down to stroke his cock. As his fingers wrapped around his erection, Jack's eyes snapped shut, and he let out a low groan. He began to stroke himself slowly, the sensation building in intensity with each passing moment.
“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. He imagined her lying beside him, her curves pressed against his own, their bodies entwined in a tangled mess of sheets and sweat, that Y/n's hands were on him, stroking him with a tender touch that sent shivers down his spine. “Touch me,” he murmured, his hand moving faster now, driven by a primal urge to release.
His imagination ran wild, conjuring images of Y/n's lips wrapping around his cock, her tongue tracing the length of him as she sucked. He felt a wave of pleasure crash over him, and his hips jerked upward, seeking more. “Oh God,” he breathed, his hand moving faster still as he chased the high. In his fantasy, Y/n was on top of him now, her legs spread wide as she rode him with a fierce abandon. He felt himself slipping deeper inside her, losing control as she moaned and writhed above him.
Suddenly, Jack's eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving with exertion. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his heart pounded in his ears like a drum. For a moment, he just sat there, frozen in shock. He could feel his cock throbbing in his hand as much as he didn't want to keep fantasizing about his patient like this... He couldn't help it laying back down and squirming in his sheets as he rubbed faster, His eyes rolled back in his head as he let out a low, guttural moan. He was lost in the fantasy now, completely consumed by the image of Y/n's face contorted in pleasure as she rode him.
“Faster,” he whispered to himself, his hand moving quicker and quicker as he chased the orgasm. He pictured her nails digging into his shoulders, her teeth sinking into his neck as she bit down on him. The pain mixed with the pleasure, sending shivers down his spine. "oh fuck- Y/n... Ugh yes! Yes! Take me, darling! I'm yours... Ughh!" He moaned getting close in his imagination she kissed him, rode him with reckless abandon, and let him play with her breasts "ughh yes! I'm- I'm gonna cum-" His body tensed up, his muscles locking in place as he strained towards the release. He felt himself hurtling towards the edge, his senses blurring together in a kaleidoscope of pleasure and desire. “Yes!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls as he came hard, his seed spilling onto his stomach in a hot, sticky rush.
For a moment, he just lay there, panting and trembling with aftershocks of pleasure. His mind was reeling, his body still buzzing with the aftermath of his climax. When he finally managed to catch his breath, Jack's eyes fluttered open, and he gazed blankly at the ceiling, feeling a mix of shame and guilt wash over him. Full of post-orgasmic shame for what he did but he couldn't help it. He cleaned himself up shamefully and tossed the tissues away and looked down at his cock "You good now? Can I sleep?" He muttered
He laid there for a moment, staring down at his still-hard cock with a mixture of disgust and self-loathing. He pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering sense of guilt and shame. But as he lay there, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd crossed a line, that something fundamental had shifted inside him. And it wasn't just because of the physical act itself it was the fact that he'd allowed himself to indulge in such vivid fantasies about a patient, someone who trusted him with her health and well-being.
“You're sick, perverted little man.” he whispered to himself, But even that didn't bring him comfort this time.
He tried to sleep but once more found himself struggling. But he pulled down his spare pillow and shamefully wrapped his arms around it cuddling the pillow as if he had Y/n beside him and immediately he sighed and felt cosy enough to sleep. The softness of the fabric and the gentle give of the pillowcase seemed to mimic the contours of her body, and Jack felt a pang of longing wash over him. As he held the pillow, he began to drift off to sleep, lulled by the familiar scent of fresh laundry and the comforting weight of the pillow in his arms. All that mattered was the feeling of closeness, of connection, that he got from holding onto this makeshift substitute for Y/n. As his eyelids grew heavy, Jack's grip on the pillow tightened, and he whispered softly into its folds “My love…”
He slept fitfully, his dreams filled with visions of Y/n's smile and the soft touch of her skin. Every so often, he'd wake up with a start, his heart racing and his sheets tangled around him. But each time, he'd settle back into his makeshift cuddle, wrapping himself tighter in the blankets and drifting off once more into the realm of make-believe. As the hours ticked by, Jack's subconscious continued to weave its tale of forbidden love and secret liaisons. In his dreams, he was always chasing after Y/n, never quite catching her but forever drawn to her elusive presence like a moth to a flame. And yet, despite the turmoil brewing within him, Jack couldn't seem to tear himself away from this fantasy world. It was as if he'd become trapped in a cycle of desire and denial, unable to escape the siren call of Y/n's beauty and charm.
When dawn broke he woke with a groggy yawn. He lay there for a moment, his face buried in the pillow, the scent of fresh laundry and clean fabric enveloping him like a warm hug. His eyes remained closed, his breathing slow and steady, as he savoured the fleeting sense of peace that had settled over him during the night. As the first light of dawn crept into the room, Jack's gaze drifted lazily towards the window, where the sky was slowly transforming from dark to pale blue. The soft glow of morning sunlight cast a gentle warmth across his face, illuminating the subtle lines etched on his features. For a moment, he simply lay there, basking in the quiet tranquillity of the early morning hours, his heart still wrapped in the soothing cocoon of his dreams. he softly smiled muttering her name "ummm Y/n...."
He pressed his lips gently against the pillow, showering it with tender kisses as if Y/n herself were lying beneath him. The soft fabric absorbed the pressure of his lips, but Jack didn't notice he was lost in the fantasy, his heart beating faster with every passing moment. As he kissed the pillow, he whispered sweet nothings into its depths, his voice barely audible but full of emotion. “My love... my beautiful Y/n…” His hands cradled the pillow, holding it close as if it were a precious treasure. he slowly wrapped his legs around the pillow and began rubbing against it as he kissed the pillow "ummm... Y/n... Darling -"
He rocked his hips gently against the pillow, the friction sending shivers down his spine as he whispered Y/n's name over and over again. The soft fabric of the pillow was no match for his growing arousal, and Jack couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building within him. His kisses grew more urgent, his tongue tracing the outline of the pillowcase as if searching for a hidden truth. As he rubbed against the pillow, Jack's breathing quickened, his moans growing louder and more insistent. He was lost in the fantasy, his body betraying him as he surrendered to the pleasure coursing through his veins. “Y/n...my love…”
His hips moved faster now, the friction building to a crescendo as he whispered Y/n's name into the pillow. The sounds of his own moans echoed through the room, mingling with the soft rustle of the bedding as he writhed against the pillow. Jack's fingers dug deeper into the fabric, his nails scraping against the thread count as he strained for release. Suddenly, he froze, his body tense and quivering on the brink of climax. For a moment, he hovered there, suspended in a world of pure sensation. Then, with a low growl, Jack threw himself forward, burying his face in the pillow as he came in great, shuddering waves sending his seed across the pillow,
As the aftershocks of his orgasm faded, Jack lay there, panting heavily into the pillow. He felt spent, drained of all energy and vitality. But even as he struggled to catch his breath, a part of him knew that this wasn't over yet. Y/n's memory lingered, taunting him with its elusiveness. He thought about her smile, her laugh, the way she made him feel alive. With a sigh, Jack pushed himself upright, tossing the pillow aside as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet dangled in mid-air for a moment before he planted them firmly on the floor.
he yawned rubbing his face before he looked down noticing his cock coated in his seed from rubbing on the pillow. But he saw he was still hard. And even as he thought of the name Y/n his cock jumped as if it itself was whispering her name. With a slow, deliberate movement, Jack reached down and wrapped his fingers around his shaft, giving it a gentle squeeze. The sensation sent a shiver through his body, and he felt his cock twitch once more, as if echoing the whispers of Y/n's name in his mind. He leaned back, his eyes fixed intently on the spot where their bodies would meet if she were really here beside him. A soft gasp escaped his lips as he imagined her touch, her kiss, her caress. His grip on his cock tightened, and he began to stroke himself with slow, sensual movements, letting the fantasy consume him whole.
His strokes grew quicker, more insistent, as he delved deeper into the fantasy. He pictured Y/n's face above him, her eyes locked onto his as she took control of his body. Her fingers danced across his skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Jack's breath caught in his throat as he imagined her mouth closing around him, sucking him deep into the warmth of her throat. With a sudden jolt, he came, his hand still wrapped around his cock. His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he stared blankly ahead, lost in the haze of his own desire. As he came all over himself. Then, with a quiet curse, he tossed himself backwards onto the bed, landing with a thud amidst the tangled sheets.
His bedroom door quickly opened and he gulped grabbing the pillow to hide his still throbbing cock. He clutched the pillow tightly to his crotch and chest, trying to appear nonchalant despite the turmoil brewing inside him.
A young nurse stepped inside, her expression bright and cheerful. “Dr. Dawkins, your patient in room four is requesting you” she said, Her gaze flickered toward the pillow, and for a moment, Jack held his breath, wondering if she'd noticed anything amiss. But she left immediately after
Jack let out a long breath and got his head on straight trying to slap himself out of the shock, "Room four." He muttered to himself but he didn't even need to be reminded who that was "Y/n..." He whispered her name softly, his eyes drifting shut as memories of their time together flooded his mind. The pillow still clutched tightly to his chest, Jack's fingers absently stroked the fabric, his touch lingering on the spot where he'd lain earlier, imagining Y/n's presence. A faint flush rose to his cheeks as he recalled the vivid fantasies that had consumed him moments before. With a quiet sigh, Jack opened his eyes, forcing himself to refocus on the task at hand. He tossed the pillow aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he stood up, and stood at his wardrobe trying to pick out his best clothes so he could look his most handsome for her.
Tags: No use of y/n, canon-divergence (Bill and Frank are alive because I'm not killing my gays during pride month), reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns (also wears a dress for like 2 seconds), some physical descriptions (has a bush because #bushnation and is curvy if you squint), age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his 50s), alcohol consumption, bratty reader and mean!Joel, dom!Joel, verbal degradation, like one tiny little sexy smack, choking, spit, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, use of good girl and other pet names, oral (f!receiving), spit, light biting, finger sucking, unprotected piv, the pullout method (don't try this at home), f!masturbation, uhhhhh sexy use of duct tape lol and subsequent breath play, cum eating. If I missed any tags, please let me know!
Word count: ~9.7K
Read on AO3
A/N: I was having a fuck ton of fun writing this chapter and I didn't realize how long it was getting so I'm sorry or you're welcome idk. It felt necessary to dive into the reader's backstory a little as so many things were brought up for her at Bill and Frank's. I hope you enjoy getting to know her a little more. I definitely did.
Also, a massive thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with the series and reblogging/commenting. I appreciate you so much. Lightly proofread this myself, so my apologies for any typos. All on me. As always, likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are welcome. Thank you for reading!
Divider by @/saradika-graphics
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After sleeping on the cold, hard forest floor for a night, you’re thrilled when Joel says there’s an old Girl Scout camp to crash at.
The two of you have been trekking to an unknown location for a day or so and you’re ready to just get to wherever you’re going. Joel’s being reticent about sharing details of the run you’re on which is out of character. He’s generally open about the logistics of a job, but you’re not pushing it, too desperate for the work after being blacklisted by Wade. Plus, you get to escape the crowded, stressful QZ for more than a day or two. Any amount of time away is a real treat.
The sun is tucking itself behind the horizon by the time you get to the camp. Tiny, wooden cabins create a perfect circle around a firepit, filled with ash and a few charred animal bones. A pang of nostalgia hits you like a punch to the gut.
“You know, I used to be a Girl Scout,” you whisper as you do a perimeter check alongside Joel. Talking helps you not think about the chance of seeing infected. You passed through a small town a few hours ago and had a run in with two clickers, but both of you came out entirely unscathed.
Joel hums before exhaling sharply through his nose. “Must not have been a real good one,” he retorts before putting his pistol back in its holster. “I’ve seen you tryna tie a knot.”
You roll your eyes, trudging up the steps to a cabin. With a soft grunt, he follows you up the short flight of stairs and you can hear his knees crack. It’s a miracle he can fuck you as hard as he does considering his age. Joel unlocks the door with a key that he fishes out of the inner pocket of his tan leather jacket. This must be a regular route for him and that calms any wariness you had about the job.
“Yeah, no. I kind of sucked,” you admit as you follow him inside. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches and you wonder if it’s a hint of a smile. “I quit when I was like…eight, maybe? Nine? Worst Brownie in my troop. I barely had any badges.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
When he turns his back, you give him the middle finger and another eye roll.
There’s a part of you that’s still pissed about what happened last week with Wade. Still embarrassed that Joel acted like your protector, like you couldn’t handle yourself, but there’s a bigger part of you that’s so turned on by the idea of Joel wanting to fight someone on your behalf, like he was telling Wade not to fuck with what’s his. You know you’re not his, not even sure you’d ever want to be, but each night for the last week, you’d play with your clit while thinking of Joel coming into your apartment with bloody fists and fucking you, smearing it all over you. Marking you. Your cheeks get hot just thinking about it.
Joel locks the door and shoves a rusty chair under the handle although it’d be useless considering the two massive windows in the cabin. At least the glass is intact so you’d hear someone, or something, coming. You scan the room. Two sets of dusty bunk beds, a wooden chest, a couch with torn upholstering, a dresser with peeling paint, a narrow nightstand adorned with two candles with crispy wicks. Joel lights the candles before heading to the dresser, pushing it to the side with great force and grit teeth. He reaches down and lifts the loose floorboard, pulling out a hunting rifle with a scope and a box of ammo. You watch as he loads the magazine, his face lit by the warm candlelight.
“We’ll—”
“—sleep in shifts. I’ll take watch, you take watch. Yeah, yeah. I know,” you finish for him, irritated that he bothers explaining shit you already know.
Shooting you a dirty look, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, Joel sits on the couch and spreads his legs wide. You think about crawling onto his lap, but restrain yourself, taking a seat next to him instead.
“Was gonna say we’ll leave when the sun rises. We’re makin’ real good time. Less obstacles than I thought,” Joel says, eyes flickering over to you as you pull your legs up and tuck them under you.
“Where are we headed anyway?”
“Bill and Frank’s.”
“That was really helpful. Great explanation, Joel,” you deadpan, giving him an exasperated look. You realize suddenly how tired you are. “Who are Bill and Frank, and where are we meeting them?”
Joel is visibly annoyed, sitting next to you with his jaw clenched and his arms crossed.
“People I trade with. Meeting ‘em at their place in Lincoln.”
“Lincoln,” you mutter to yourself as you get up and head towards your pack, pulling out a map. Tracing your finger from Boston to Lincoln, you purse your lips. It’s only about fifteen miles from the QZ. “This is like…a six hour hike. Why were we walking for a whole day?”
“Now, why the fuck d’ya think we’ve been taking the long way?” he spits.
“Raiders, infected, rubble, people like us.” Your face is hot, embarrassment settling in your throat.
Joel hums in response, giving a small nod as you walk back over to the couch, collapsing on it with a sigh. It can never just be easy. Nothing can. How nice would it be to be able to hop in a car? The drive would be what, forty minutes with traffic? Maybe less? You would be able to listen to music, stop for lunch at a diner, put your hand on Joel’s thigh while he drove. But you can’t do any of that. Not in times like this. Not when Joel is just a man you work with, a man you sometimes fuck. Nothing else.
“Get some shut eye,” he grumbles, standing up. Your eyes drift to the way his shoulders slump and his heavy eyelids. “I’ll take first watch.”
You shake your head and stand up, too. Joel spent the whole day guiding you with strict vigilance. Always alert, always on. You’re the same whenever traversing out of the QZ, but you feel like it weighs on Joel heavier for some reason.
“No, it’s fine. You rest. I can watch,” you say. “I got it.”
For a moment, you think he’ll protest, your eyes searching his face, but he doesn’t. He just nods and blows out the candles before lying down on one of the bottom bunks. Boots still on, pistol still strapped in its holster. Closing his eyes, he lets out a heavy sigh, giving in to his exhaustion.
“Get me up in four hours.” It's a demand, not a suggestion.
“Mhm.”
Four hours go by quickly, but you can’t bring yourself to wake him up despite the lethargy that threatens you.
To your surprise, Joel is fast asleep. You realize that you haven’t ever seen him sleep, generally back before the sunrises while working. The one time you spent the night together, he let you rest. Your chest tightens at the memory of the weight of Joel’s arm draped on you while you slept.
Joel mumbles in his sleep. If it were anyone else, you’d probably find it annoying, but seeing this gruff, hardened man babble complete nonsense and twitch with his eyes closed is endearing. You wonder if he’s like this in his apartment in the QZ or if his nightly glass of whiskey knocks him out hard.
While he rests, you keep a firm grip on the rifle, periodically scanning the outside through the windows, being sure to walk quietly across the weathered floorboards. They’re creaky, but you do your best not to wake Joel.
At some point, your mind wanders to the last time you fucked Joel. Maybe you’re bored, but you can’t stop thinking about Joel counting, only letting you come when he got to three. You think about being on your knees for him, the weight of his cock smacking your tongue before he came down your throat. Pressing your thighs together, you feel slick gather in your panties.
You look over and see Joel’s body limp with sleep, and figure he won’t wake up for a while. Okay, you have time. Just go in the closet and get yourself off before he wakes up. Considering how turned on you are, it won’t be that hard, right?
Fuck it.
Exercising extra caution, you get up, setting the rifle down on the couch. Your pistol is in your ankle holster, so you’re still armed. Slowly, you open the door to the closet, eyes closing tight and your lips curling inward when the hinges squeak. You slip in and carefully shut the door. With urgency, you unbutton your pants and shove them down along with your underwear, leaning against the wall.
Your middle finger slides down your slit and fuck, you are soaked. Holding back a whimper, you begin to rub your clit quickly, trying to make it fast. Shutting your eyes, you picture Joel’s hand instead, how it would feel for his calloused fingers to be playing with you instead.
He’d whisper things in your ear. He’d tell you it’s pathetic how wet you are for him, tell you to be a good girl, tell you that you look pretty while moaning for him. Right now, you do feel pathetic, getting yourself off while Joel is asleep in the next room. For some reason, that just gets you closer to your release.
What if you went out there and woke him up by straddling his lap? You want to kiss down his sharp jawline, grind on his bulge, and ask him to fuck you.
What you want the most, though, is for Joel to kiss you. It’s only happened twice during the same drunken night. Joel was wasted and so were you, practically falling into each other on the way to your apartment. It seemed like an accident when his lips met yours the first time. He hurriedly kissed you again like he was trying to figure out if it had actually happened.
As he was leaving, once the two of you were dressed, you went to kiss him goodbye. He turned his head, your lips awkwardly meeting his cheek. You brushed it off even though you were humiliated. What else could you do, though? You acted like nothing happened. Joel did the same.
Now, here you are, thinking of kissing Joel hungrily while riding him, watching his eyes shut as he groans and spills into you. It sends you falling over the edge. Your pussy spasms and you clamp your hand over your mouth as you come, trying to stifle your cries. You rest your head against the wall, panting with your eyes closed. If Joel had been the one giving you that orgasm, your legs would be trembling, but your own hand can’t compare.
