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Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!doctor!reader
Warnings: fluff, established relationship.
The Olive Theory is a relationship concept suggesting a couple is perfectly matched if one person loves olives and the other hates them. This dynamic creates ideal balance, as the "olive hater" can simply give all their olives to their partner.
orange peel theory (Andrew Pope cody)
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The late night shift had finally reached a temporary lull. You were leaning against the nurse's station, your forehead against the cold plastic of a clipboard, when a paper bag fell onto the counter next to you.
"Blessing from the day shift," Jack's voice pulled you out of your dissociative state. "Someone’s family sent in a tray of gourmet sandwiches before they left. I managed to snag a couple before the residents tore through them like locusts."
You straightened and looked at your boyfriend.
"If there’s olives on whatever you brought me, I might actually cry, I can smell them from here," you mumbled, rubbing your temples.
"I know your picky no-no, beautiful," Jack chuckled, unwrapping one of the foil parcels and handing it over to you. "Eat up. We’ve probably got ten minutes before the next wave comes in."
You didn't hesitate. Starving and desperate for a burst of energy, you took a generous bite.
For about two seconds, it was glorious. Then, your teeth hit something briny and distinct.
Your jaw froze midway through chewing. A instant look of betrayal washed over your face. Nose scrunched, lips curled in absolute disgust, you slowly pushed the sandwich away from your mouth, looking at it like it had just insulted your entire existence.
Jack, who had been about to take a bite of his own sandwich, stopped dead in his tracks. He took one look at your horrified expression and immediately realized what had happened.
"Oh no, no, no," Jack said, quickly swapping the sandwich out of your hand with his own untouched one. "Wait, baby, I'm sorry, that’s mine! Give me that."
"I'm gonna die," you cried, dramatically grabbing a cup of water to wash away the awful flavor. "Why would anyone put tapenade on a sandwich? Horrible."
"No, it’s delicious," Jack replied calmly, already taking a contented bite of his sandwich you had just discarded without an ounce of hesitation. "That was meant for me. That one," he pointed to the package now sitting in front of you, "is plain turkey, cheese, extra mustard, zero olives. I mixed up the wrappers."
You inspected the replacement sandwich with suspicion, peeling back the top layer of bread to check and smell it before cautiously taking a bite. Perfect.
You let out a sigh. "You know, they say in an ideal couple, one person loves olives and the other hates them. That way, the universe stays in balance."
Jack swallowed with a thoughtful smirk.
He looked at you with cuteness.
"Yeah?" he asked softly. "So my willing sacrifice of eating all your discarded garnishes makes me the perfect boyfriend?"
"It’s literally in the job description, baby," you said, taking another bite. "I supply the picky eating, you supply the trash can stomach."
"I don't know whether to be offended or proud," Jack joked, reaching out to wipe some mustard from the corner of your mouth. "Just keep that in mind next time you try to steal my fries."
"Never, picky means stealing all your fries." you smiled, leaning into his touch for a brief moment.
"Is it good? he asked as he watched you.
"It's perfect. My boyfriend and a olive-free sandwich, all I needed for my little break."
"See? No tragic olive encounters on my watch," he murmured, stepping a little closer so his body blocked you from the sight of anyone walking around.
He leaned down, cupping your cheek with one warm hand to pull you into a soft peck. But the second your lips met his, your eyes flew open.
You shoved gently at his chest, pulling back with a look of utter horror. "Go away," you squealed in a hushed whisper, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You taste like tapenade."
Jack burst into a low laugh, his eyes twinkling with pure mischief. "Oh, come on. It’s an acquired taste," he teased, approaching you as if he wanted to give you an even more passionate kiss. "Give your boyfriend some love."
Warnings: Smut!! 18+!! MDNI! Look it actually has a plot! PIV. Reader on top, cowgirl, Hotch is injured, lots of kissing, handjob, sexual inexperience, mentions of bad ex, clumsy sex, praise, I don't know if this qualifies but mild pain play undertones?? Little bit of power imbalance even though Hotch is mostly still in charge.