You pull up your pants, buttoning your jeans, and slip out of the closet. Returning to the couch, you sit down and move the rifle onto your lap. Joel groans in his sleep and you continue to fantasize about hearing him groan in your ear as his cock plunges in and out of you.
Before you know it, the sun begins to rise. Joel jolts awake, his hand instinctively going to his pistol. When he realizes all is well and that you’re wide awake, sitting on the couch, the tension dissipates from his body.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” you tease, a playful smile on your lips.
“Jesus.” Joel rubs his eyes. His voice is gravelly, heavy with sleep. “Why didn’t ya wake me up?”
“You were out like a light. Didn’t want to wake Sleeping Beauty,” you reply. Your eyes shift down to the obvious bulge in his jeans. Raising an eyebrow, you smile and nod towards his pelvis. “Good dream?”
Joel glares at you and then rubs his eyes with his palms like he’s trying to get knead the night away. You find yourself a little enchanted by him like this, tousled hair, hard cock, prominent lines between his brows from his face being pulled tight all night. You want to drop to your knees in front of him and beg for him to fuck your mouth.
“Jesus, it’s the ass crack of dawn. ‘Nough of that,” he scolds. “Y’should’ve gotten me up. What if you had fallen asleep and gotten us killed?”
“Well, I didn’t fall asleep and I didn’t get us killed,” you answer simply, shrugging your shoulders.
“Now I gotta deal with you being tired and grumpy all day,” Joel grumbles and stands up, his joints cracking. He walks over and rips the rifle from your hand while you shoot him an amused look. He mutters, “Piss me the fuck off.”
“I think you’re projecting, Joel. You’re always the grumpy one,” you say, brushing off his last comment. Joel’s snide remarks don’t hurt your feelings anymore, not when you know how he praises you when he fucks you.
Good girl. Did so good. Look so good like that.
Darlin’. Baby. Sweetheart. Sugar.
Your thighs clench just thinking about Joel’s gruff voice in your ear.
“Just shut up and lay down. Thirty minutes and then we gotta get movin’,” he says, slinging the rifle over his shoulder before moving towards the door to take the chair out from under the handle. “Gonna do a perimeter check. Thirty minutes.”
You roll your eyes but do as he says, taking off your jacket and lying on your stomach where Joel had been sleeping. It’s still warm from his body heat. You bunch up your jacket and use it as a makeshift pillow. Sleep takes you gently away.
“C’mon. Up.” Joel jostles you awake, earning a groan from you. Your eyes are narrow when you glance up at him. He’s much more awake now, pack already on and rifle slung over his shoulder. “Let’s go. You’ve already wasted our time.”
Rolling your eyes, you get up and stretch, shrugging your lightweight denim jacket on. Snagging your pack, you follow Joel out the door. Spring has arrived and the early mornings still have a bite to them, but when you step outside, the sun is higher than it should be if Joel had only let you sleep for thirty minutes. You let the warmth of its rays wash over you, smiling to yourself. Thirty minutes, my ass, you think before slowly jogging to catch up to Joel who has already started walking.
It takes you about two hours to get to your destination. The hike was fairly smooth, only stumbling upon a few stray infected. Nothing that you and Joel couldn’t handle. The two of you were quiet. Joel was annoyed with you, you could tell, and you were exhausted. It wasn’t too out of the ordinary.
You approach a small town, surrounded by a fence with barbed wire and a sign that reads DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE. Joel tells you to stay put as he walks toward the box with a keypad, typing in a code. As the fence opens, a burly man with maybe one of the biggest automatics you’ve ever seen comes barreling out of a gorgeous, white colonial style home with gray shutters and a large American flag above the porch. The man has shoulder length hair, a scruffy beard, and wide shoulders. He sports a scowl and his gun is pointed directly at you. For some reason, you don’t feel fear, just tension. Joel’s with you. You’re fine.
“S’me,” Joel calls out, waving a disarming hand in the air.
The man lowers his weapon and you trail behind Joel, shutting the gate of the fence behind you. It clicks locked. You’re taken aback by the sight in front of you, mouth slightly ajar. Shops, although empty, with fresh paint, potted flowers, meticulously cut grass. It’s almost like stepping into the old world. If you closed your eyes, you’re sure you would hear children playing, inane chatter, life before it all went to shit.
“Hey,” Joel barks, snapping his fingers at you. You didn’t realize you were in a trance. “Keep walkin’.”
The man meets you by the picket fence in front of the house with his frown and weapon, giving Joel a nod and a handshake. You’re not listening to whatever they’re talking about, standing behind Joel with your eyes still roaming your surroundings, in total awe of whatever the hell this is.
“Bill, this is—”
You cut Joel off and give Bill your name along with something that resembles a half smile. Bill nods. A man of many words, apparently. The three of you walk inside and the smell of apple pie lingers in the air, making your stomach quietly grumble. You realize you haven’t eaten yet today and apple pie, something you haven’t had in twenty years, smells divine.
“We freeze the apples,” a different man says as if he could read your mind. Frank, you presume, has walked in from the kitchen. His hands are on his hips, smiling, and his beard is well trimmed, a stark contrast from Bill. He steps towards you and takes your hand, “I’m Frank.”
You introduce yourself and smile, putting your other hand over Frank’s. Warmth radiates off of him and he reminds you of someone, but you can’t quite place who. You drop hands and Frank greets Joel, pulling him into a hug. You’ve never seen Joel hug someone before. You’re almost envious, wondering what it would be like to have Joel hold you outside of fucking you.
“Well, come on in. I’ll give you a tour,” Frank says, putting a hand on the small of your back to guide you into the living room.
It feels like a home. A real home with decor and tchotchkes, paintings and collages, records and a piano. You’re not sure you said anything besides holy shit and wow the entire time Frank was showing you around. Back in the dining room, Joel and Bill are sitting at the table, both looking incredibly stern, but there’s no tension, no malice. It’s just serious. It’s business. They’re checking things off of a list on a notepad and drinking whiskey—neat and on the rocks. Just how Joel likes it.
Putting your hands on your knees, you bend down to look at the various spirits on the brass bar cart. You can feel Joel’s eyes on your ass.
“Fuck, this place is incredible,” you gush. “You guys looking for a third?”
“You know, you’re not quite our type,” Frank chuckles softly, leaning against the archway.
You smirk at him and straighten your back. “Yeah, I figured.”
Joel’s looking at you from the table, pen idle in his hand. When you glance at him, you think you’re going to melt into those brown eyes of his. They look softer here, illuminated by the warm sun filtering in through the sheer curtains. What would it be like to sit across from Joel at a table like this and drink coffee in the morning? What would it be like to sleep beside him in the master bedroom with its canopy bed and venetian carpet? Is Joel wondering the same thing right now as he stares at you? You make yourself sick with these thoughts.
You almost forget Bill and Frank are there until Frank breaks the silence. “I’m going to take you to the boutique down the road, then you two can shower and freshen up before dinner. Does that sound okay?”
Nodding, you follow him out the door. The town is quaint and somehow so well-kept. You walk in silence, taking it all in, while listening as Frank explains how he and Bill met and how they fixed up the town. It’s a love story. An apocalyptic one, but still one nonetheless. Until now, you didn’t think those existed anymore.
Frank opens the door to the boutique and your eyes widen at the sight. Racks and racks of women’s clothes, a wall of accessories, a case of jewelry, boxes of shoes, and makeup.
“Holy shit,” you say under your breath for the hundredth time today.
“Take whatever you need, whatever you want. It’s free,” Frank offers with a wink, walking up behind you with his hand on his hips.
You turn to look at him, brows raised incredulously.
“Are you serious?” you ask. He nods. “I don’t even…thank you.”
Frank doesn’t say anything, just smiling as you start to look through the racks. The clothes are dusty and some of them have tiny holes from moths, sure, but they’re in good shape. Much better condition than anything you have back in the QZ. Plus, they’re actually cute. You were never old enough to go shopping at boutiques like this, your teenagehood soiled by the outbreak before you even got the chance.
“So,” you start, rubbing a silk dress between your fingers, “how did you guys meet Joel anyway?”
“Well, I started talking to Tess on the radio,” he says and you stop moving altogether. Tess. “Bill hated that, as I’m sure you can guess. When we actually met Tess, along came Joel. You know how that is, wherever Tess is, there Joel is.”
Tess. You met Tess when you met Joel a few years ago. It had been a year or so after you started smuggling that you started working with their crew. Joel’s a damn good smuggler and you practically needed recommendations before he let you in on jobs. You were younger then, in your mid-twenties, and had to prove yourself to be an asset and you did. Tess recognized this, giving you credit where credit was due, but she was never particularly nice to you. Neither was Joel. Eventually, you started going on regular runs with Tess, Joel, Adam, and every now and then, a few others.
Adam was a few years older than you, but still much younger than Joel and Tess. The two of you stuck together if you ever needed to split up in pairs. So yeah, you get it. Wherever Tess went, Joel went. You could tell he was always particularly protective of her, but they had known each other for years. They trusted each other; it made sense. You never thought too much about it.
About six months ago, Tess stopped coming around. Joel’s moods were worse than usual after that, but you didn’t say anything to him about it. You wouldn’t dream of it. Frankly, it was none of your business, but you were curious. When you brought up Tess’ absence to Adam, he said that there were logistical and financial disagreements among some of the group members. You didn’t believe it, but you let it go. As long as you were getting paid, what the hell did it matter?
Something sour bubbles in your belly at the thought of Tess and Joel. You ignore it, trying to focus on the clothes in front of you with their bright colors, patterns, and soft fabric.
“I’m a little surprised Tess isn’t here with you two,” Frank says and you look up to meet his gaze, giving him a small shrug. He smiles and nods, dropping it altogether.
You pick out a few things to try on. Jeans, tank tops, t-shirts, a few blouses, new boots, even a dress and a pair of heels. You also snagged some new underwear and a lacy bra. In the dressing room with the emerald green, velvet curtain pulled shut, you strip. Trying on each of the pieces one by one, you admire the way they hug your waist and accentuate the curve of your hips and ass. When you get to the dress, your breath hitches. You haven’t worn a dress in years. The low, square neckline makes it hard not to stare at your own breasts. The black dress is short, landing above your mid-thigh and you notice how nice your plush curves look. You smile to yourself, thinking about how amazing it would be to have somewhere to actually wear this.
When you come out, Frank’s holding you a bag and you dump your findings in it. Before you leave, you stop and look at the makeup, grabbing mascara and blush.
“Do you think I’m going to get an infection from how expired this shit is?” you ask.
“It’s possible. I guess you have to decide if it’s worth the risk.”
When you get back to the house, you can smell whatever Bill is cooking. Some sort of meat. Maybe duck? You aren’t entirely sure, but it’s divine and you’re reminded again of how hungry you are. Frank tells you that you can shower as Bill makes dinner, pulling a fluffy bath towel from the linen closet and showing you to the guest bedroom that you’ll be staying in.
“Unless you and Joel are sharing a room?” Frank asks, uncertainty clear in his voice.
“Definitely not. Unless you want him to kill himself,” you reply with a short laugh and shake your head. The words tumble out of your mouth when you say, “Thanks for the clothes and the shower and for having me here.”
Frank just smiles, resting a hand on your shoulder and giving you a smile that says you’re welcome.
You head into the bedroom, noting all of the decorations and the matching furniture set. Tears well up in your eyes as you look at the clean sheets, thinking about how you can’t wait to fall into the fluffy pillows tonight.
In the shower, you cry and you cry hard. It’s just overwhelming, being in a place that feels incredibly normal and reminiscent of a time that’s so far away, so far gone now. You let yourself drown in the emotion as the shower pelts you with hot water.
When you get out and wipe the condensation off of the mirror, you examine yourself, grateful that your eyes aren’t puffy. You attempt to dry your hair with your towel and put on a coat of mascara. That small touch makes all the difference and you realize that you haven’t felt this pretty in a long time. Sure, you know you’re desirable. You would fuck you, but this feels foreign. It feels luxurious.
You get dressed and pull on a new pair of jeans that hug your ass perfectly, pairing them with a tight, black long sleeve. It has three buttons by your breasts that you leave undone to accentuate your cleavage. You tie it all together with new boots and a dainty necklace. Stepping back, you take in your reflection. Again, you’d fuck you.
Stepping into the hallway, you see Joel leave his bedroom at the same time. Your pussy pulses and your chest tightens when you see him. His beard is trimmed and wet curls are falling on his forehead. The clean flannel he’s wearing hugs his biceps and you want to sink your teeth into them. He looks less rugged, more domestic in a way that makes your heart hurt a little.
Joel’s eyes travel down your body, lingering on your breasts for a moment and finally, he meets your gaze. Both of you stand there, just staring at each other before he clears his throat.
“Y’look, uh…clean,” he says, voice low, and he runs his tongue over his teeth.
“Yeah, you too. For once,” you tease although your tone is flat.
He motions towards the stairs. “We should—”
“Yeah.”
The two of you head downstairs and see Frank carrying dishes to the dining room table. It’s set with frilly placemats, wine glasses, and two long candles dripping red wax onto glass holders. Your eyes are wide when you see the food laid out in front of you. It’s duck, as you suspected, with mashed potatoes, gravy, and asparagus. Plus, an unopened bottle of Beaujolais.
“Ready?” Bill asks, uncorking the bottle and pouring everyone a glass.
You nod and approach the table, but before you can pull out your chair, Joel does it for you. Raising an eyebrow and glancing at him, you take a seat.
“Such a gentleman, Joel. On good behavior today?” you whisper so only he can hear.
“Will you shut it?” he hisses back, passing you a glass.
“There we go,” you say back, smiling more to yourself than to him. “That’s more like it.”
The four of you settle and Frank picks up his glass, raising it to initiate a toast. You’ve never even toasted to anything before and though you’re almost thirty, you feel like a child sitting at the adult table during Christmas dinner.
“To new friends,” Frank begins, nodding towards you before looking at Joel, “and old friends.”
Your face gets hot as the four of you clink your glasses together and mumble cheers. The first taste of wine you have is more of a gulp than a sip and if it weren’t incredibly rude, you would’ve finished the whole glass in one go. It’s better than any alcohol you’ve consumed in the QZ and while you could smuggle better shit in, you have other priorities like the medication for Susan. After tasting this though, you think you’ll ask Frank if there’s something you could trade for a bottle. Maybe two.
Frank, Bill, and Joel chat about supplies while you sort of listen, focusing mainly on the delectable food in front of you. Again, this meal is better than anything you’ve had in the QZ and truthfully, maybe even better than anything you’ve had in your whole life. You have to consciously pace yourself so you don’t scarf it all down in under five minutes.
At some point, Joel kicks your shin from under the table, grabbing your attention. When you give him a look that says what the actual fuck, he nods over towards Frank. You realize then, totally fucking embarrassed, that he asked you a question and you didn’t even register it.
“I asked where you’re from?” Frank smiles, patient and warm. When your eyes dart over to Joel, he’s biting back a smile while chewing and looking down at his food.
Asshole.
“Sorry,” you mumble. You take a sip of wine, your glass nearly empty. “I’m from Portland. Maine, not Oregon.”
As you speak, Joel’s eyes flicker to you and he stops chewing to listen to you. It’s the first time you’ve ever shared any personal information with Joel and even now, he didn’t ask, you’re just answering someone else’s question. Something about Joel knowing anything about you makes you uneasy. You figure it’s because all you’ve learned about him has been through other people.
“Beautiful place to grow up,” Frank says, pouring more wine into your glass. You smile to say thank you, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Did you spend a lot of time on the water?”
“Yeah, my dad was a fisherman.”
Bill nods in your direction. With his mouth full he says, “Great skill to have in times like these.”
It comes in flashes. The feeling of cold sunscreen on your back, the gentle sloshing of the boat that rocked you to sleep like a baby, lobster shells cracking like ribs. You think about your dad with his toothy grin. The scent of fish that lingers. You start to feel sick.
Maybe it shows on your face, the way you’re solemnly reminiscing, because Joel’s boot meets your leg and strokes it lightly, like he’s patting you on the back. When you glance over at him, he’s looking down at his plate. It was probably just an accident, you tell yourself.
You take another sip of wine like it’ll wash away your thoughts. It pools in your stomach, that deep warm feeling you’ve come to appreciate during times of discomfort.
“You think that until you eat so much fish that you’re pretty sure you’re going to get mercury poisoning,” you attempt to joke, but you know your tone isn’t convincing. It comes out more sad than anything.
“Guess there are worse ways to die,” Joel mumbles.
You laugh. You don’t mean to, but it just comes out. Frank joins you while Bill and Joel are silent, staring at each other like you and Frank have lost it altogether. When the laughter dies down, Frank changes the subject like he knows you’d rather not talk about yourself anymore. You mentally thank him for it.
Three bottles of wine later, dinner ends and you feel fatigue overtake you. After helping Frank with the dishes, you excuse yourself and head upstairs to the room you’re staying in. You strip off your clothes, only clad in your new matching bra and panties, before collapsing in the bed. You tell yourself that you can take your makeup off tomorrow.
Snuggling into the sheets, you take a deep breath. You hadn’t expected the day to exhaust you quite like this. Working as a smuggler usually meant life or death situations and risk. Here, you feel safe, but you feel like you’ve expended more energy than ever before. The entire experience of being in a place like this, a place so resonant of a life you could’ve had, has weakened you. Each step you took in this sanctuary weighed a hundred pounds. Your limbs feel heavy and you’re thankful for a few hours of uninterrupted rest.
The wine from dinner hit you so hard that you don’t hear him come in. It isn’t until the bed sinks in next to you that you realize you’re not alone. Waking from your slumber, you instinctively turn to reach for the pistol in your pack that you’ve strategically placed next to your bed. Even if this is the safest you’ve felt in years, you’re still on edge. Force of habit. A firm hand grabs your wrist to stop you.
“Stop,” he demands. Joel loosens his grip on you and says, softer now, “Just me.”
As you register his presence as safe, your heartbeat slows. Your arm drops and you sigh deeply.
“Fuck you—you scared the fuck out of me, Joel,” you hiss, closing your eyes. “What do you want?”
When the blanket is pulled from your upper body, your eyes open again, the same startled look from before. Joel’s hands land on your breasts, thumbs tracing the lines of the lacy fabric of your bra, eventually making their way down your sides. He digs his fingers into the plush of your hips. Your breath hitches, knowing damn well that you’re already getting wet.
“Pretty,” he whispers, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of your panties, hiking them up further. “You wear these just for me?”
“No.” You roll your eyes and let your head loll to the side. “I wore them for Frank.”
Joel grabs your chin and forces you to look up at him. It’s dark, so damn dark, but you can see a sliver of his face lit up by the moonlight that’s creeping in through the sheer curtains. His eyes carry that lustful darkness that you know so well. Joel wants something from you and he’s going to get it. You want to give it to him. Whatever he wants, it’s his and you don’t need to say it aloud. Joel knows.
“What do you want?” you ask, voice quiet and unintentionally sultry.
“You playin’ dumb tonight? I think ya know what I want.”
“Then take it,” you reply, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. The look in Joel’s eyes makes your clit throb in anticipation.
“Wasn’t askin’ permission, sweetheart. I know you’ll gimme what I want,” Joel rasps, leaning down to kiss and nip at your pulse point.
He’s right and you almost hate it. Joel’s a smug bastard, always has been. He knows that whatever fight you put up, it’s all show. He knows you like the verbal sparring, the way he grabs you, the way he fucks you harder when you piss him off; you think he likes it, too, since he keeps coming back for more. Maybe it’s as much for him as it is for you.
You let out something between a dry laugh and a groan. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“Y’real mouthy tonight.”
“Maybe something big in my mouth would shut me up.”
“I got other plans for you,” he mumbles, pulling your earlobe into his mouth and biting lightly.
You inhale sharply. “Hope they’re good considering you woke me up.”
“That how you talk to someone who’s about to fuck you good?” Joel’s breath is hot against your neck.
Your pussy throbs at the thought of having Joel deep inside of you. Eyelids fluttering closed, you think you mumble something like please or sorry or both. If you weren’t so aroused, you’d probably be mad at yourself for essentially giving in already. You orgasmed less than twenty four hours ago. What happened to your self control? If you’re being honest, you’ve never had it when it comes to Joel.
One of Joel’s hands leaves your hips to paw at your breast, flicking your nipple with his thumb and feeling it pebble under his touch. You bite back a moan, but your breathing is shallow and gives you away. Joel hums against you before sucking on the tender skin where your neck meets your shoulder. The thought crosses your mind that he’s being forceful enough to leave marks and that there’s a chance Bill and Frank will notice tomorrow, but your mind quickly moves on from the topic when Joel tugs at your nipple. You let out a small squeak at the sensation.
“Think I didn’t notice the way these tits were hangin’ out a dinner?” he asks, breathless, although it’s not really a question. Joel pulls away to admire your chest and yanks your bra down, letting your breasts hang over the fabric. “And in front of strangers, too. Shameless little whore, huh?”
“You don’t have anything to worry about. You heard Frank, I’m not their type,” you deadpan.
“I didn’t say anything about bein’ worried. Wouldn’t be anyway,” Joel says, sliding one hand down to your clothed pussy and cupping you. “Y’know who this pussy belongs to.”
You can’t help but think, yours, yours, yours. All yours Joel.
Squirming under his touch, you rut your hips into his hand to chase any hint of pleasure. Your brows are furrowed as you look up at him. He smirks, satisfied with himself, and rubs a torturously light circle on the soaked center of your panties with two of his fingers.
“Feel how wet she is for me, baby?”
Baby. You almost whine at the pet name. Joel calls you pet names all the time, but tonight it’s hitting you differently. You’ve been emotional, maybe that’s it.
Nodding, you sit up on your elbows and grind into his hand. It’s not enough and Joel knows it, but he doesn’t give you more than this. For now. It’s easy to tell he’s enjoying watching you like this, all desperate and needy for him. You still won’t give in and moan, so you just breathe heavily and chew on your lip as you take in the dull pleasure of his thick palm on your hot core.
“Play with yourself,” he instructs, removing his hand from you and standing up.
Your previously heavy lidded eyes are now wild as you stare at him and you make no move to touch yourself. He just stands there, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.
“C’mon, play with yourself,” he demands, voice low and laced with annoyance. “Y’look real dumb just starin’ at me like that. Haven’t even fucked you stupid yet.”
Cheeks heating up and pussy throbbing, you go to slide your hand under your ruined panties when Joel tuts at you.
“Over ‘em.”
“Joel, are you fucking serious?” you whine, almost sounding like a bratty child.
“Do I look like I’m playin’ games with you?”
You roll your eyes, but acquiesce and begin to play with your clit over your panties. It’s painful how muted the pleasure is. All you want is Joel’s fingers or his tongue or his cock. Really anything besides this. Looking up at Joel, you hope you can give him puppy dog eyes to convince him to fuck you, but you’re distracted by the way he’s palming his cock through his jeans. The hardened length is prominent even in the dark of the bedroom.
“Is this what you did the other night while I was sleepin’?” Joel asks as he undoes his belt.
Your lips part, your eyes widen, and your chest gets hot. Embarrassment spreads over you like wildfire. “I-I,” you stammer, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joel laughs quietly and takes his t-shirt off, revealing the salt and pepper chest hair that covers scars across his chest. Your eyes are glued to his abdomen, taking all of him in. He shucks off the sweatpants he borrowed for the night, stepping toward the bed.
“I-I-I,” he mocks you cruelly. His teasing goes right to your pussy, making you clench around nothing. “Please, darlin’. I heard you tryna muffle those pretty sounds a’yours.”
A small moan slips from your lips as you frantically rub yourself through your underwear. Your fingers are getting wet through the barrier of the fabric that’s thoroughly soaked by your juices.
“What were you thinkin’ about?” he asks, pulling the covers back and slipping in beside you. Heat radiates off of him and you feel yourself getting sweaty from arousal, embarrassment, and him.
You don’t respond aloud, but you tug at the waistband of his boxers, wanting nothing more than to see his cock. Joel shakes his head.
“Use your words. Y’love to run that mouth, so let’s hear it.”
“You, Joel,” you admit, whimpering. “Your tongue, your cock.”
He hums, pleased by your answer. Joel leans in and kisses below your ear before whispering, “S’what I thought.”
Joel slides his boxers down and kicks them off, his hardened length finally there for you to see. Your lips part as you stare while he strokes himself once and then twice, exposing the red, swollen head of his cock. You pick up the pace of your fingers as if it’ll relieve any ache at all.
“Alright, sweetheart.” He slides down the bed, positioning himself between your legs and pulling your damp panties off. “Since you need it so bad.”
When Joel places a sloppy kiss to your clit, you finally let yourself moan earnestly.
“Love hearin’ those pretty noises,” he mumbles against your cunt between licks.
Relief floods through you as Joel begins to flick your clit with his tongue. Light and fast. Just how you like it. Each movement is precisely what you want. Joel just knows your body at this point. You tangle a hand in his hair to push him closer, to encourage him.
The sounds he’s making as he eats your cunt are utterly obscene and you try not to contribute to the noise by biting your index finger, well aware that you’re in someone else’s house. Two people that were very kind to you and are letting you stay in their home. The least you can do is not moan and wake them up.
Joel makes it hard for you to keep quiet when he slips two fingers in your cunt and curls them upwards, hitting the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. A strangled sound claws its way out of you as you try to hold back your cries of pleasure. When a moan that’s a little too loud slips out, Joel digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your inner thighs and you get the message. Shut. Up.
You look down at Joel. His graying curls are a mess from you pulling on them, his pupils are blown lecherously, and he’s rutting his hips into the bed. The sight of him hurdles you toward your orgasm. Joel can feel you start to clench around his fingers. Knowing that you’re close, the hand that’s not inside of you shoots up and he shoves two fingers into your open mouth. You suck on his fingers as they move in tandem with the ones inside of you, hitting the back of your throat a few times, making you gag.
All the sensations at once are overwhelming when your release hits you. Thighs trembling and closing in around Joel’s head, you moan around Joel’s fingers and tears well up in your eyes, ultimately slipping down your temples and into your hairline.
Joel pulls his fingers from your mouth and your pussy at the same time before lightly smacking the inside of your thigh, conscientious of the volume of the impact. His tongue is still circling your clit and you can’t take it anymore, wriggling away from his touch. Finally, Joel relents, looking up at you with slick, swollen lips. He looks absolutely fucked. His thumb rubs a soothing circle atop of the hair on your mound, sticky and wet from your arousal and Joel’s spit.
You’re panting when he hovers over you, looking down at the sheen of sweat covering you from your orgasm. His cock rests on the soft part of your lower belly.
“C’mere, taste yourself,” he husks.
This is it, you think. He’s finally going to slip his tongue in your mouth and kiss you. You’ve been itching for it since the first time you kissed him and you feel excitement flutter in your stomach. Looking up at him expectantly, you hold your breath, but you’re surprised when Joel’s thumb meets your bottom lip and pries your mouth open. You stick your tongue out without even thinking about it, and Joel spits directly into your mouth. His warm salvia pools on your tongue and you close your mouth, swallowing the taste of both of you.
You can’t help but feel disappointed yet you try to remind yourself that Joel just made you come on his tongue and fuck, it was good. The aftershocks are still reverberating in your core.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice flat and gravelly. “S’that what you wanted?”
Inhaling shakily, you nod. Joel’s forearm rests by the side of your head, your chests pressed together, while he drags his cock through your slick. Every time the head brushes against your clit, you shudder, still so sensitive from your orgasm.
“What else did you say you were thinkin’ about?” he asks, still teasing your slit with his cock.
“Your—”
Joel sinks in without warning and his hand flies to your mouth in an attempt to quiet you before you wake Bill and Frank. It works, mostly. Despite your orgasm and his fingers, his cock still stretches you out. It amazes you that no matter how many times you take him, you still feel him work you open.
Once Joel bottoms out in you and stills, you finish your sentence through exasperated breaths. “Cock. Your cock.”
He groans at this as he begins to thrust into you, shallow yet fast strokes, his cock nearly pulling fully out each time. He’s fucking teasing you. Your moans are hiccupy little noises, not entirely satisfied with the fucking you’re getting. You know if you tell him this, he’ll stop entirely. Just to fuck with you. You also know how to get him going. Just start talking.
“I know you’ve brought other girls here. Is this what you do, Joel? Bring girls you like here?” His brow furrows at your question, still not fucking you quite how you’d like. You’re surprised that your words are coming out so smoothly. “Wine them and dine them, then make them come?”
Joel laughs darkly at this and picks up the pace, earning a quiet moan from you. You feel satisfied with yourself, knowing that you’re getting to him. Part of you wonders if he would’ve reacted differently if you mentioned Tess by name.
“Who said I like you?”
“I-I think—fuck,” you exhale as he starts to fuck you harder, kissing your cervix with the head of his cock. You close your eyes, telling yourself to pull it together long enough to finish your sentence. “You like me. Enough to be in my bed when you’ve got your own.”
Shaking his head, he buries himself deep inside of you and ceases any movement. You almost whine out of frustration, but you hold back. Joel uses his free hand, the one that’s not supporting him, to wrap tightly around your throat. You choke out a moan and clench around him.
“I like you when you shut the fuck up,” he says through grit teeth.
You smile and try to laugh, but it sounds more like a cough than anything. Joel loosens his grip ever so slightly as he starts moving his hips again, fast and deep. Just what you wanted.
“R-Really? Thought you liked hearing my pretty little noises?” you manage to get out with his clutch lighter than before.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel groans, shaking his head. He stops moving and this time, you actually do whine. “Can’t keep that fuckin’ mouth shut.”
Joel releases your throat and leans over, still buried inside of you, to reach for your pack.
“What’re you—”
He pulls out a roll of duct tape you keep in the front pocket just in case the soles of your boots start to go. Your eyes widen and you swallow hard to try to get rid of the lump in your throat. Anxiety or excitement? You can’t tell.
“Fleshlights don’t talk,” he mutters before ripping a piece of tape off with his teeth, “and that’s all y’are to me.”
Before you get the chance to even think about something to say, Joel slaps the duct tape across your mouth. It’s primal—the way your breathing becomes heavy and frantic through your nose and your chest heaves, like prey being caught by a predator. At the same time, your cunt tightens around him and you feel arousal leak from you. You think that there has to be something wrong with you. This shouldn’t turn you on this much, right?
Joel doesn’t resume fucking you yet, still and sheathed all the way inside of you. His dark, blown out eyes search your face.
“Breathe, breathe,” he orders, but his voice is almost soft now, stripped of the edge it carried before. A hand comes up to cup your jaw and his thumb brushes the tape. “Breathe for me, baby.”
You close your eyes and focus on your breath and the gentle caress of Joel’s rough hands. Eventually, your breathing becomes normal again, consistent. When you open your eyes, Joel’s looking at you and you think you see a flash of concern cross his face.
“Y’okay?” he asks, waiting for your go ahead.
Nodding a little too excitedly with wide eyes, you lift your hips up and your hands fly to his lower back, trying to press him even close to you. Joel’s hand drops from your face and he wears a smug smile as he throws your legs over his shoulders, now impossibly deep inside of you. You moan, muffled pathetically by the tape.
“Good, ‘cause I gotta keep my word and fuck you real nice.”
Joel grabs a good handful of your thighs, digging his fingers into you, and starts pistoning in and out of your cunt. Your hands fist the sheets, trying to ground yourself as he fucks into you brutally, hitting that sweet, spongey spot deep inside of you. If the duct tape weren’t there to stifle your cries, you’re sure you’d wake up Bill and Frank.
“Much better,” he grunts. “Now I can focus on how fuckin’ nice and tight this cunt is.”
You whimper at his filthy words. Joel has such a mouth on him and you never, ever want him to shut up. Every time he talks to you in bed, you make sure to pay attention, commit it to memory so you can replay it over and over again when you touch yourself.
The tempo he’s set is merciless, his cock slamming into you relentlessly. Your cunt spasms around him and you close your eyes tightly, already feeling that familiar pressure building in your lower belly. Joel notices and he smiles. It’s crooked, smug and exposes his canines. He shifts his angle slightly and rolls his hips into you, groaning quietly. The change earns a wanton moan from you and you arch your back, trying to feel him as deep as possible.
“So damn needy,” he growls. “You were really thinkin’ about this all day, huh?
Joel spreads your legs into a wide V and begins to fuck you slower. You whine, brows pulled tightly as you feel your impending orgasm slip away. His eyes are trained on where his body meets yours, watching his cock, completely coated in your juices, slide in and out of your puffy lips.
“Fuck, sugar.” He exhales. “Look at that. She takes me so well.”
You nod, but you don’t look because you can’t pull your eyes away from Joel. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, broad chest glowing in the moonlight, and you wish you could lean forward and lick the perspiration off of the protruding vein on his neck. Joel’s fucking beautiful.
With your legs spread wide, you feel exposed, but you’re not self conscious. The way Joel’s looking at you, like he could devour you whole, is electric.
He’s still staring at your pussy, enamored, when he gathers his spit in his mouth and lets it fall from his lips, landing directly on your clit. You moan at the sensation, tilting your head back. One of his hands drops to your sensitive bud and he begins smearing the wetness around. The way he rubs your clit with intention is fucking divine and when he starts to fuck you again, you feel that white hot pleasure return.
Joel’s breathing is ragged and you can tell he’s trying not to make too much noise. At this point, you’re not sure if it matters. The bed is faintly creaking, the sound of skin slapping is unmistakable, and although your moans and cries are dampened, you can still hear them.
“Squeezin’ me tight,” he says with a sigh. “Gonna give me another, sugar? C’mon, gimme one more.”
The circling on your clit doesn’t stop for even one second and his hips rocking into you don’t falter—your eyes roll back as you come. Your cunt throbs around Joel’s cock and he groans in response, fucking you erratically through it. The high-pitched cries that pour out of you are softened, but not entirely squashed by the tape. As you come down from your high, Joel pulls out of you abruptly.
Fisting his cock, he mutters your name, sandwiched by expletives that you can’t quite distinguish as your ears are ringing from the aftershocks of your orgasm. You manage to sit up on your elbows to look at Joel and the swollen head of his cock, glistening from your cum. With a final groan, he spills his warm, sticky spend on your lower belly and the hair on your mound.
Joel’s panting as he rolls over next to you, hands coming up to rest on his forehead as he shuts his eyes. You sit there and let him catch his breath, just watching the way his chest rises and falls. Once his breathing decelerates, he opens his eyes and looks over at you—lying there with your mouth taped, covered in his cum.
Turning on his side to face you, he lets out a short, dry laugh that could easily be mistaken as a scoff. In one quick motion, Joel rips the duct tape off.
“Ow—fuck,” you curse under your breath. Your hand comes up to rub the soft yet irritated skin in an attempt to soothe the sting. “That fucking hurt.”
“You’ll live.”
You roll your eyes and go to get up so that you can clean Joel’s mess off of you, but he stops you with a firm grip on your forearm. Annoyed and exhausted, you don’t bother fighting it, letting your head drop back onto the pillow.
Joel’s middle and index finger swipe a long stripe down from your belly to your clit, gathering his cum on his fingers.
“Open,” he instructs.
Without a second thought, your lips part and you let your jaw hang open. Joel sticks his fingers in your mouth and you close around them, eyes fluttering shut as you moan and take in the heady, salty taste of his cum.
“Suck.” You do.
“Swallow.” You do.
Fingers popping out of your mouth lewdly, you feel your cheeks get hot with arousal and a hint of embarrassment. Joel knows how much you liked that and you’re sure he’ll hold it over your head at some point.
“That’s my good girl,” he practically coos. You feel sheepish from the praise, forcing yourself to look away.
Joel reaches over and grabs the shirt he discarded earlier from the floor. Tenderly, or as tenderly as Joel seems to be capable of, he wipes the remainder of his spend off of you. His gaze meets yours and the moment feels charged. Your mouth is slightly agape and you notice his eyes flit to your lips. If there were ever a time for the two of you to kiss, it’s now. A few moments pass, and it doesn’t come.
“Such a gentleman,” you mumble, breaking the silence. “Guess you are on good behavior.”
Whatever trance Joel was caught in is broken and he snaps his eyes away from you. He runs a hand through his sweaty curls.
“Oh, fuck off,” he grumbles.
You smile and roll your eyes, adjusting your bra so it’s back in its proper place, covering your nipples that are still hard. For the first time all day, your mind is blank, too exhausted to think. So you let yourself melt into the bedsheets, pulling the blanket up to cover your mostly bare body. Joel doesn’t move. Joel doesn’t say anything.
The only thing you two can hear as you lie on your backs is the sound of each other’s breathing. At some point, you drift off to sleep.
When you wake in the morning to the birds chirping, Joel is gone. You swear you felt him place a gentle kiss on your temple before leaving a few hours ago, but you might have been dreaming.
Twenty-year-old Y/N returns to the ruins of District 12, seeking something—anything—of the life she lost. Grieving, self-contained, and carrying the weight of a brutal past, she finds herself quietly drawn into the lives of Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch. As unexpected friendships form and long-buried parts of herself begin to resurface, Y/N starts to wonder if it’s still possible for something soft to survive the wreckage.
Pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader (romantic), Katniss Everdeen x Female!Reader (platonic), Peeta Mellark x Female!Reader (platonic)
Warnings: themes of grief, past emotional and verbal abuse from a parent, past physical abuse from a parent, past self-harm (cutting), past alcoholism (Y/N) / ongoing alcoholism (Haymitch), references to non-consensual sexual experiences (no explicit scenes), PTSD, mental health struggles, age gap romance between adults (20s and 40s), eventual smut, death, descriptions of death/gore, mentions of bombing, descriptions of district 12 after the bombing, might be slightly divergent from canon, peeta was not hijacked
All heavy topics are treated with care, but reader discretion is advised.
this is basically just a suuuuper long slow burn friends to lovers. Y/N’s backstory is very detailed but i have not and will not describe her appearance. the first 5 or 6 chapters are basically just providing Y/N’s background and building a foundation for the rest of the story.