Summary: Hotch comes home injured from a case and you're both too needy to let him rest, leading to you ending up on top for the first time in your life.
A/N: This is not proofread whatsoever!
Eight days. Eight long days has passed since Hotch went on a case across the country. Eight long days you’d spent in the apartment, still learning it’s creaks and cracks, barely moved in. Eight long days where the only sounds at night, were the hum of the old refrigerator—that definitely needed to be changed soon—instead of Hotch’s light snores from beside you in bed.
You’d kept yourself busy… mostly. Laundry had been folded more than once, trying to perfectly flatten each piece until your dressers looked like boutique store fronts, catching up on shows—but that was simply too boring without Hotch there to complain about the inconsistencies and plot holes in the story line of your small-town dramas. You’d even organized some of his half-finished case files, scattered around the apartment, in a way you thought might be useful, then reorganized them a couple of hours later when you came up with a better system. And a truly embarrassing number of hours spent in bed, late at night, scrolling through old voice texts from him just to hear his voice.
You were half-asleep on the couch when the key finally turned in the lock a little past midnight, dressed in one of his old shirts and nothing else. You’d tried to stay up when you got the text that they were on their way back, wanting to see him before he inevitably had to go into the office once again.
The door opened ever so slowly, trying his hardest to keep quiet as to not wake you in case you were already asleep. You heard the soft thud from his go-bag hitting the floor by the shoe rack in the hallway. And then the familiar heaviness of his footsteps moving closer and closer.
“Aaron?” You asked groggily, slowly sitting up at rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
He appeared in the doorway into the living-room a second later, looking like he’d gone three rounds against a martial arts expert with a particularly spiteful vendetta against him. He had a dark bruise blooming along his jaw line, it was starting to purple and looked ever so tender. He had a neat row of butterfly bandages lining his left temple, shielding what looked like a nasty looking gash from the small bits you could make out between the closures.
Hotch favored his right side as he moved in a way that told you he either had bruised ribs, or worse, broken.
His tie was gone along with his suit jacket, likely draped over the bench in the hallway, wanting to get into something less stiff than a suit as soon as possible. His shirt was wrinkled and yet, he still looked like the most solid and composed man you’d ever seen and known in your life.
“Hey,” he smiled, his voice soft and low, yet rough from the pure exhaustion he usually felt after longer cases like this one. His eyes softened the instant they met yours across the room. “Missed you.” It came out as a whisper and a sigh at the same time, finally letting himself relax at the sight of you.
You were off the couch quickly, crossing the room carefully, almost on tiptoes as you neared him. Your hands hovered for a second, trying not to jostle him and cause him unnecessary pain. Hotch quickly solved the problem for you, looping and arm around your waist and pulling you closer. He winced slightly as your body pressed against his ribs. He smelled faintly of hospital, mingling with the faint trace of his cologne that probably hadn’t been reapplied since before he gained all his bruises. You pressed your face into the uninjured side of his neck, breathing him in. You were trying to get a good whiff of him, and not whatever antiseptic the nurses had cleaned him up with at whatever small-town hospital in bumfuck nowhere. The mere thought of trying to figure out what exactly had gone down for him to end up like this, was nauseating you, you didn’t want to think about it, but it was part of his job, and you knew you had to get over your feelings and come to terms with that reality of your relationship at some point.
“You’re hurt,” you mumbled against him.
“Only mildly,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against the crown on your head. “Dave already threatened to call you on the way back. Demanding that I take some days off to rest up or else he would tell you a worse version of what happened.” He pulled slightly back, smiling down at you. “I’m fine,” he quickly added when he saw the look on your face, clearly mulling over just how bad his injuries really were.
“Liar!” You pulled back enough to where you could look up at him comfortably without craning your neck in an uncomfortable position.
“Occupational hazard.” The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk that he knew drove you crazy.