Shadows of the Past - Six months after the Second Rebellion, you return to the ruins of District 12. Haunted by memories and loss, you wander through the wreckage—until a flicker of light draws you toward something, or someone, unexpected.
Fragments of Home - In the unfamiliar stillness of Victor’s Village, you find yourself cared for by an old friend and a stranger. As wounds are tended to, new connections begin to take root—quiet, cautious, and strange in their kindness.
The Space Between - You move through the stillness of what remains, caught between memory and reality. In the space left by loss, something quieter begins to grow—unspoken understanding, and the first fragile steps toward connection.
The Club - A nightmare drives you outside in the dead of night—and you’re not the only one who couldn’t sleep. An unexpected conversation beneath the stars begins to chip away at the walls you’ve built.
The Quiet Shift - You wake to a new day and begin to settle into your new reality. A simple visit turns into something more, as laughter and conversation spark the beginnings of something long forgotten: friendship.
Porchlight - Three months into your return, you’ve slipped into a quiet routine—baking with Peeta, trading late-night banter with Haymitch. But comfort doesn’t come easy, and even the smallest moments of ease shine like a porchlight in the dark.
The Shape of Warmth - You spend the day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—what begins with a truth leads into something softer, steadier. Something that feels almost like belonging.
Shoulder to Shoulder - The weight of your thoughts pulls you under, but an unexpected knock reminds you that not all doors stay closed. Some nights don’t feel as heavy when you’re not alone.
Dust and Danish - The distance between you and the people around you is starting to shrink. Not all at once—but in the soft space of banter, taste testing, and old memories that still ache. You don’t trust it yet. But you’re trying.
Mint and Memory - You spend the morning in the woods learning the quiet language of herbs, your scars aching in more ways than one. In the comfort of kitchen light and soft laughter, something fragile and steady begins to form. But even in the warmth, some voices still echo.
What’s Waiting Inside - You leave with a smile that doesn’t quite reach, and a voice in your head that cuts too deep. But when you ask not to be alone, you’re met with quiet understanding—and something steady enough to lean on.
Something Real - As summer settles in, so do you. What once felt unfamiliar begins to feel like home. You spend a day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—harvesting herbs, sharing dinner, teasing each other in the living room. And somewhere in the middle of the quiet laughter and small comforts, you realize you’re not surviving anymore. You’re living.
Almost Subtle - A quiet afternoon puzzle turns into something softer—shared teasing, easy silences, and the kind of presence that lingers longer than either of you mean it to. When Katniss and Peeta suggest a trip to the lake, you drag Haymitch along, sun and sarcasm pulling something looser from him. You see him—truly see him—and say something you didn’t mean to. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe neither of you do.
She Fell First - You wake up with one goal: figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Why does your heart do gymnastics every time Haymitch talks? Why do you want to be near him 24/7 like some kind of emotionally confused barnacle? Naturally, you barge into Peeta’s house to demand answers and are promptly diagnosed with a crush. Disgusting. Mortifying.
Totally Chill - You’re totally fine. Completely normal. Not at all losing your mind over accidentally massaging mint balm into Haymitch Abernathy’s scarred, shirtless stomach. Nope. Nothing to see here. Except maybe the part where you sprint to Peeta’s house afterward to dramatically declare your emotional demise. Totally. Chill.
Paper Spine - The sharpness guts you like it always has—like it did before anyone ever said your name gently. You fold, crumple, unravel. And when the panic finally breaks you wide open, all you can do is hold your chest and hope it doesn’t stay like this forever.
Back to Steady - A few days after everything cracked open, you find your way back to normal—soft sarcasm, warm tea, and limbs pressed a little too close on an old couch.
Pinecone Problems - You spend the day with Katniss and Peeta, basking in cinnamon bread, emotional whiplash, and whatever flavor of denial you’re currently fermenting. Feelings are talked about. Trauma is unpacked. And Haymitch—unfortunately—still exists, looking unfairly good doing absolutely nothing. You’re not in love. You’re just dramatically inconvenienced.
Pinecone Emergency - You’re pretty sure spraining your ankle after dramatically chasing Haymitch through the woods wasn’t part of your character arc, and yet—here you are, face down in the grass, in pain, in denial, and in love. Probably. Unfortunately.
He Fell Harder - Haymitch starts the night in a classic spiral—staring at a wall, brooding about feelings he definitely didn’t mean to catch. Then Y/N shows up at his door (again), and things only get worse. Or better. It’s hard to tell when she’s stealing his couch, insulting his snacks, and looking entirely too good while doing it. He’s not in love. Definitely not. He just… likes her a little. A lot. Maybe forever. Who knows.
Storm Spirit and Sunshine - You feel the storm coming in your knees and immediately decide it’s your entire personality. Haymitch thinks you’ve lost it—until the sky starts throwing tantrums and the power goes out. Cue unexpected darkness, shared candlelight, emotional trauma bonding, and accidental (but very intentional) hand-holding. Turns out, thunder’s not so scary when you’ve got a grumpy ex-victor and his veiny arms beside you.
Tension? What Tension? - You go to the lake to cool off, not to feel warm all over. But between the splashing, the teasing, and a few glances that linger a little too long, things start to shift. It’s just a normal day with friends. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing. Except maybe it is. Not that you’ll admit it.
Don’t Ask Me How I Slept - Something wakes you in the dark. You follow it upstairs and find more than you expected. A name, a moment, a quiet unraveling. You stay. And when morning comes, everything feels a little different—though no one says it out loud.
Just One Good Day - It starts with laughter and leans too close to something real. For a moment, it almost feels safe—almost. But soft things are fragile, and you learn again how quickly warmth can vanish. When the silence finally breaks, it leaves you reaching for someone who’s still here.
One Good Day, Gone - You try to hold onto something soft. He tries to push it all away. But some silences say more than words, and when the quiet settles, it leaves you both with nothing but the truth—and the space where one good day used to be.
As Long As It Takes - You don’t expect to see him. He doesn’t expect you to stay. But when the night unravels and the ghosts are named, you offer him the one thing he’s never been able to ask for—time. You don’t know what this is. You just know you’ll wait. As long as it takes.
Casual, Right? - You and Haymitch are fine. Totally normal. Just two emotionally stable people moving a table and not at all panicking about how close you’re sitting. But when the teasing turns soft and the space between you disappears, you start to wonder if pretending it’s casual is getting harder to believe. Especially when Peeta and Katniss walk in and feel every inch of tension in the room.
This Year is Different - On the day before his birthday—and what would’ve been another reaping—Haymitch starts to unravel. You stay. Through the silence, the memory, the ache. And by the end of the night, with moonlight on the sheets, something shifts. He lets you in. You let yourself stay.
I Hope It Keeps Becoming - On the morning after everything shifts, you wake to the warmth of something you’re scared to name. There’s laughter. There’s teasing. There’s a quiet moment where something almost happens. And later, after the chaos settles and the kitchen quiets, you let yourself hope this softness might stay.
What We’ve Been Becoming - A quiet day drifts into something warmer, softer—something that feels a little too good to question. You spend it in good company, with laughter and teasing and quiet truths. But when the evening settles and it’s just the two of you again, something finally shifts in the stillness you’ve both learned to trust.
Now, Not Then - You wake up from the past like it never left you. But this time, you’re not alone. And even when the words won’t come, he stays—gentle, steady, and real. This is now. Not then.
Without Needing to Say It - You end the night wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something that feels a lot like love. You both haven’t said the words. But you don’t need to. Not when it’s already there—in the way you touch, the way you stay, the way you keep choosing each other. Again and again.
Clinginess Is a Symptom - He’s got a minor fever and a major case of “don’t leave my side.” You make the tea, the soup, the rules—and he, apparently, makes whiny affection into an art form.
The First Time It’s Safe - In the quiet before sunrise, wrapped in shared breath and steady hands, you and Haymitch finally speak the truth that’s been living between you for months.
Soft Things Stay - You and Haymitch settle into something slow and safe—until Katniss and Peeta burst in, convinced you’re dead. The rest of the day is filled with teasing, toast, and sunlight, the four of you slipping into a rhythm that feels like home.
Soot Sprite - You return to the ruins of District 12 for the first time since coming home, with Peeta beside you. The walk is harder than you expect—but softer, too. Just as the past begins to settle, a reminder of the settling past latches to your leg.
Did You Just Whimper? - With Soot spending the night at Katniss and Peeta’s, you and Haymitch finally get the alone time you’ve been craving.
We Are Not a Normal Family - Soot causes chaos. Peeta makes up a game with no rules. Haymitch suffers. You laugh until it hurts. And for a moment, under stars and mismatched blankets, you remember what it feels like to belong.
"Don’t you dare let it spill," he murmured, his voice dark with authority as he held your legs wide open, his firm grip biting into the soft flesh of your thighs. His thumb grazed your swollen clit, a teasing pressure that sent a shiver through your overstimulated body.
His other hand rested low on your stomach, pressing lightly as though to feel how deeply he’d claimed you. “You’re going to hold it all, aren’t you? My good girl… so eager to take every drop.” The words were a slow, syrupy drawl that made your breath hitch.
Your body trembled under him, still pulsing from the last orgasm that had left you shattered and needy. He tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked grin as he watched a thin trickle escape. “Tsk. Look at that. So messy.” His fingers trailed down, gathering the warm evidence of his dominance and pushing it back inside with deliberate slowness.
The sensation made you jolt, a strangled moan spilling from your lips. “Oh, no. We’re not done,” he purred, his tone soft but laced with the promise of more. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You’ll stay full of me until I say so.”
He shifted slightly, aligning himself against your entrance again, the blunt heat of him teasing where you were already stretched and sensitive. “One more time. Just to make sure it sticks.” His voice was velvety, filled with a dark amusement that sent a fresh wave of arousal spiraling through you.
When he pushed in again, slow but unyielding, your back arched off the bed, a desperate gasp escaping your lips. “That’s it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knee, “Let me fill you up properly this time.”
Every movement was unhurried, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to watch you unravel. His eyes never left yours, and the intensity of his gaze made it impossible to look away. “You’re going to look so beautiful,” he mused, his hands splaying across your hips to keep you in place. “All round and swollen with my baby. Isn’t that right?”
Your breath came in ragged gasps, the combination of his words and his relentless thrusts driving you toward the edge again. The heat building inside you was unbearable, overwhelming, but he wouldn’t let up—he was relentless in claiming every last part of you.
“Say it,” he demanded, his tone dipping into something more primal. “Say you want it. Tell me you’ll take everything I give you.”
You whimpered, barely coherent, your body too far gone to resist. “I’ll take it,” you gasped, clinging to him as though he were the only thing anchoring you. “I’ll take all of you—please, I need it.”
Dom Emily prentiss x intern fem reader is all i ask!! Smutty ofc, a lil bit of a humiliation kink if you’re comfortable!!! Thank yewww
Packing Heat
One shot | Criminal Minds Masterlist | Masterlists
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily Prentiss x fem!Reader
Genre: Smut
Words: 4.8k+
Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, strap-ons (r!receiving), semi-public sex (office sex, again…), praise, degradation, mommy kink, kind of dub-con at one point, top!Emily, bottom!reader
Summary: Interning at the BAU means you don’t interact with the person in charge a lot. Of course, this doesn’t mean you haven’t seen the section chief in passing or exchanged pleasantries; it's that they’re simple, short-lived and often anti-climatic. However one evening, you find yourself in the desolate office with no chance of going home, work to be done, but no one to sit with you through the process. With only one other soul residing on the sixth floor, it seems Emily may be your best bet for company.
A/n: Listen, could she be more dom? Yes. Is there any humiliation? Not really... But I got lost while writing, so please don't be mad at me... Hope you still enjoy!
When you'd first started at the BAU, it was safe to say you hadn't seen much of the woman calling the shots. There were always updates about when the team were taken out of state, what their cases would entail, the steady progress being made, and the brief comical encounters Garcia spewed around the office. When they were back, everyone made an effort to small talk. They welcomed you well and continued to appreciate the little things you did for them daily. Emily, however, was constantly on the go, meaning every encounter you'd had with her consisted of one-way glances and hopeful smiles in the event she decided to notice her surroundings and the human lifeform less than two metres away.
She never did, though, until one uneventful evening.
Almost everyone had vacated the building. The only remaining souls left on the sixth floor were you, Emily, and a one-person cleaning crew—whom you watched exit through glass doors before approaching the brunette's office with shaky knees. Peeking through the window, you saw her attention dart to and from the bright computer screen to the mountains of bureaucratic paperwork lying atop her desk. It was easy to get lost in the little creases between her eyebrows, brought out by the deep scowl she wore, the delicate way her fingers were woven together, and the pads of her thumbs skirting against one another as she pondered in deep thought.
It was nearing eight, and you were struggling to understand how someone could appear so put together at this late hour, given that their day was most certainly jam-packed with non-stop slog.
Emily's eyes suddenly flashed up. She squinted toward her door, trying to figure out who'd be here this late other than herself. When she appeared to have worked it out, she leaned back victoriously in her chair, a smug smile on her face, when she called out, "Are you going to stand out there all night?"
You could have done two things: scurried off like a teenager caught peeping or held your chin up high and walked into the older woman's office with little to no shame. Somehow, you managed to do a mix of both, scurrying in with sagging shoulders, a guilty smile plastered on your face and trembling hands clasping your laptop over your chest.
"Well, it's eerily quiet out there, and I would go home to write this paper. It's just that my roommate and her boyfriend have an awful tendency to forget about volume control when they're—" You cut yourself off, realising it probably wasn't appropriate to talk to your boss about your roommate's over-the-top borderline pornographic soundscape. "I was wondering if I could, you know."
Emily, satirising as ever, waited with a raised eyebrow and a relaxed smile for you to continue your purposefully unfinished question.
"Sorry, I should let you work." You surrendered to your weak resolve with flushed cheeks and began to turn around.
"Sit," she ordered before you had fully turned back around to the door, nodding to the available chair on the other side of her desk. Her eyes followed your journey to the seat, watching as you placed your laptop down and opened it with shaky fingers. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to her work. "I could do with some company."
The following silence, starting as unsettling and stagnant, blossomed into something warm and comfortable. There were occasional glances thrown your way and vice versa. Their acknowledgement and appreciation were shown in the form of timid smiles on your end and double takes followed by teasing smirks on Emily's.
When half an hour had passed, your shoulders had finally relaxed, your fingers had stopped their infernal twitching, and your paper neared its completion. There was a proud smile cresting, and you were trying to prevent it from forming, knowing how dorkish it made you look. But you knew there was no hope when your cheeks ached and your jaw locked. You granted yourself the freedom to display your gloating smile.
Just as expected, Emily had a questioning look on her face when you dared to look up from the document. There was a playfulness to the upward quirk of her lips - the superiority of a predator knowing the power they have over their prey, ready to prove it at any given moment.
"I've almost finished," you timidly admitted, feeling obligated to explain as heat infiltrated your jutted-out cheeks.
Without a second thought, the ravenette stood up and made her way around the desk. She could have easily chosen to turn the laptop around. Instead, she took the far more intimate route.
Soft curves grazed your shoulder blades, causing you to shiver. The weight finally settled, soft padding pressed flat against your back as Emily read your paper, and suddenly, your stomach had worked itself into looping knots, and your heart was racing.
The struggle continued as you fought not to fidget, if only to alleviate the growing tension mounting between your thighs. This was only made worse when Emily's right hand left the back of your chair to drop down over your shoulder and land comfortably on your thigh.
"Such a smart girl," she whispered sultrily into the shell of your ear, squeezing generous flesh between her fingers.
With a scrambled brain, there was little fight to be put up against the meek whimper that crackled against the constricted lining of your throat. Subconsciously, your thighs tensed, and your pussy fluttered as you were reminded how close Emily's hand was to where you could only dream she'd touch.
You'd thought you imagined it—the subtle shift in the room from breezy and light to torrid and all-consuming, but with Emily's fingers veering off course, inching higher and higher, reality came crashing down.
"Thank you," you struggled to get the words out, and when they did come out, they were tremulous and feeble.
Turning to look at her may have, in hindsight, been a mistake because where her gaze should have been fixed on the laptop screen, it was glued to your lips. Unexpectedly, your stomach flipped, and you felt dizzy. She was still superbly perfect up close, skin smooth like silk, cheekbones sharp as a razor, and lips cut from velvet. It was too close, dangerously so, you had to look away. Outside the window, you spotted a swarm of birds barely visible against the night sky. You ignored the clanking of your heart as you focussed on their synchronicity, watching them circle each other until they became one big blur of messy movements.
The hand resting on the leather backing of your chair rose, skirting up and over your neck, until a firm grip was established around your dangling ponytail. She was gentle when she tugged, aware that though she wanted to educate you in the art of being owned, you were delicate.
"I think a pretty thing like you deserves a reward," she baited. "Don't you?"
Her grip on you may have been physical. However, a stronger pull was coming from deep within you, an unimportant piece of scrap metal drawn in by a powerful magnet. It was useless to deny her. The mesmerising glow of her chocolate eyes and the promise of being made to feel special was too powerful. So, you nodded slowly but eagerly, desire painting your eyes dark shades of lust.
"That's a good girl."
Emily didn't miss how you preened at the praise and safely stored that information away for further use. She shifted to your side, hands migrating to the small of your waist, guiding you to your feet. The act of it was far gentler than you'd expected, like a gentleman asking a maiden to dance, sweeping her off her feet to whisk her away into a fairytale land filled with magic and romance.
Certain the benign treatment would be short-lived, you granted yourself the leniency to enjoy it whilst it lasted, refusing to get too caught up in the dull ache between your legs that craved the form of savagery Emily displayed in the field.
There was nothing short of passion in how she worked. It drove you crazy. As wrong as it felt, you couldn't help but envy the dirtbag the team was working to catch because you saw how badly the brunette wanted them. The look in her eyes, gratification and disgust all at once, when she'd achieved what she set out to do and was staring the devil right in the face - it made your heart race, your palms sweat and your cunt throb.
The memory kickstarted what could only be described as a brutal attack upon the older woman's lips. To her credit, Emily indulged the outburst for a lot longer than you'd have thought. As if she'd expected it, she quickly responded, pulling you into her body and tilting her head to the side to deepen the kiss. The lead was stolen promptly from your grasp when Emily wedged a leg between your thighs, backed you up against her desk and tactically slid her tongue into your gaped mouth. You would have gasped if not for the fact you were immediately indulged in the minty taste of your boss's tongue skirting over the roof of your mouth. So much so that you scarcely noticed the pressure coming from your core was no longer just a phantom need manifested but taut clothed muscle pressing you further and further into the sharp wooden edge of the desk.
"Emily," you breathily moaned, pulling back and separating your kiss-swollen lips from the brunette's. Ordinarily, you wouldn't have allowed what happened next to occur, but this was Emily, after all, the BAU section chief, and if you were to let anyone order you about, it would be her.
She backed away from you with a final nip to your bottom lip, letting it go with a pop, and you fought the urge to reach out and pull her back to you. You knew you'd already tried to take things into your own hands once, and doing so again may undermine any chances you had of keeping the ball rolling on tonight's affairs.
You could feel the tight pull of your ponytail and all the places where hair had been lead array from the confines of your hairband, and it truly dawned on you how out of sorts you must have appeared. Tracing your fingers over your lips, you could make out how swollen they were - puffy and hot, yet desperate and pouted, begging for more. Your breathing was laboured, filling the room's silence, and your shirt suddenly felt too tight as your chest expanded with each intake of oxygen. It almost came as a relief when Emily opened her mouth to finally speak until you heard what she'd said.
"Take your clothes off," she mindlessly ordered, walking around to her chair and sitting back in it. Her eager eyes trained over your body with the faintest shimmer of mirth.
Initially, it was a shock. Of course, it was. You were in an official government building, personnel still sparsely spread throughout, and a goddess of a woman was asking you to bare yourself to her.
For the longest time, revealing your body to someone always felt like giving up something. Perhaps some kind of purity. The moment you gave it up, it bred only guilt and shame that twisted and pulled at the pit of your stomach until you felt sick. You stood there, waiting for that feeling to come. It never did.
Remaining still, your body pulsed not with nerves but with exhilaration and anticipation. It took a few seconds to realise this was precisely what you wanted. You wanted to give this false sense of purity away. There was not a sudden influx of courage soaring through every living cell of your body. However, there was enough for you to put on a front and do as you were told.
"Slowly." Emily sat further back and placed her elbows neatly over the arms of her chair. She laced her fingers together, offered you an encouraging nod, and then was back to watching you raptly.
Feeling like a glutton, you followed a path of desire and heeded Emily's request, fingers increasingly fumbling over each button of your shirt.
"So obedient." And in no way was it said negatively; the adulatory smile she gave you only sought to prove that further.
The way she looked at you made you feel as though you were already naked. Maybe that was why it was so easy to get lost in the subtlety of undressing. It was art, and you were a performer. That's what you told yourself. And for the most part, it worked.
With closed eyes, you trailed your fingers over your shoulders, letting your shirt drop to the floor. The AC raised goosebumps over your chest, pebbled your nipples under your plain bra, and you smiled. You smiled because this was the most alive you had felt in months. The thrill of moving on to your slacks and deftly unclasping your belt felt like being on a rollercoaster, like missing a step and laughing fear in the face afterwards. You felt utterly fearless.
In the back of your mind, you could sense Emily's eyes still on you. You could hear her moving around but didn't think to check her reaction. You were in your element, and far be it for a look of appraisal, or lack of, to stop you. That was until your trousers hit the carpet with a soft thud, and a sharp breath was heard from across you.
Your eyes snapped open, and you found Emily's smile was absent. The brunette now had her bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she looked you up and down, knuckles white from her deadly grip over the armrests.
She lifted a hand, palm facing the ceiling as her index and middle finger crooked. "Come here so I can get a proper look at you," she said, slightly breathless.
The desk had conveniently covered the lower half of Emily's body, which meant that when you circled around and came to stand next to her, you could see exactly what the earlier ruffling had been about.
"Is that?" You froze, both shocked and utterly intrigued by the thick black dildo jutting out from the older woman's opened slacks.
She didn't need you to finish the question, already nodding as she followed your line of sight. Leaning forward with an outstretched arm, Emily coiled her fingers around your wrist and pulled you forward, causing you to almost stumble over your own feet. At this closer distance, you could tell the faux cock would give you a run for your money. It was thicker than anything you had taken before, though that was not a hard trophy to earn, given that the most you had let anyone put inside you was three fingers.
"Do you want to come sit on mommy's lap?" Emily asked with a tilt of her head.
She didn't miss how your breath caught in your throat, how you seemed to stop blinking, stop moving, stop existing.
"Are you scared?" the lioness asked, sights set on her prized fawn.
You shook your head and placed one foot in front of the other, eyes downcast as you took in the size of Emily's additional appendage. The shake of your jaw gave you away.
"I don't like being lied to," she snapped, eyes dimming to an even darker shade of brown.
She pulled you in by your waist and sat you on her lap, cock brushing over the thin material of your underwear. Instinctively, you wedged your bottom lip between your teeth to quiet yourself. But Emily wasn't having any of it. Her thumb came to your captive lip, where she helped release it with a soft flick.
The smooth texture of Emily's cock through your sodden panties was a needed relief. Its head purposefully pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves evoked a flurry of shivers to run down your spine. And with nothing holding you back, you moaned in gratitude.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Emily smirked, watching you rut against her.
"Yes," you uttered, breath caught in your throat.
Happy to watch, Emily relaxed her shoulders and leaned back, enjoying the show you were putting on for her. Only when she recognised the tell-tell signs of frustration wash over your features, from your creased brow to the bite of your lip between your teeth, did a sick smirk lick the edges of her lips. With a mischievous glint shining in her eyes, the older woman shifted her position, pointedly ignoring the sound it pulled from you.
"Something wrong?" she asked with a hitch of one eyebrow, adamant to appear oblivious.
You gave no reply, only held tight to her shoulders in defiance and continually ground down on her, trying so hard to pleasure yourself to no avail that your eyes began to sting with the emergence of tears.
With sweat threatening to spill down the side of your face, the tension between your legs starting to ache, and your release nowhere near in sight, you threw your head back with a sigh and whispered a quiet 'please' to the ceiling.
"Please what?" Came the dull reply, tone bored, unamused, unimpressed.
You tried to impale yourself, failing as strong hands held you down. It was driving you crazy—pleasure being so close yet so far.
With one hand removed from your hip, Emily gripped your jaw and turned your attention solely to her stern gaze, "Are you going to stop being a brat and tell me what you want?"
When no answer came, she let go, jerking your head back as if disgusted with the lack of compliance.
"Get up."
Ice, you were made of ice. Sat still, shocked, speechless and slightly mortified.
"Do I need to repeat myself?" Emily's voice was no longer flat; it was not roaring either. Instead, it was layered, resembling the same barbed tone a teacher might use with a disobedient student. It was enough of a motivator to get you to rise to your feet.
Following you closely, the older woman, too, rose to her full height, hands meticulously reaching behind your back to expertly relieve you of your bra. Never once did she look you in the eye.
With the same callous approach, you were turned and pressed against the desk, papers sticking to your heated chest. Emily was quick to loop her fingers through the hem of your underwear and slip them down your thighs, allowing gravity to do the rest.
The full-bodied presence behind you lessened, and you took it as the opportune moment to glance back.
The brunette had let her trousers drop to the floor, allowing you to see how her porcelain skin was directly contrasted by the black leather of her strap-on. Unlike yourself, she did not appear nervous or afraid. As she kicked the tailored pants aside and met your gaze, you realised how in control she was.
Her gaze moved down your body, hands running down your back, until finally, she pressed herself against you and lowered her body atop yours.
"I can feel how wet you are," she teased, running two fingers through the mess between your legs. "Are you always this wet?"
"Emily, please," you begged.
"I asked before, please what?" She raked five fingers down your side, moving them back up till they wound tightly in your hair and gripped your neck to an uncomfortable arch. Two fingers pushed inside you but did no more than that, remaining still as stone. "If you're going to be a baby and refuse to tell me what you want, you'll get nothing."
"Fuck me!" You no longer had the sound of mind to acknowledge shouting something vulgar could attract attention. Logic had evaded you, allowing you to play right into your boss's hands. "Please just fuck me."
Sliding her slick fingers out of you, she proudly stated, "That wasn't hard, was it?"
If the older woman wanted an answer, she did not allow for one. In one fluid motion, she rose from over you and snapped her hips forward, sheathing the entire length of her cock into your cunt. Your breath caught in your throat, resulting in a strained groan tumbling out of your open mouth. The pit of your stomach dropped, and try as you might have not to clench around the toy inside you, you did precisely that.
It was new, the foreign feeling of being filled so fully that one slight move would summon pleasure that sent shivers through your whole body. It wasn't unwelcome, especially when Emily started to move, and heat engulfed your entire body. Her pace was languid, allowing you to feel each slide of her cock along your slick walls, how each push of her hips ended in the tip hitting the spot within you to cause the furling in your stomach to expand tenfold. It was all you could do not to scream when the push and pull and Emily's hips moved with more purpose, jerking your body into the edge of her desk.
"I've barely started, and you're already dripping down your thighs." Her voice was laced with mirth, finger smearing your mess as if to prove an unnecessary point that had your cheeks burning up. "How long have you been thinking about this?" Emily finished her question with an arduous thrust. "How many times have you sunk your fingers into your pussy and thought of me?"
The questions continued, each hitting the nail right on the head. Your cheeks were scorched with the embarrassment that comes with having your desires known and exposed, but it did not take hold of your conscience as the event of falling in front of a large crowd might have. It was comparable to how a blushing maiden may feel when caught by a suitor in only their undergarments. It excited that small part of you that gave in to demoralisation and encouraged you enough to meet Emily halfway as she thrust into you.
As your pleasure mounted, the need for more grew. Your clit, swollen and needy, begged for relief, and you beckoned to its call, sliding one hand from above your head to the juncture between your legs. It was when the tips of your fingers brushed against your sensitive pearl and you gained the briefest taste of the euphoria that Emily removed her hand from your thigh and snatched your hand away, halting all movement.
You could have cried, having everything, then nothing, so quickly.
"Did I say you could do that?"
Abruptly pulling out, Emily stood tall and proud, staring down at you with curiosity and disappointment lining the brown of her eyes. She heard you whimper and acknowledged your sniffle.
"There's no need to cry," she tutted, flipping you onto your back and lifting you by your shoulders. "You're going to listen to me from now on."
You nodded, and she once again lined her cock to your opening, only now she waited, taunting you with possibilities.
"Beg," she instructed.
And you heeded.
"Please. I need you."
"You can do better." She sounded bored, and this struck a nerve within you, one that begged you to impress her, show her you could be a good little girl, and beg as though your life depended on it.
You took a heaving breath and looked into Emily's eyes, sporting your best puppy eyes. "I need you. I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me with your big cock, mommy. Make me scream out your name. I need it."
"There's a good pet," she cooed, mesmerising you with the bating of her lashes as she looked down to where your bodies were so close to touching.
It all happened in a blur. The next thing you knew, your nails were digging into muscled shoulders, legs wrapping around a slim waist as the brunette filled you, wasting no time in picking up a brutal tempo. You barely recognised the sound of your voice as high-pitched obscenities spilt past your lips. You felt your whole body light up, heard blood pulse in your ears, and saw in real-time just how easy it was to aid Emily in calling upon your impending orgasm.
Your vulgar mouth, luckily, seemed to amuse Emily enough for her to let you continue rutting your hips against her. The corners of her lips curled, and her smirk lasted only so long for you to see before she inched forward and kissed you with passion and hunger. It was easy, so easy, to melt into the brief moment of intimacy. The butterflies felt tangible, and the sparks crackled in your ears; it felt so fucking good you'd almost forgotten just where you were. Of course, bubbles eventually popped, and this one was demolished by rustling outside Emily's office.
What little movement Emily allowed, her hands holding you firmly against the desk by your waist, was not enough to wriggle free and glance behind to see what was happening. Instead, the possibility of being caught weighed heavier with each drawled-out second.
"Emily," You tried but were cut off by a tongue sliding into your mouth. "Emily, stop."
With a bite to your lip, the older woman backed off, confusion marking her features, "What is it?" she punctuated her question with a hard thrust.
"Someone's o-" another hard thrust. "Someone's outside."
Emily smiled, picking up her pace, forcing you to breathe so deep you felt your lungs expand.
"You'd better be quiet then."
Whatever protest you were about to give died in your throat when nails skirted up to your chest and dug painfully into your breast, and Emily pushed herself so deep within you that you felt her hitting your cervix. A strangled cry was briefly heard before you managed to clasp your hand over your lips and silence your own mewls. She was fucking you as if her life depended on getting a reaction out of you that would draw attention. Nevertheless, you held firm and stayed as quiet as your muffled sobs would allow you to be.
"Emily, please," you were pleading for release and for the brutal fucking stop because you knew there would be no chance you could keep a lid on your volume; there would also be no chance you would survive not cumming.
Taking note of this, the older woman took the route of giving you your release, dragging a thumb down over your clit and applying the right amount of pressure to have your tense legs turn into a shaky mess of tremors. She didn't stop there; with a brief slide, she ran your slick over your bundle of nerves and started to circle steadily.
"Fuck!" You screamed out, missing the way the ruffling outside suddenly stopped. "I'm cumming. I'm cumming."
"That's it," the brunette encouraged, her fingers coming up to crook and tangle through the mussed mess of your hair, nails slowly working against your scalp. "Let everyone hear what a slut you are, letting me fuck you over my desk."
She didn't stop, though, not when your clit felt raw and your pussy tender, not when you begged and not even when you reached out and tried to grab her wrist. Emily only yanked you down by your hair, relishing the thud the brutal move made. She fucked you harder till stationary fell to the floor from your thrashing arms, and by then, her lips were already wrapped around a nipple, sucking firm whilst you cried through a second orgasm.
When you finally felt empty, you didn't even try to open your eyes. You knew your vision would be blurred if not blacked out. Instead, you focussed on coming back down to earth, steading your breath and not thinking about how you strangely missed being filled by Emily despite being so fucking sore.
"Are you still alive?" a smug voice asked from above, and you pried your bleary eyes open to weakly smile.
"I think so," you whispered, peeling your sweat-slick back from the desk. That was when you remembered the unknown personnel outside and shot a look at the door.
"They're gone," Emily said, cupping your chin and turning you back to her. Again, you were greeted by that conniving smirk. "After your commentary, I think they understood we didn't want to be disturbed."
"But-"
"Uh-uh." she silenced you with a finger to your lips, the smell of yourself still narrowly fragrant. You took the digit into your mouth, patting yourself on the back as you watched Emily's eyes turn dark. "You want to make Mommy feel good now, don't you?" She knew the answer, but oh, how she loved to watch you sink to your knees and eagerly nod anyway. You helped unclasp the straps of her harness, then set to pealing the last barrier keeping you from her heat down her legs.
"My good little pet," she said, smiling down at you and happily watching you beam. Her hand cupped your jaw before moving to the back of your neck, where she pulled you to her core and began singing a melody of moans.
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Telling Emily about your less-than-adequate one-night stand had been a mistake. After being short with everyone for the whole day, she finally confronted you about the change in attitude and you confessed the guy you brought home the night before had gotten off without returning the favor.
She had asked when was your last orgasm and you had to think about it before telling her it had been a while. With that reply, she dragged you to the closest mall. That's how you ended up in front of a Spencer's.
You raised an eyebrow at Emily, sighing loudly as you reluctantly followed her inside. "Seriously, Em? I think I could've just bought a vibrator online or something."
"That could take days to come and you clearly need this now." Emily leads you to the back section, giving you a look. "Don't argue with me, you yelled at Rossi after he got your coffee order wrong today."
"I literally have no memory of that," you replied, trying to think if that situation had happened. "I didn't even drink coffee today."
Emily holds up an "I love Milfs" t-shirt briefly. "Because you threw it in the garbage after cussing him out in Italian. Rossi teaching you Italian really came back to bite his ass today."
"Whatever," you said, a twinge of guilt crawling into your heart. You shrugged it off knowing he'd understand and you made a mental note to get him his favorite bottle of wine to make up for it.
As you entered the back, you looked through all the dildos and vibrators lined up against the wall. Emily held up a purple dildo, reading through the description while you looked at the unimpressive dildo and vibrator wall decor, none really vibing with you.
"This one says it vibrates and is supposed to feel realistic," she mumbles, eyes narrowing as she reads through the instructions. "Six inches though, I think you can take more than that right?"
You giggled, unable to hold in a laugh. "I don't really want to think about Barney's small dick vibrating in my cunt when I want to cum, Em. Or Thanos for that matter."
She makes a face, putting the purple vibrating dildo back. "What a strange image. Thanks for ruining Barney for me."
Chuckling, you check out the lingerie a nearby mannequin is wearing. It's black and lacy, and while it holds up the titties, it's see-through and the panties are crotchless. Taking off its panties, you hold it up to your body. "Hey, this is cute isn't it?"
"Very cute, you should get it," Emily responds, looking through the hundred dildo options.
"Yes, you should."
You freeze, your ears instantly knowing who that voice belonged to. Emily looks behind you without turning her head, holding back a laugh at your clear mortification. A second passes and you turn around to see Aaron fucking Hotchner, your stoic boss and friend standing in front of you, looking at the lingerie you had pressed up against you.
You can't help but laugh awkwardly. "Hotch? What're you doing here?"
He's amused and you can tell because he's eyes are twinkling and the corner of his lips are twitching as if fighting the urge to smile. "I was picking something up for Jessica at Bath and Body Works when I saw you guys and wanted to say ... hi.”
"Wonderful." you deadpanned, placing the crotchless panties back on top of the mannequin's head.
Before either of you could say anything else, Emily joins in, a smile so smug and big it would've been hard to miss from space. "I'm going to look at that section of toys. Maybe you'll like a blue one instead so you can imagine it's Jake Sully instead."
She's too far away when you think about slapping her, already moving towards the side section of even more vibrators and dildos, a few naughty shirts display that separated you and Hotch from her. After glaring a hole into the back of her head, you turned back to Hotch, wanting nothing more than to melt on the floor and die.
"I-" you start, unable to finish; just like the night before.
He begins to look through the wall of sex toys, brows furrowing at the choices. Your cheeks redden when he picks up the infamous rose vibrator momentarily before placing it back down. It looked so tiny in his big hands and you wanted nothing more than to have his big hands in you. "What kind of toys do you like?"
It takes you a second to comprehend his question, still stuck on him seeing you shopping for things a boss should never know about his employees. "Um, whatever, really. I haven't really had one since college."
Hotch nods as if you were talking about a case and not about orgasming on a fucking sex toy. "I see."
You watch in silence as he studies the choices again, fully concentrated. He picks up a packaged dildo, regular colored, and holds it up to inspect it. You watch him eye the silicone dick before placing it back and picking up an identical one, only this one is thicker and wider.
"So ... you ever try one of these before with someone?" you asked, unable to deal with the silence but now wishing you hadn't spoken after that horrible sentence.
Thankfully, he chuckles, eyes not straying from the description on the packaging. "No, I haven't. I never really did have the time or someone who was willing to try something like this out."
"Ahh," you reply like a fucking idiot.
After another few moments of inspecting the dildo, he hands it to you with a smile. You take it instinctively, confused and gobsmacked at the gesture. His eyes are twinkling with amusement and something else you can't place. "That one should be the closest."