You pushed up on the tips of your toes then, kissing him softly, careful of the bruise on his jaws. Hotch moved into the kiss, guiding you back down on your feet as he slowly backed you against the wall, his hand tightening ever so slightly on your hip to keep you in place. The kiss deepened immediately. His mouth slotted over yours, no rush in it at all, like he intended to savour every second. Eight days was too long apart, when you were sill in that greedy, semi-new honeymoon phase of moving in together, where every minute spent apart felt like a sentence of death row.
Hotch moved his other hand up, cradling your jaw with a tenderness so soft, that it didn’t match the bruises littering his knuckles from when he had likely punched the unsub at some point. You sighed against his lips, fingers curling into his shirt, probably wrinkling it even more—those worries you wait for tomorrow, where you likely would be ironing it nonetheless. He answered your sigh with a low hum against your lips.
He kissed you slower this time, so slow, the drag of his lower lip against yours drawn out like he had all the time left in the world and meant to spend it right here, with you. When he finally deepened the kiss, it was with the same patient slowness, his tongue tracing along your lower lip before slipping against yours, languid and warm. You melted into the wall, into him, letting a soft sound escape you that he swallowed gently. His thumb stroked slow circles along your jaw, and every drag of his mouth against yours felt deliberate, savored, like he was memorizing you for when he inevitably would have to leave for another case in the near future.
He broke away only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing unsteady now, his hand still curled warm at your hip like he couldn't stand the thought of an inch of space between you. Hotch slipped the hand on your hip up and under your shirt, his pal warm against your bare skin as he let it slide up your waist, around your back and back down again, mapping out every inch of you.
“You’re not wearing anything under this,” he observed, voice growing slightly darker.
“I missed you,” you echoed his words from earlier, cheeks already warming, because you in fact had done this intentionally, hoping that it would lead to him laying you down to take care of you. To strip you of the neediness you’d been harboring in your system since the second he left. You needed him. Craved him. But right now, your wants seemed unlikely to happened from the state he was in.
Hotch slowly guided you toward the bedroom with careful steps, never letting go of you, needing to feel you close, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked.
By the time the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he was starting to unbutton his shirt, wincing slightly at the stretch of his muscles. You carefully pushed his hands away, taking over, careful along the area around his ribs. When you pushed each side aside, revealing the nasty purple and yellowing splotch along his left side, you winced, sucking in a breath at the sight of him.
“Baby—” you whimpered.
“I’m okay.” He tried to reassure you, catching your wrists in each of his hands before pressing a kiss to the inside of each one. “Just… limited mobility for a few days. Doctor’s orders. No heavy lifting. No sudden movements. No…” he paused for a second, eyes flicking down your body and then back up with open intent. “Certain positions.”
“Oh,” you blinked, the implication of what he was hinting at made your stomach do a little flip.
Hotch sat down on the edge of the bed, moving carefully. He parted his legs slightly and took your hand, pulling you between his knees. He slid a hand back up under your shirt, slowly mapping out the curve of your waist, tracing the soft underside of your breasts. The callous on his fingers made you shiver from the slight roughness, your nipples pebbling, straining against the fabric.
You let out the softest little gasp of air as his other hand joined, framing your chest, thumbs slowly circling each of your nipples, riling you up.
“I want you,” he said, matter of fact. “Badly! But I’m not going to be much use right now without making this worse,” he nodded down towards his ribs. “So…” He kept rubbing your nipples, heat was pooling between your legs, you were practically dripping on the carpet by now. “You’ll have to take the lead tonight.”
You froze at his words.
The nervousness must have shown on your face a little clearer than you’d intended, because his expression instantly gentled, cocking his head slightly to the sight, almost mockingly. He knew. Of course, he knew. Your ex had been the kind of guy who thought “variety” meant switching the brand of lunch meat in the supermarket. And on the really crazy days, switching which side of the bed you slept on.
With him, it was always missionary, lights off and zero interest in anything beyond you laying starfished on the bed and making the appropriate noises when he would thrust into you. The handful of times you’d tried to initiate and to experiment, he’d made it abundantly clear, that he preferred you quiet and cooperative.
How you’d stayed so long in an orgasm-less relationship was still a question you asked yourself, because the second Hotch gave you your first one, your eyes opened to the wonderful world of sex.
Hotch had figured out your lack of experimentation somewhere around the third time you’d gone wide-eyed and uncertain about your choices when he’d asked what you liked.
He’d been endlessly patient about it ever since then. Never rushing or mocking you for anything regarding your fantasies or requests in the bedroom.
“Hey.” His thumbs stilled and he removed one of his hands from under your shirt, moving it up to cup your cheek. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on inside that head of yours.”
“I’ve never…” you trailed off before vaguely gesturing at the general concept of being on top. “I mean, I’ve thought about it. But he never… and I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll be good at it… And what if I hurt your ribs worse or I fall over and look ridiculous—”
Hotch’s mouth curving into a small smirk stopped your rambling. “You’re not going to hurt me. I promise. You’re not going to fall over. And even if you do look a little ridiculous, I promise I will still find it extremely hot and sexy.”
You made a face at him, clearly not believing a single word he said. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m saying that because it’s true.” He tugged at the hem of your t-shirt, pulling it up, you bent slightly, letting him pull it over your head in a smooth motion, leaving you completely bare in front of him.
Hotch’s gaze dragged over your frame, appreciating every inch of you. “You’re beautiful. And you’re mind. And I have been thinking about the way your hands feel on me for eight straight days. I don’t care if it’s gonna be clumsy. All I care about is that it’s you.”
You leaned down and kissed him again, pouring every bit of missing and wanting him into it. His hands settled on your hips, guiding you down. “Come here,” he murmured between breaths against your mouth. “Straddled me. Nice and easy.”
You climbed the rest of the way onto his lap, knees carefully bracketing either side of his thights. The position was already starting to feel foreign at the premise of what would come next, even though you’d sat on him like this before. You were so used to being underneath, looking up at him, and it was starting to feel exciting despite your nerves.
From here, you could see the dark flush starting to spread along his cheekbones, the way his pupils had blown wide. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your core.
Your hands hovered uselessly for a split second before Hotch caught one of them and placed it over his heart. “Breathe. We’ve got all night.”
You let out a shaky exhale and moved your hands, starting on his belt as Hotch leaned back admiring you. The buckle fought you for a second and you muttered something so unflattering under your breath, that all he could do was huff out a quiet laugh at your frustration.
When you finally got the belt open and the zipper down, you lifted slightly up on your knees. Hotch lifted his hips off the bed, making it easier for you to ease his pants and boxers off together in come smooth move.
His cock sprang free, practically slapping against his stomach, the second the fabric cleared him, thick and heavy and already flushed a deep, dark pink along the length of him.
The head was swollen and angry, a clear bead of precum gathering at the tip and threatening to spill over.
You’d had him in your mouth more than a few times by now, had felt the weight of him on your tongue, the way he twitched when you did that particular thing with your throat, the way you swirled your tongue around the spongy head, but looking at him like this, fully hard and completely bare between your knees, still somehow managed to steal the air right out of your lungs.
You still weren’t used to the sight of him somehow. Not really. Not when he looked this desperate for it. For you.
“You’re staring,” he said, voice low and amused, though there was a rough edge underneath that betrayed how much the attention, or lack thereof, was affecting him.
“You’re distracting,” you answered, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.
“Good.”
You wrapped a hand around him experimentally, the heat of him almost startling against your palm.
He was so warm, so solid, and already slick enough at the tip that your fingers slid easier than you’d expected. You stroked him the way you’d learned he liked, firm pressure from base to head, a little twist right under the ridge that always made his breath catch and a low groan move up from deep within his gut.
Hotch’s hips twitched upward on instinct before he forced himself still with a low, strained sound, the careful control he was exerting just so he wouldn’t jostle his ribs making something warm and fiercely protective twist in your chest.
You kept the pace slow, watching the way his stomach tensed with every upward stroke, the way another bead of precum welled up and smeared under your thumb when you lingered at the head. His free hand found your thigh and squeezed, not guiding, just holding on, like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded while you took your time exploring him.
“Come on,” he encouraged softly, voice low and steady. “Up! I’ve got you.”