It’s about eight inches long, quite thick and has veins decorating the length. The head of it is big and you nearly salivate at the thought of getting off to it tonight.
"The closest to what?"
Hotch just grins in return and starts to turn away and walk out. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have fun.”
Summary: For months, you and SSA Aaron Hotchner have been toeing the boundary between romance and your careers. When the unsub that's been killing women in Michigan by way of replicating Zeus' punishments from Greek mythology takes you as his next victim, it's up to Hotch and the rest of the BAU team to find you before it's too late. Hurt/comfort and angst with happy ending.
Tags: graphic depictions of violence, reader kidnapped by unsub, blood, implied SA, nudity, electrocution, scarring, hospitals
“You’re telling me someone is out here killing people to recreate, what? Greek legends?” Sheriff McCullen’s brow pinches as he shakes his head.
“Legends are stories often loosely based on a real person or event to teach us a lesson. Mythology is based on supernatural or sacred lore and explains why things came to be. It’s a common mistake.” Reid speaks quickly and methodically, as if reciting from a textbook. “It’s straight out of the mythos,” he explains, his voice tinged with something akin to excitement as he approaches the whiteboard where photos of the victims had been pinned up for review. Using a ballpoint pen as a pointer, he taps the first image of the first victim. “Regina Manford, she was found tied to a boulder in Craig Lake State Park with her liver removed. Animal predation showed birds had pecked at her while she was still alive. In Greek mythology, Zeus did this to Prometheus to exact revenge on him after he stole fire to give to man.”
Reid moves on to the next victim, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he did so. “Sarah Walters was found bound to an old water wheel that had been set on fire. Greek Mythology suggests this is a copy of Zeus’ punishment for Ixion.”
“And what did he do to deserve that?” asks the sheriff.
Reid’s lips form a tight line. “He was invited into Zeus’ home on Olympus. After attempting to seduce his wife, Hera, Zeus punished him by binding him to a wheel of fire cursed to spin forever toward the underworld. She might’ve smiled or even looked at him, and in his delusion believed she was a seductress deserving of punishment.”
“So, what? This guy sees himself as some sort of god?”
“We believe that is his delusion, yes,” answers Emily. “Each victim also bore signs of sexual trauma, this is something Zeus is also renowned for in the mythology. Our unsub thinks he’s infallible and that these women’s lives and deciding when and how these women live and die is his divine right.”
“Do we know if there will be more victims?” asks one of the detectives.
You step forward from your place between Morgan and Hotchner. “Given the number of victims Zeus punished within the mythology, we can assume he is not finished. These kills are two weeks apart. It’s been twelve days since the last body was found. We can only assume he’s currently hunting for his next victim. And when he finds one, he convinces her to go to a second location. It's once they leave the primary location that he attacks. In each case, the victim suffered a blow to the head, leaving a uniquely shaped gash in her forehead. This suggests that he strikes them with a distinct blunt object or even a ring that’s on his hand.”
“We need every man out on the streets,” Hotch states, his eyes hard as he scans the group of law enforcement gathered to receive the profile. “He stalks his victims in the city, often on the weekends when night life is busiest. He’s charming. He has no problem approaching women because he views himself as a deity and carries himself with the arrogance and confidence of one. He’s white, in his early to mid 30s, good looking, charming, and likely has a career that would’ve provided him with medical training.”
A female detective with short blonde hair sticks her pencil in the air. “How do we know that?”
“The incisions made on Regina’s body were clean, precise, and showed no signs of hesitation,” explains Rossi. “The M.E. also informed us that the hepatic artery was clamped off, meaning,” Rossi hesitates before continuing on, “meaning Regina Mansford was alive as her liver was being cut from her body.”
An uncomfortable murmuring breaks out. Hotch raises a hand, silencing them. Your mouth goes dry and you swallow, hoping your team doesn’t notice the way your eyes dilate when you look at him and the silent way in which he can command a room.
“This is why we need every available officer on the streets. Increase units in the downtown area. Have plain clothes officers on the streets. That’s where we’ll be. Thank you.” Hotch tucks his head and sweeps out of the bullpen, the rest of the team trailing after him into the conference room.
“Where do you want us?” asks Morgan as you shut the door to the conference room.
“Reid, I want you here working the geographical profile. See if there’s anything we missed that could bring us closer to a precise location where he’s kidnapping his victims. Rossi and JJ, I want you to go back to Sarah’s apartment and see if we missed anything that tells us where she was exactly on the night she was kidnapped. Derek and Emily take the north side of downtown.” He inclines his head toward you. “You and I will take the south side.”
His eyes linger on yours a moment longer than they ought to have. You dip your head and swiftly exit the room, jacket in hand as you prepare to brave not only the frigid Michigan cold but working one one-on-one with Hotch. This had been going on for months; subtle looks, brief touches where his fingers would slide over yours while passing off a case file…yet a part of you still wasn’t sure if it would ever go any further than that. You spend so much of your time with the team, it would be so easy to mistake one gesture for something that it wasn’t. Yet you knew that wasn’t true. You know behavior. You’re trained to recognize the subtlest of shifts in demeanor and body language and you know exactly what is going on.
You jump as someone pushes through the front door of the precinct. Emily’s gentle laugh disrupts your rumination. “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She moves to stand closer to you as she zips her jacket. “The guys went to grab the cars.”
You nod and shove your hands in your pockets.
Emily arches a perfectly manicured brow. “What’s up?”
You school your expression and feign nonchalance. “Nothing, I just want to catch this guy before he hurts anyone else.”
Emily’s brow furrows and then straightens, a glimmer of knowing in her eye. “Something tells me there’s a different guy on your mind.”
Your heart skips a beat and you nearly choke on the crisp winter air. “What? I don’t—“ Your words falter as Derek and Hotch arrive, the SUVs humming to a gentle stop at the curb.
Emily eyes you, a sly smile curving one side of her red lips. “We’ll talk later.” She winks and steps forward to open the passenger side door, sliding inside and disappearing into the dark interior.
As you turn to move toward the SUV, Hotch is there, opening the door for you. The gesture surprises you, but it shouldn’t. He’d been doing little things like this for weeks now. You nod your head in thanks and as you turn your body to slide past him, his hand catches your hip. Your breath hitches in your throat as his fingers glide against the small of your back, guiding your movement into the vehicle.
His hard eyes meet yours as he shuts the door and you’re grateful for the shadows inside the car as you feel your face flush bright red. Hotch slides into the driver’s seat with ease. He shifts the car into gear and pulls onto the road, heading in the direction of downtown.
After a few minutes, you open your mouth to disrupt the silence, but his cell rings. Hotch answers and places it on speaker as JJ’s voice floats through the receiver, “Hotch, we think we’ve got something at Sarah Walters apartment.”
“What’s that?” you ask.
“There’s a sticky note in her trash can,” a garbled sound echoes through the speaker as she shifts the phone. The sound of paper crinkles as she reads, “Tony’s at 9, does that mean anything? Has Garcia come across a Tony in any of her research into the victims’ lives? Maybe an Anthony?”
An image of a neon sign flashes across your mind’s eye. “It’s a bar,” you say matter-of-factly.
“A bar?”
“I remember seeing the sign on our drive-in. It’s a bar on the south side of downtown. That could be where he’s meeting these women.”
“We’re only a few blocks away, we’ll head there now. Thank you, JJ.” He hangs up and slips the phone into his jacket pocket.
“How do you want to play this?” you ask.
“We go in, make observations, see if we can identify anyone that matches the profile.”
You smirk and a small laugh escapes your lips.
“Something funny?” Hotch asks, his voice low in his throat.
You purse your lips, pausing before you proceed. “If we go in looking like feds, we’ll scare this guy away.” You tilt your head, considering. “Well, one of us anyway.”
A slight twitch in his brow is the only indication your words have just barely gotten under his skin. “Touched a nerve, sir?”
As the traffic light ahead blinks red, he eases the car to a stop. He breathes out slowly, the amber glow of the stoplight reflecting in his eyes. In less than two heartbeats, he thrusts the car into park and with both hands clasps your face, drawing you in to kiss you with such fervor white spots dot your vision. It takes a moment to process the heat of his mouth on yours and the way his tongue slides between your lips, and before you can truly reciprocate the light turns green and he pulls back, his breathing ragged against your mouth as his forehead touches yours. “Be careful when and how you choose to call me sir.”
Before you can exhale, his eyes are on the road again and you’re driving deeper into downtown.
“Understood,” and then you add, almost imperceptibly, “sir.”
A small smile quirks at the corner of his lips, but he says nothing more as you approach your destination.
It's nearing 9:30pm when you pull up on the street parallel to Tony’s. People trickle in and out of the bar in groups of twos and threes; most are young, in their mid to late twenties.
“Right,” you say as you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to exit the vehicle. “Stay here.”
“Excuse me?” Hotch asks, reaching over your lap and grabbing your wrist to stay your hand from popping the door open. Your breathing stills and he just barely turns his face toward yours. “Since when do you give me orders?”
Unsure where the confidence to challenge him comes from, you lean in near his ear. You swallow once before speaking. “I think you like taking them.” Feeling incredibly brazen, you nip at his ear once and as the unexpected gesture disarms him; flick your wrist out of his grasp and pop the door open. You slide out of the car and are immediately greeted by the frigid January air eliciting goosebumps up and down your arms. Extending an arm overhead to hang on to the frame of the SUV; you lean down into the cab of the vehicle. “I’ve got you right here,” you say as you tap the hidden earpiece. “Let me know if you see anyone from the outside that fits the profile.”
Hotch eyes you and there’s a fierceness in his gaze. You wonder if he’s thinking of how he’ll ultimately retaliate for your little role reversal now that he’s gone and upped the ante in this little game of cat and mouse. “See you soon,” you wink and slam the door shut.
As you approach the bar, you make sure your coat is buttoned in a way that hides your sidearm and credentials from sight. The bouncer doesn’t even pretend to ask for an ID as you approach and move through the front door with ease. As you cross through the threshold, your senses are assaulted by the smell of beer on tap, the sharp tang of liquor, grease, and an amalgamation of perfumes and colognes.
Immediately you begin scanning the room. You note the layout of the bar: three exits for patrons, the one you just came in through, one near the bathrooms for cigarette smokers, and an emergency exit on the far right wall near to the kitchen. There are three pool tables all of which are occupied as well as three dart boards along the far wall. Groups of friends engage one another and dates carry on without a hitch. You approach the bar, which is centered along the far wall. Stools line the high countertop and behind the bar, two women work to fulfill the never-ending drink orders. You approach the bar and slide into one of the empty seats, relaxing your shoulders as you do so, and order a rum and coke that you don’t plan on drinking.
After a moment the bartender drops a cocktail napkin in front of you and places the drink on top. You thank her and stir the contents of the drink with the swizzle stick popped inside.
“Is this seat taken?” an unfamiliar voice causes the hair on the back of your neck to prickle and you know immediately that it’s him.
Painting on a saccharine sweet smile, you turn toward the voice. A white man, standing at about 6’2”, is smiling down at you. The neon lights behind the bar reflect in his blue-gray eyes and his honey blonde hair falls in soft waves to his shoulders. “Please,” you say demurely and gesture toward the seat. You tell him your name and continue smiling.
“Ronan Carlson,” he introduces himself as he slides in beside you and adjusts the lapels on his leather jacket, a fake Rolex peeking out from his sleeve. He’s preening, you think to yourself. The bartender approaches from behind the bar and he smiles, the curve of his lips the opening act of his charming performance. “I’ll have what she’s having, thank you.” He pulls a roll of cash from the inner pocket of his jacket, flips through several bills, and pulls a $100 bill free before sliding it across the counter to her.
The bartender’s eyes widen in surprise and he winks at her. She nods her thanks and turns to make his drink.
“That was very kind of you,” I say, stirring my drink for the thirteenth time.
He shrugs and tips the baseball cap he’s wearing down over his eyes and you know it’s to obstruct the view the cameras have of him. “It’s only money, and I think I may have made her night.” He inclines his head toward the bartender whose head is bent close to the other woman’s. She’s smiling wide and shows her the $100 bill.
Internally, you roll your eyes hard, but externally you smile and look at him from beneath your lashes. “You must have a great job, what do you do for work?”
His hand flexes as he sets his drink down on the counter and you note the two chunky platinum rings he wears on his right hand. There are symbols etched into them offset by different colored stones, but you don’t want him to catch you staring as he answers, “I’m in business for myself these days,” he says with no further explanation. “Though I used to be in the military.”
You feign surprise, though you were hopeful he’d continue to divulge information. “The military, wow. Let me guess,” you pause and allow your eyes to slowly scan him from head to toe. You remember the profile. “Army…medic.”
“Reign it in,” you hear Hotchner’s voice through the earpiece. “Be mindful of how much you reveal to him. Don’t let him know you know more about him than he’s letting on.”
You watch him assess you and your read into him. One blonde brow creeps up toward his hairline and that wicked smile curves his lips again. “Excellent guess, how do you figure?”
Leaning on to your forearms, you push your drink aside and slide your hand over his and you don’t miss the way his fingers tense at your touch.
“It’s the hands,” you say coyly. “You look like you know how to handle yourself.” He relaxes under your touch and a heat ignites in his eyes that makes your stomach churn, but you don’t let it show on your face. “You look like you know how to handle a lot of things.”
He licks his lips and turns the ring on his finger. “Tell you what,” he says as he picks up his drink. He places the glass to his lips and downs its contents. “Why don’t we get out of here?” He looks down at you from beneath dark lashes. “And I’ll show you just how much I can handle.”
You stand up and flash him a grin. “Let me quickly freshen up and I’ll meet you out front.”
His lips quirk into a smirk, “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
You smile as you slip away toward the bathroom. As you push through the crowd you inform Hotch that the unsub is on his way out.
“There’s a line growing out the door,” he answers over the earpiece. “Does the description match the profile?”
“To a T,” you answer as you push past a couple with their tongues in each other's mouths. The amount of patrons has increased dramatically over the last hour. The volume of the music makes it hard to hear through the earpiece. You push your way into the restroom and are surprised to find it empty. Fortunately, the outside noise is muffled. You begin to describe Ronan’s appearance and note the jacket and hat he’s wearing. “He’s wearing two oddly shaped rings,” you add. “I think it’s what’s caused the unusual injury to the victims’ faces.”
“I’ve got him. He’s cutting through the line toward the parking lot.” You hear the car door open and slam.
“Got it, I’ll be right there.”
“Good work,” Hotch says over the open line.
You smile to yourself as you unbutton your jacket, glad to be on the receiving end of his praise. For a split second you wonder what else you could be on the receiving end of if you continue to play this game with him. After the case, you remind yourself. Priorities. Priority number one is getting this sick bastard off the street, and he’s right here within your grasp. You shoulder the door as you reach for your gun, positioning your thumb over the rotating hood to dislodge your weapon from its holster.
Over the speakers, an employee is calling to celebrate someone’s birthday. The crowd is distracted and pushing toward the source of celebration. The bar erupts into an off key rendition of Happy Birthday but you don’t hear it as 30,000 volts of electricity course through your veins. Your muscles spasm and lock up as you fall forward. Pain radiates from your abdomen in waves that crash over you again and again. You try to tell your body what to do as strong arms catch you and pull you into a chest that smells like cigarette smoke, but your limbs don’t cooperate. You feel his nose root into your hair as his lips find your ear. “How’s that for capable?”
As he shoulders your weight and steers you out through the emergency exit you hear Hotch’s voice in your ear. “It’s not him!” There’s an edge of panic in his voice as he says your name. “Do you copy? It’s not him. He gave another man $500 to wear his hat and jacket into the parking lot. It’s not him. Do you have eyes on him?”
Dark spots the edges of your vision as he drags your dead body weight. You try to focus all of your ability on getting out any words that can signal to Hotchner what’s happening, any at all but your mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.”
You hear the tinkling of keys and a door slide open. Pain rattles through your skull as he throws you into the back of whatever vehicle he’s operating. Pain slices through your wrists as zip ties slice through the skin there. Through tunnel vision you see him leering at you. He’s backlit by the streetlights.
As his fist flies toward you, you finally manage one word.
“Aaron.”
•
When you come to, the first thing you feel before the splitting pain in your head threatens to cleave your mind in two, is cold.
Your mouth is dry, but as you move to lick your lips you realize you can’t because there’s a gag in your mouth. You try to move your hands, but they’re bound too. Zip ties cut into each wrist, securing them at your sides on the legs of a wooden chair. When you try to shift the chair, you learn that it’s bolted to the floor and your legs are spread open; zip ties at your knees and ankles keep them apart. Except for your bra and underwear, you’re naked. He undressed you. You feel the wound from the stun gun before you glance down at your stomach and see the two bloody pinpricks in your abdomen. You feel your heart rate increase as panic begins to set in. Do not panic , you tell yourself as you take a steadying breath. The minute you start to panic, you’re dead. You close your eyes and piece together the last dredges of your memory.
Tony’s. Sitting at the bar. The unsub. Ronan. Hotch was in pursuit. And then there was just pain.
Hotch.
The pain in your skull is overwhelming and you’re not sure if you can feel the earpiece anymore.
“Hotch,” you attempt to say through the gag. “Hotch, do you read me?”
You close your eyes as hot tears brim along your lash line when there’s no response. The signal is out of range or the unsub found the earpiece and removed it.
A door creaks open on squeaky hinges and your eyes dart toward the source of the sound. Ronan walks through the door with a sick smile on his face. As he saunters toward you, he rolls the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows. Without looking away from you, his arm drops to his side and he scoops a folding metal chair with one hand, carrying it with him as he edges closer to you.
You flinch as he cracks the chair down in front of you, forcing it open. He chuckles as he takes a seat. His eyes skirt the length of your body and you wish any limb were free to deliver a blow to his smug face.
He reaches into his back pocket and withdraws your badge. He flips it open and holds it up to your face, the way his eyes flit between you and your credentials makes your lip curl.
“An FBI agent,” he says slowly. He slaps your credentials shut against his denim-clad thighs. “Hot damn!” he shouts and whoops. He throws your badge to the wayside and it clatters against the cement floor. “I’m going to take my time with you.”
It could’ve been hours. It could’ve been minutes. The torture is unrelenting and the pain is unending. Your chest heaves as you brace yourself for the next surge of electricity. Ronan, if that’s even his real name, twists the knob on the amplifier and taps the jumper cable clamps in his hands together. He smiles when he hears the buzz of electricity between them. As he presses them into your thighs, you cry out in pain as the shockwaves paralyze your body and mind and the pain overwhelms you.
“YES!” he roars as he pulls them away from you. He’d taken his flannel off, but now he peels off his t-shirt, balls it up, and uses it to wipe the sweat off of his face.
With the voltage no longer coursing through your veins, you slump forward, chest heaving as your scrambled brain fights to stay alert.
He drops the cables and clasps your face in his hand, forcing your chin up to meet his wild eyes. “You just don’t quit, do you? You're special.” He strokes your cheeks with his thumbs as if he cherishes what he’s doing to you. “You are worthy of a god.”
When you come to Ronan is watching you. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands.
“She wakes,” he muses.
You glare at him and his brow pinches. He purses his lips together like he’s been stung, but his eyes are alight with amusement.
“You,” he says, gesturing up and down your body, “look beautiful.”
You don’t need to look down to know the number of bloodied burn wounds spanning the lengths of your legs. If you couldn’t keep track of any other thought, the count was all that kept you grounded. There were ten. Five on each leg. Your wrists and ankles bled from the way you’d pulled against them with every shock he delivered.
He reaches forward and this time you don’t flinch. He hooks two fingers into the gag and pulls it down over your chin, his fingers trailing your lips as he does so.
“Here,” he says, bringing a bottle of water to your lips. “Drink.”
You clamp your lips shut and turn your face away. He laughs and shakes his head. “Come on now, don’t refuse me. That’s not how you show gratitude when a god shows you mercy.”
You muster as much hatred into your stare as you focus your attention back on him. “Mercy?” you hiss, and your voice is hoarse from screaming against the gag. It hurts to speak. You pull against your restraints. “This is what you call mercy?”
“I’m only testing you to see if you’re worthy,” he says by way of explanation. "You've lasted longer than the others."
“Worthy of what?” you ask, but you already know the answer.
“To be my Hera.”
“How is what you’re doing to me, what you did to those other women, going to help you find her?”
“They weren’t worthy,” he answered. “They couldn’t take my power like you could, my lightning. They were false. They needed to be punished.”
He leans in, his lips close enough to yours that you can feel his smoky breath on your skin. “But you, you deserve to be rewarded.” Your skin bristles at his words. His lips find your jawline and you grimace as he drags them up the side of your face. When he pulls away, dried blood flakes onto his skin.
“Don’t be afraid,” he soothes as he smoothes your sweat-drenched hair away from your face. “You’ll enjoy it.”
Unable to suffer any more of his poisonous bullshit, you rear your head back and slam it forward. Pain explodes behind your forehead, but it’s worth it to hear the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking. He roars in pain and clutches his bleeding nose. White light blinds you as he backhands you and curses your name. His ring splits the skin of your cheek open. The force of the blow causes you to bite your lip and you feel your teeth cut into the chapped skin there. You spit blood at him, angering him further.
“You are false!” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth as he shoves the gag back into your mouth. “You are not her!” He moves to pick up the jumper cables, twisting the knob of the amplifier all the way up causing the bulbs overhead to flicker. You know this is it. If he touches you with those, it will kill you.
Bracing yourself for the killing blow, you go to the grave knowing you did not give in to this bastard.
It never lands.
Instead, three shots ring out and he’s falling to the floor dead at your feet. As the unsub’s body falls, Hotchner’s frame comes into view and a choked sob escapes your lips. He holsters his weapon and runs to you. Emily and Morgan are right behind him. Morgan passes Hotch a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and he makes quick work of the zip ties binding you to the chair. From the corner of your eye, you see Emily turn off the amplifier and check Ronan’s pulse.
Unable to hold yourself up, you fall forward into his ready arms, letting yours fall over his shoulders. Hotch drops to his knee to support your weight. “You’re okay,” he says as he pulls the gag free from your mouth and you sob into his chest. He smooths your hair back from your face, his eyes assessing the damage done to you. Blood stains his shirt, your blood.
“Morgan, your jacket.” Hotch orders.
Without hesitation, Morgan unfastens his bulletproof vest and unzips his jacket. He passes it to Hotch who drapes it around your shoulders in an attempt to preserve some of your modesty.
“I need a medic!” he shouts before directing his attention back to you.
Your eyes waver as you try to keep them open. You lock in on the depths of his warm brown eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” he says but his voice sounds far away.
“He wanted someone to be his Hera,” you say weakly.
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Hotch soothes.
You swallow and it hurts your throat to do so. Your lips crack open, “You found me.”
Hotch cradles your head against his chest. “Of course I did.”
You wince as the sound of a gurney crashes into the room, the metal wheels squealing as it draws near. Your head swims as you’re swept into the air and laid out on its cushiony bed. A light shines in your eyes and voices are overlapping. Blindly, you use what strength you have left to drop your hand off the side. Unable to focus your attention on where he is, you know he’ll hear you. “Don’t leave me.”
And as you lose consciousness, you feel his hand slip into yours.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
•
A steady beeping fills your ears as you slowly come to. Your eyes feel bruised and you don’t think you have it in you to open them, but you feel something around your wrists and bolt upright. Pain crashes over you in a wave. It was a dream. You’re still bound in that basement. The beeping increases, growing louder and faster. Someone says your name and you feel hands on your shoulders. You try to swing your fist and are surprised when your arm follows through and makes contact with flesh. Did you break through the zip ties? You hear your name again, clearer this time. A man. He’s asking you to stop, to relax.
“It’s me,” he repeats and says your name again. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.” He says your name again. “It’s me, it’s Aaron.”
You stop fighting and blink hard. Hotchner’s stern face comes into view, except there’s concern wavering in the depths of his brown eyes. His brow softens as you relax. A small smile turns the corners of his lips. “Hey there,” he says. A nurse rushes into the room and he raises a hand, “We’re fine, here. Thank you.”
The nurse looks at you and you nod. She looks unsure about leaving but ultimately relents. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”
Aaron cups the back of your head in one of his hands and gently begins to lower you back down onto the pillows behind you. You allow him to guide you and feel the tension ease from your muscles as your back sinks into the surprisingly plush hospital pillow.
As the adrenaline wears off, you’re finally able to take stock of your injuries as the pain quickly makes itself known. You feel your pulse beating in your skull, pounding at your temples, eyebrow, and cheekbone. With shaky fingers, you touch the places where you remember the unsub striking you. You feel a thick bandage taped over your right eyebrow and steri-strips over your cheek. Your lip is swollen from where you bit it.
Bandages encircle your wrists and there’s an IV stuck in your hand. You’ve been dressed in a hospital gown and the sheets are drawn up to your waist covering the burn wounds. You don't have to see them to know how bad they look. The pain is telling enough.
“Is he dead?” you ask, lowering your hand back down to the bed.
Hotch’s lips form a tight line. “Yes.”
You blink back tears as that information sinks in. “Good,” you whisper in a choked voice. You blink and allow your head to loll to the side. A colorful bouquet of roses and carnations dotted with plastic ladybugs and butterflies sits in a clear vase on the side table.
You smile, “Garcia?”
Hotch smiles in turn. “It was tough to convince her to go home and get some sleep, but I promised her I wouldn’t leave you alone. Even then, it was still a hard-fought battle.”
You chuckle and wince as the movement irritates your injuries.
Hotch telegraphs his next move, and you know it’s to avoid startling you. He cups his hand over your uninjured cheek and strokes the skin there with his thumb.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, and his voice sounds tired and pained. “I should’ve gone inside with you.”
“Hotch, don’t.” You reach up and wrap your fingers around his wrist. “Don’t do that to yourself. He didn’t know I was with the FBI until after he took me. If you’d been there, he might’ve pegged us as law enforcement and taken off. He might still be out there and we’d be finding another dead woman in a matter of days. You know I’m right.”
Hotch closes his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. “I could hear you.”
“What?” you whisper. You try to sit up and wince as the movement stings the wounds in your legs and abdomen. Hotch stands and helps adjust the pillows behind your back before sitting back down in the chair at your bedside.
“Not for very long. He drove out of range, but I heard him speaking to you. I heard the blows land. I heard your head smack against the floor when he threw you in the van.” He stops and shakes his head. “I felt so helpless. I was afraid. I couldn’t get to you, just like,” his voice catches in his throat. “just like I couldn’t get to Haley.”
Your heart breaks for him as he speaks. You reach for his hand and take it, squeezing it. “Aaron, you did get to me. You saved my life.”
He clears his throat and swallows. “Yes, but we were almost too late.”
“But you weren’t,” you state, your tone firm. “Aaron, look at me.”
He hesitates and inhales deeply before lifting his gaze to yours. The corners of his eyes soften as he meets yours and you smile. You gently tug his hand, “Come here.”
Hotch glances toward the door and then back at you, “The doctor—“
“Isn’t going to do shit,” you finish. “I’m the one that endured hours of torture. Pretty sure I’m allowed some close comfort.”
He lets out a shallow laugh. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Standing, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair. With one hand he loosens his tie until he’s able to pull it up and over his head. He tosses it onto the chair and circumnavigates the bed, assessing the best way to join you on the small mattress.
You groan as you slide over. Hotch reaches out to stop you but you silence him with a pointed look. “Mind the IV,” you say as you pat the space beside you.
Hotch acquiesces, using the tips of his fingers to raise the IV drip enough for him to slide into bed beside you. He slips an arm around you and drops the feed. It falls across his torso. The feel of his arm around you is comforting, like a security blanket, like safety. You relax into him, and rest your head on his chest. His lips brush against your bandaged brow.
“Not quite how I imagined we’d first be sharing a bed,” you joke softly as you nuzzle in deeper against the wide plane of his chest.
You feel him smile against your hair. “Only you could joke at a time like this.”
“If I can’t laugh at what’s happened, I’ll never be able to close my eyes at night.”
“Well, if that’s the case.” He rubs the bare skin of your arm in small circles. “I’ll be there until you can.”
You turn your head to look at him then, your heart full. This is happening. His eyes are on yours and you push yourself toward him ever so slightly. He closes the small gap between you and presses his lips to yours. It wasn’t hungry and primal like the kiss in the car. There would be plenty of time for that later. This kiss was light, tender…healing.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I tried to go home, I really did but as soon as I got there I—” Garcia’s voice abruptly cuts off. You look up and her initial look of surprise turns to one of abject joy.
You feel your cheeks flush as Emily and Morgan appear in the doorway behind her. Morgan’s eyes widen and Emily’s brow arches as a smile curves her lips.
“I, uh, brought backup.” Penelope giggles. She remembers she’s holding something. “And cookies! I couldn’t sleep, so I baked. I figured I could bribe you into going home and getting some sleep.” Her words leave her mouth at a mile a minute. “I thought you’d fight me on it, so I brought some muscle.” She gestures with a tilt of her head. “They’re the muscle.”
Morgan exhales and points a finger at you and Hotch. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on here?”
Emily elbows him and he drops his arm. She takes the tray from Garcia and walks it over to the side table where she places it next to the flowers. She winks at you as she turns back to Garcia and Morgan. “It’s about time,” she says.
Penelope laughs as she hooks her arm in Emily’s. “What's it been? Two, three months?”
Morgan guffaws. “Months?”
Penelope pats his face with a ring-adorned hand. “My sweet oblivious profiler. Come on, hot stuff.” She takes him by the hand and leads him from the room. Emily shakes her head and laughs. “Men.”
“Safe to say the team knows.”
Hotch releases a breathy laugh and kisses your forehead again. “I know what will be the first thing on the agenda at tomorrow’s debriefing.”
•
6 weeks. It had been 6 weeks since you’d pressed the elevator button that would bring you back to the office. The weight of your gun feels right where it sits upon your hip, your gait more familiar to you now than when it wasn’t holstered to your side. You nervously adjust the grip on your go bag. You’d packed and repacked it the night before.
This morning as you were getting out of the shower, you stared at yourself in the mirror. Your cheek had healed nicely though the skin on your brow that had been split by the unsub’s ring had scarred, severing the tail end of your eyebrow from the rest of it. The ligature marks around your wrists and ankles had healed and the skin was smooth once more. The stun gun had scarred your abdomen, but all that remained were two purple pinpricks of scar tissue no bigger than the size of an infant’s thumbnail.
Your legs are a different story. The front of your thighs are an array of mottled scar tissue. One burn had gone so deep that they’d needed to graft skin from your calf to salvage it. The wounds no longer hurt physically, but you’d woken up from nightmares on more than one occasion.
You were never alone though. Garcia worked remotely on secure laptops with VPNs as often as she was able. Rossi brought you home-cooked Italian at least twice a week and talked with you over numerous glasses of red wine. Reid brought black-and-white foreign existentialist films that you didn’t understand, but his enthusiasm as he watched made you happy all the same. Emily and Morgan brought coffee and donuts as often as they could and Hotch…if he wasn’t at the office or visiting Jack, he was with you. On several occasions, he brought Jack. Jack would sit on the bed beside you, playing with his toys, narrating the adventures of his action figures as Aaron stood in the doorway, smiling. At night, when you had woken in a cold sweat, Aaron was there with a washcloth to wipe it away. When the bandages had stuck to your burn wounds and it felt like your skin was being peeled apart, he got your pain medicine and helped change the dressings, holding you until the pain had passed.
You blink as the elevator dings, signaling you’ve reached your destination. You take a deep breath and smooth down the front of your blouse as the door opens wide. Everything looks the same, yet everything feels like it's changed as you approach the desk you occupy perpendicular to Emily’s. A smile crosses your lips as you see the Welcome Bac k card on your desk. Two vases of flowers sit behind the card. One is almost exactly like the one from the hospital so you know it’s from Garcia. The other, a bouquet of purple tulips, has a note attached to it. You open the note and read it.
Glad to have you back. Things haven’t been the same around here without you. -AH
Hotch. You should’ve known. You smile and tuck the note into your purse.
“Hey, hey, look who’s finally decided to get her ass back to work.” Morgan’s charming laugh is followed by Emily chastising him.
“Ignore him,” she says as she places a steaming mug of coffee on your desk.
“You’re a godsend,” you say by way of thanks and take a long drink. Two sugars, no milk, just the way you like. “Wow, Emily, that’s perfect. I needed this.”
“How come you don’t remember how I take my coffee?” Morgan asks pointedly.
She shrugs, “Chicks before dicks, Derek.”
You sputter and choke on your coffee.
“Look,” he says as he pats you on the back. “Her first day back and you’re gonna kill her.”
At that moment JJ passes by with a file in hand. She raises it in the air and gestures to the conference room. “We got a case.” She smiles at you warmly. “It’s good to have you back.”
Together, you, Morgan, and Emily enter the conference room where Reid, Hotch, and Rossi have already gathered. Once you’re all sat, JJ begins presenting the case. You review current victims and why the Sacramento Police Department has invited you onto the case
“Sacramento PD is expecting us this afternoon. We’ve got a long flight ahead of us. Wheels up in thirty, understood?”
A chorus of ‘yes sirs’ echo throughout the room. As the team gathers their belongings and moves to leave, you wait for Hotch to catch your eye. You wink at him before mouthing, “Yes, sir.”
a/n: felt feral writing this hope y'all enjoy it as much as i did
think im ovulating or something YALL IDK
anyhow happy reading let me know what yall think 🤭
masterlist
‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧
pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader
summary: in which hotch overhears your conversation with penelope and decides to do something about it
warnings: 18+ MDNI, phone sex!, sex toy!, fem solo masturbation, penelope being a little instigator lmao, dirty talk, soft dom!hotch, established relationship, honestly a little bit of angst whoops, reader is slightly dramatic like hotch has been gone for prob 5 hours STAND UP!
wc: 3.3k
"Penelope Grace Garcia!"
Her comment earned her the full government name, igniting a burst of laughter that you attempt to smother behind your hand. Sinking deeper into the couch, you dismiss the absurdity with a shake of your head. You even find yourself glancing over your shoulder even though you know no one is home.
"You know, I really shouldn't be telling you this, but trust me, that's the least of our worries in this relationship."
"Look, whatever floats your love boat or rocks your bed frame is strictly your business," she comments as if that were the most casual thing to say.
You giggle, a warmth spreading through you as you tread across the kitchen tiles, the phone pressed against your ear.
"Oh my god, Pen," you let out a laugh, feeling a soft crimson spread across your cheeks, while your thighs swell with the thoughts of your doting boyfriend. "No, no, like I said we're more than okay in that department. It just gets, well, lonely when he's away."
Your hand curls around the neck of your favorite bottle of red, easing the cork free with a satisfying pop. The liquid swirls into the glass, a little more than probably necessary, as the gentle hiss of water beginning to simmer breaks through the kitchen.
"You, my dear, are a saint among mortals."
"Well, he makes it easy," you shrug, pouring the rice into the bubbling pot, a cloud of steam rising to paint the windows.
"Honestly, I don't know how you manage. I'd be itching for it, especially if it's as good as you say," Penelope admits with a dramatic sigh.
You laugh, propping the phone against the backsplash, its speaker projecting the conversation into the room. Aaron stands just out of sight, unnoticed, taking in your every syllable.
"When he gets back, trust me, every second apart seems like a small price to pay."
"Ever thought about getting yourself a toy? You know, for those long nights?" Penelope hints not (at all) so slyly.
The wine almost sprays from your mouth as you stifle a surprised splutter. Aaron, still unseen, raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, um, no, I haven't really considered... a toy," you murmur, cheeks burning. You clear your throat, pretending to be engrossed in the simmering pot. "Aaron might have an opinion on that, I guess."
Your attempt at nonchalance was failing, you definitely knew that.
Aaron rested casually against the door frame, a soft smile touching his lips at the sound of your bashful laughter. He'd always had a soft spot for the way your cheeks bloom with color--a sight he wasn't afraid to go great lengths to witness. The idea of a toy seemed to pique his curiosity, drawing a pensive frown as his attention stayed fixed on you for a moment longer.
He slips away silently, his steps carrying him to the front door as you continue your conversation with Penelope.
The call disconnects with a soft click, and you're left in the quiet of the kitchen, unwittingly promising to keep Penelope updated. Turning back to the stove, you stir the sauce with a distracted hand, your lips downturned. Aaron should have been home by now.
The dining table is set, candles flickering, their glow falling on the chair he's yet to fill. You let out a sigh, stealing another look at the ticking clock. The food is ready, but with each passing minute, it grows cooler, just the unfamiliar feeling of disappointment settling in your chest.
The audible twist of the key catches your attention, and you can't help but glance over your shoulder. Aaron walks in, his lips curving into a smile upon seeing you.
"Hi, my gorgeous girl," he greets, his voice a familiar sound that kindles a familiar flutter into your heart.
He places his briefcase down, the sound muted, and as he approaches, his lips brush a tender kiss against your temple. The annoyance that had been bubbling inside you melts away with his touch. Damn him.
You turn to him, a sheepish "Hi" fluttering out, your cheeks tinged with heat. It's a feeling that's always fresh, the way he still makes you feel like you're back in high school, hearts doodled in the margins of your notebook.
Aaron settles into his chair, the soft scrape of wood against the tile following his movements.
"Sorry 'M late," he offers, his tone warm, appreciative. "Everything looks and smells wonderful, honey. Thank you."
His fingers gently sweep a loose strand of hair from your face, his smile softening you, disarming you. He's so beautiful.
"You're welcome," you reply, your cheeks growing warmer with each word. "And, um, I hope it's okay. It might be a bit cold. I thought...I guess I assumed you'd be home sooner."
You voice trails off, leaving behind a trail of embarrassed concern, wondering if perhaps you'd somehow overstepped.
Aaron looks at you, his eyes turning kind as he discerns the unease on your face.
"I'm sorry, baby, got held up with a little errand." He bites into the food, and a gratified hum indicates his approval. "This is delicious."
You find yourself beaming at the praise. He had a talent for that--praising you, almost as if he'd made it his life mission. This was a first for you in a relationship, and it's exactly why the late nights and time spent alone didn't weigh so heavily.
After dinner, you're rinsing off the plates when Aaron's hands draw you close, his hands claiming your waist, the heat of his palms radiating through the fabric of your shirt. He plants a soft kiss on your shoulder.
"Let me help with that. You're spoiling me," he insists, his words spoken into your damp skin.
You lean back into his embrace, his chest flush against your back.
"I like taking care of you," you admit, heart skipping a beat under the weight of his gaze, the softness in his eyes dissolving your concentration on the task at hand.
A deep, affectionate groan escapes Aaron as he pulls you even closer. But all good things come to an end, and the ringing of his phone seems like an icy intrusion, like a sudden draft into the kitchen.
"Hotchner," he answers, and even though the word leaves his lips, his fingers gently sketch patterns across your hip.
You feel your heart sink. When he hangs up, his eyes lock with yours, brimming with an apology he doesn't voice. It's unnecessary, you already know.
"A case?" You hate how small your voice sounds, dipped in an understanding you wish you didn't have.
He nods, a simple stupid gesture that sends a lump of disappointment soaring up your throat, which you desperately try to swallow down.
"Okay... just, be careful, okay? I'll miss you."
"And I'll miss you, angel. Be good for me."
There's a hollowness in the house that follows you through each room. You were well aware of Aaron's demanding job when you started dating--the unpredictable schedule, the sudden departures, the cases that required his immediate attention. Still, this awareness did nothing to soften to sting of his absence. At all.
You found yourself wandering aimlessly, picking up a book only to set it down unread, starting a movie but not really watching. Eventually, you ended up in the bedroom, his bedroom, where the subtle scent of his cologne lingers. It's both comforting and heart-wrenching. God, you felt like you were being so dramatic.
You climb into the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, too big and empty without him. Your eyes darts to the phone resting on the nightstand. You've always been careful not to disturb him while he's working, but tonight felt different.
With a trembling hand, you pick up the phone, your thumb hovering indecisively over the screen. Reluctantly, you returned it to its place. There was no point in bothering him.
A sudden draft sent a shiver up your spine, reminding you of the blanket Hotch had bought for you a couple months ago. You sighed, rising from the bed and moving to the closet.
But your eyes skipped over the blanket, instead fixating on a shiny pink bag tucked away in a secluded corner. Compelled by a spike of curiosity, you grabbed the bag and pulled it open. Your eyes widened, cheeks burning with a sudden flush as you placed it on the bed. How long had this been hiding here? And the timing--just after your conversation with Penelope--felt almost too uncanny.
You went back to your phone.
Hi
The message was simple. You hit send before you can second-guess yourself.
Almost immediately, your phone vibrated--Aaron's name illuminated the screen. You answer, and his voice was there, infused with immediate concern.
"Hi honey. You okay?" His question was straightforward, cutting through the noise.
You nodded, forgetting for a moment he couldn't see you. Shifting on the bed, you said softly, "Um, yeah, I'm fine. I didn't mean to bother you. Is it a bad time?"
His response is quick. "You could never bother me."
A blush flares on your cheeks, and a smile instinctively forms. You fidget on the bed, the sheets sighing with your movements, sounds that don't escape Aaron's attentive detection.
"Can't seem to find the right spot without me there, huh?"
"I can't seem to do a lot of things without you here," you grumble under your breath, intended more for yourself than for him. The bed emits a soft creak as you turn again, your breath hitching in a pout that he can almost see through the phone. "Aaron, I found something in the closet..."
You lost your words, fingertips tracing the toy's edge, as you fumbled with the strings of your shorts.
"Hmm? Care to enlighten me."
"You know."
You weren't in the mood for his teasing, because you knew he knew. You could sense his smugness, his voice dripping into that familiar, velvety register that prompted your lips to purse.
"I don't know, sweetheart."
Once again, you found yourself stirring against the linen, nibbling on your lip as a wave of exasperation washed over you, your eyes rolling into their sockets.
"Where are you?"
"Just got to my hotel room." You could hear the subtle movements in the background, accompanied by the soft groans of the mattress under his weight. "What did you find in the closet that was so urgent you needed to text me in the middle of my case?"
Your face was warm. "You said it wasn't a bother."
"And I meant it, now spell it out for me."
Your hands cautiously pushed over the toy, examining its buttons and sides. Subconsciously, your tongue swept over your top teeth. You lowered your voice as though someone else might overhear.
"The toy...is it for me? I mean, I would hope so. If not, well, we'd have a rather awkward issue."
"Yes, it's for you, baby."
You stifled a grin. How could he have known? That profiling business was really no joke.
"Why?"
His muffled chuckle filtered through, and you could almost see the flash of his pearly whites. You really missed him, so much so that you were conjuring vision of his mouth of his on places that should not be said aloud.
"I just want to make sure my best girl is taken care of when I'm not home." You could practically hear the smirk on his lips.
You were deep in your fantasy now, your free hand sliding down your shorts as you envisioned him propped against the headboard of his hotel bed, tie hanging loosely, hair tousled just so.
"I'm always taken care of by you, Aaron," you said quietly.
You didn't know how to go about this, whatever this even was. You were treading into unknown territory; never having had phone sex with Aaron--or anyone for that matter. It was a far cry from the occasional suggestive text.
"That's right." His voice flowed like honey in your ear, causing a shiver as your finger skimmed over your underwear, your breathing momentarily faltering. "You're going to be well taken care of for the rest of your life, yeah?"
"Yeah."
You could hardly breathe, squirming against your own touch, glancing over at the toy that sat beside your hip.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate your patience. You're a good girl, honey. Far too good for me." You weren't. It was the other way around; you didn't deserve him. You told yourself that every day. "I know you get lonely, and I know it's something you'd never admit to."
"Aaron..."
He didn't let you finish. "Why don't you tell me what you're doing right now?"
Your actions came to an abrupt standstill, thumb suspended above your clothed clit. You entertained the thought that this FBI gig might have been a front for a psychic, maybe one of those fortune teller types.
You were mumbling into your sleeve, a private conversation with the threads. "Just...um, well it's hardly worth mentioning, honestly."
Wow you're sure you fooled him.
"I'm not fond of dishonesty." The low rumble of his voice sent a tremor through your core. "I'm giving you a final chance. Tell me what you're doing, sweetheart."
A hard swallow passed your throat, your thumb rubbing idle circles into the band of flesh on your hip.
"Well, I, uh, was touching myself." The words felt as awkward as they sounded, an internal wince accompanying each syllable at how unsexy you were speaking.
"Where, sweetheart?"
You exhaled sharply at the question, heavy with exasperation at his insistence on drawing this out. But the slickness between your legs was undeniable. Your hand slid back to the delicate skin between your thighs.
"Aaron, please," you breathed out so faintly it was almost inaudible.
He was playing a cruel game, and he knew it. You hardly cussed let alone talk about your lady parts so openly.
"I hope I've never given you a reason to feel judged, honey." There was a sweetness in his voice that masked his darker intentions. "Just tell me where. I want to help."
Your tongue flicked nervously across your lip, your finger dipping into the valley of your folds as you mulled over his offer. You were wet, far more than you had anticipated, practically coating your thighs in the process.
"No, 'course not," you said softly, biting back a sigh as your thumb worked slowly against your inflamed clit. "It's just, you're so far, Aaron."
"Why do you think I got you that toy?" Your gaze darted to the pink thing, resting against your hip. "I want you to use it. I'll walk you through it, just like I would in person."
You could melt. You could liquefy into nothingness on the spot. Your fingers pressed more urgently against yourself, a deep-seated wish for him to be here surfacing, knowing all the while it was a baseless hope.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
"There you go, that's my girl."
You couldn't hold back the whimper that fell from your lips as you arched against the bed, fingers diving into your cunt.
"My needy girl," he repeated, his laughter resonating with a patronizing tone that oddly egged you on. "Alright, can you pick up the toy for me?"
You wedged the phone snugly between your shoulder and ear, your hand closing around the pink, curved object, scrutinizing its every detail with careful eyes.
"Okay."
It was big, not as big as Aaron, but its dimensions were nonetheless imposing. You felt your chest heave in anticipation, waiting for his instructions.
His silence was stretching your patience thin. You turned it on, and it came to life, watching as it vibrated, the soft buzz permeating the space. You let it trail over your stomach, fabric gathering as your shirt rode up. Nearing your clit, you braced, taking in a quick breath.
But that breath was released in a strangled moan as you pushed the toy firmly into your sopping hole, legs spreading expansively as a taut sensation gripped your center.
"Did I say you could use it already?" he questioned, his tongue clicking in disapproval as you strained against the device, the second prong vibrations coursing against your nub, your whole-body jerking in response.
"N-No, 'M sorry," you panted, your focus narrowing as you pushed to toy in and out, your lips rounding into an 'o'. "It feels really good, Aar."
"I'm sure it does, baby," he teased, his voice carrying a certainty that your own lacked. "Let me hear you fuck yourself with it.
You loved hearing him curse, it was rare, and usually reserved for intimate moments like this. It fueled your actions, your wrist quickening, driving the device deeper, your stomach twisting in tight knots, a loud moan escaping unrestrained, suddenly you were thankful for the distance between Aaron's house and the next.
It felt so good, and yet somehow still not comparable to how it was with Aaron. Weren't you spoiled?
"Miss you so much," you slurred, your movements stuttering as the device worked your body in ways you didn't know were possible.
"Miss you too, angel. You're doing so good."
"Can you, ah, come home, p-please?"
You weren't even sure of what you were saying, all your thoughts on chasing your high and pretending the toy was Aaron's cock. Thinking about how he'd fill you up right now, how he'd press you to the mattress, how his body would cover yours.
"Your present isn't enough?" His tone was taunting, your eyes welling with tears, clouding your vision as your hips bucked against the toy. "That's a shame, sweetheart, think maybe you've been a little spoiled. You can't have my cock all the time."
You were completely dazed, his sentences barely making their way through the fog as you'd like them to. You were crying, you think, hot and relentless tears carving a path down your face as you fucked yourself harder against the toy.
The noises coming from your pussy were obscene, soaked and squishing as you tried to respond to Aaron, but nothing but small hiccups were escaping your mouth.
"It's okay, baby, I know. You're doing so good for me. I can hear it."
Your cheeks and ears flared with a heat that spelled out your shame, but it was the least of your concerns. Your walls tightened against the device, the pressure on your clit suddenly all too much and not enough at the same time. Gasping for air, your breaths came out in uneven bursts. When you tried to call out Aaron's name, it emerged as nothing more than a choked sob.
"C-Can I? Please, need to so bad." You weren't entirely convinced you were speaking English, but Aaron understood.
"Go ahead, sweetheart."
That was all you needed. Your cunt contracted again before vaulting over the edge, nearly losing consciousness in the process, a string of moans and half-said words pouring out of your lips.
You could hear the sound of his voice, but the words were just out of reach, not fully making sense. You felt your body twitch, and you blinked deliberately, once, twice, three times, in an effort to reconnect your body to your mind.
"You're so good, baby. So good. Miss you so much."
You pulled the toy, now soaked, from yourself, cringing at the lewd sound as you laid it beside you, making a mental note to wash the sheets later. Although if Aaron had his way that wouldn't happen.
"I miss you." You hated the way your voice betrayed ever emotion you had.
"Need you to go pee for me, sweetheart."
He sounded so soft and tired, but somehow still present. You let out a soft snicker as you curled onto your side.
"Can't move my legs," you mumbled, the sound muffled by the way your cheek was squished into the pillow. "Need you to come carry me."
His laugh was something you wished you could bottle up. "Spoiled."
"And who's to blame for that?" You were ready for his witty retort, but it was cut short by the sudden flash of your phone. You squinted at the caller ID. "Sorry, Penelope is calling me, can I call you back in a second?"
"Course, honey. Thank her for the idea, yeah?" Your mouth fell open as you scrambled for the right words. Of course he had heard. "Also, I plan on spending a few solid hours fucking you when I get home, so I suggest you get some rest."
You worry your boyfriend is ashamed of you. This is very much not the case. Or, 5 times Hotch hid your relationship (+1 time he didn’t).
7k words, new-ish established relationship, lots of fluff between angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, reader calls him aaron mostly
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The security for Aaron's building is weird. Weird as in extensive, intimidating, and extremely intricate.
You'd really wanted to minimise his stress — the whole reason you're here is to bring him a forgotten sheet of paper that must've slipped out at your kitchen table from one of his case files because you don't want him to have to make up a new copy — but you're too scared to go in.
You pull your phone out reluctantly and dial in his number, eager to hear his voice even if the security detail a few feet away are freaking you out.
"Hotchner."
"Hi, handsome," you say softly.
There's a small pause. For a split-second a nightmare situation runs through your head, his low voice asking, Who is this?
"Hi, honey."
You beam so wide it aches, forcing a pleased little breath from your mouth.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?"
"You're outside."
You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume.
"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."
"You really shouldn't be here," he says.
Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him.
"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep."
"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner."
You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here.
"Yeah, please. If you want to."
"I want to. Okay?"
Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay?
"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome."
"Bye."
You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency.
Maybe you should.
—
The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person.
Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature.
You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head.
"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV.
You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?"
"What do you mean?"
"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?"
"A little," he concedes sympathetically.
You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck.
"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."
You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.
"It doesn't matter," you say.
"You sure?"
You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips.
"I'm good. Better, if you would…"
"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down.
You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close.
He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.
You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own.
"Slow down," he chides gently.
You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings.
He gives you a short, hard kiss.
"Hotchner."
You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.
"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency.
His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll.
"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight."
Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it.
"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."
"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess.
"You're not telling me something."
"No?" He blinks in surprise.
"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?"
"I think that's obvious."
"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron."
He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am."
You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt.
"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror."
"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks."
You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses.
"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not.
That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does.
You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings.
Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue.
It's you.
You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest.
"You're tired?" he asks.
Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same.
You're not sure anymore.
"Yeah," you say roughly.
Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey."
You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off.
—
Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would.
If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant.
But what?
You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect.
It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices.
"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting.
"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side.
"More than okay. Do you want to go in?"
So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back.
Phase two, your clothes.
You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them.
Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit.
"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'.
"I know," he says.
You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break.
"You like them?" you ask worriedly.
"What makes you think I don't?"
"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?"
He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them."
A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point.
That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears.
The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay.
Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend.
You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm.
"Hi," you say, unsure.
"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously.
You startle. "No, of course not."
He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?"
You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-"
He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him.
"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur.
"Doesn't count. I begged for it-"
"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up."
"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make."
"Right, sorry."
Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you.
"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?"
"No." You smile as you say it.
You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector.
"You didn't even try."
You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are.
"Don't make fun," you beg.
"You're embarrassed."
"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"
You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?"
His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long."
"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum.
"Oh, don't."
"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry."
"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart."
"I did miss you," you relent.
He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too."
It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember.
Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend.
You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine.
You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow.
I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites.
Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria.
Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes.
"Do you want me to press these?" you ask.
Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning.
He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No."
"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes."
"I'll do it in the morning."
"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?"
He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.
"I want to talk to you about something."
You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back.
"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes.
"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"You know I care about you."
Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way.
"Do you know how much?" he asks.
"Is that a trick?"
"No."
You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting.
"Yeah, I know how much."
"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways."
"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.
Aaron Hotchner indulges you.
"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too."
It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?"
"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together.
He stares at you, a long, reassuring look.
He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too."
"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out."
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears.
"I'm not," you say quickly.
He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow.
"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them."
You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown.
"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.
"The team think I'm spoiled."
"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday."
Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home.
"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath.
You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could."
His easy, loving smile flattens. "No."
"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together."
"That's not going to work."
"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up.
"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there."
"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again.
"Sweetheart."
"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile.
You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness.
Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him.
"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice."
It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it.
"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-"
He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?"
"I love your voice," he says agreeably.
Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time.
—
His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later.
Mostly because Aaron pushes you.
Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater.
You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall.
"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves."
He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it.
It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).
Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you.
He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss.
Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter.
Your lips buzz.
"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back.
"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into."
"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain.
He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom."
You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?"
"I'm sure I'll figure it out."
—
The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick.
You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill.
"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile.
You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs.
I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly.
"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her.
She steps into your path.
"Sorry," you say again.
She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks.
You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes.
"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side.
She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!"
Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand.
"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake.
You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only-
"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you."
She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you."
You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?"
"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared."
You lick your dry lips. "The other day?"
"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun."
Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement.
"He really doesn't talk about me?"
Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."
He doesn't talk about me.
You pretend to check your watch.
"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance.
"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says.
You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes.
You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered.
You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline.
You're beautiful.
Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it.
Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself.
"Hi, honey."
"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower.
"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-"
"Are you sure?"
"...Are you okay?"
You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody.
"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?"
"What's wrong with your clothes?"
"You tell me, detective."
You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels.
"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you.
You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it.
"I don't understand."
"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you."
You wipe your wet face with mean hands.
"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you."
"No. I don't wanna see you."
"Honey-"
"Leave me alone, Aaron."
You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry.
You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing.
So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?
Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive.
That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread.
"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling.
Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either.
The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking.
It's him. Shocker.
You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone?
He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this.
"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.
"I'm really mad."
"What else?"
"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things."
"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks.
Do you want to talk about it?
You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day.
You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted.
You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would.
You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees.
"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain."
"I met Emily Prentiss."
He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.
"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like."
You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad.
"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like."
"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me."
"Yes."
Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely.
"Yeah, honey."
Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face.
"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?"
"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising.
"Then why?"
His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off."
You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues.
"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.
"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself."
You're finding it difficult to be mad with him.
He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over.
You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin.
"How long have you felt like this?"
"Like what?" you ask wetly.
"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance.
"I don't know."
"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch."
You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches."
You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.
"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is."
"They know about the lunches?"
His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry."
You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Mm. Can we go home?"
His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again.
You watch him drive.
When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't.
"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding.
You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep.
"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty."
You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam.
—
+1
Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper.
You can't believe you're here.
You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.
You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself.
You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here.
Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.
His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you.
All eyes on me.
You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.
"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen.
"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you.
"Don't punish me."
"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.
And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.
That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing.
"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur.
He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine."
"What part is that, Agent?"
He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start."
༺༻
my first hotch fic omg. i did a big character study beforehand but i doubt it's entirely in character, hotch is a difficult character to write for! (and im only at season 4). but this was so fun and he's hot so it's worth it. if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging! i promise it makes a difference to me (and also i love seeing what people thought). thank you for reading!! ♥
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