You rose further up on your knees carefully, one hand still wrapped around him, the other braced on his uninjured shoulder for balance. The angle was weird; everything felt different from up here, and you had to scoot forward a little, then back, then forward again, trying to line things up properly.
At one point, your knee slipped on the sheets, and you nearly face-planted straight into his chest. Hotch’s hands shot to your waist on instinct, steadying you with a quiet grunt of effort that made you freeze in pure horror.
“I’m fine,” he said immediately, reading the panic on your face before you could even open your mouth to ask if he was okay. “Promise. Keep going.”
You took a shaky breath and tried again, positioning him at your entrance. You were already so wet from the combination of missing him, the excitement, the way he had touched you that the head of his cock slid through your folds easily. You teased yourself a bit, using him, before making your first attempt.
The first attempt to sink down was… not graceful to say the least. You went too fast, then too slow, then got the angle completely wrong, and the thick head of him slid right past instead of inside.
You made a small, mortified noise that you immediately wanted to take back.
Hotch’s thumbs stroked slow, soothing circles on your hips. “It’s okay. Tilt a little… there. Yes! Just like that.” He gritted his teeth at the teasing touch of your pussy against him, wanting to take over and force you down on his cock immediately.
You tried again, slower this time. His head breached you, and you both groaned at the same time as you sank down, the stretch familiar and still somehow overwhelming in the best possible way.
You sank down another inch, then another, thighs already trembling with the unfamiliar effort it took to control and pace yourself.
Halfway down you had to stop and just breathe, forehead pressed to his, trying to get used to the way he felt from this angle.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice strained and rough around the edges. “God, you feel incredible.” He moaned as your walls fluttered around him.
“I feel like a baby deer learning to walk,” you whispered, the unexpected honesty startling a laugh out of him.
“Best looking baby deer I’ve ever seen.”
You huffed a laugh of your own and sank the rest of the way down in one careful motion. The sensation of being fully seated on him, of having him so deep from this new angle, punched the air right out of your lungs.
Hotch leaned back, lying down against the sheet. Eyes half-lidded and jaw tight as he fumbled for a pillow to prop his head up with, trying not to thrust up into you.
“Move whenever you’re ready,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “No rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
You started slow. An experimental roll of your hips that made both of you inhale sharply at the same time. Then another, a little more confident. The rhythm was off at first; too shallow, then too deep, then you lost your balance again and had to catch yourself on his chest with a breathless little apology that made his mouth curve.
Hotch just kept his hands steady on your waist the whole time, guiding the motion without ever taking over, murmuring quiet encouragement under his breath like he had all the patience in the world for this.
“That’s it. Use your thighs. Yeah… just like that. Perfect.”
It was not perfect.
At one point you leaned too far forward, and a strand of your hair got stuck in his mouth, making him huff a quiet laugh against your lips before he carefully brushed it away.
At another, you accidentally put too much weight on his injured side, and he hissed through his teeth, which made you freeze in pure panic until he was reassuring you again: ‘fine, keep going, please don’t stop, you’re not hurting me.’
Your thighs started burning sooner than you’d expected. Sweat gathered at the small of your back.
And somehow it was still the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.
Because Hotch was watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. Because every time you finally got the angle right and the head of his cock dragged over that spot inside you, his breath hitched, and his fingers flexed against your skin like he was holding himself back from something. Because when you eventually found a rhythm that actually worked; slow, deep, grinding more than bouncing, he started talking in that low, wrecked voice that always managed to undo you completely.
“Look at you. Taking me so well. Feels so good, sweetheart. You’re so wet for me. Been thinking about this every night I was gone.”
You whimpered and ground down harder, chasing the heat that was building too fast.
Your hands braced on his shoulders now, careful of the bruises, fingers digging in just enough to keep yourself steady. The new angle meant every downward slide rubbed your clit against his groomed tuft of hair in a way that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you were getting louder without meaning to, punched-out sounds slipping out every time you sank down onto him.
“Aaron… God!”
“I’ve got you.” One of his hands slid between your bodies without hesitation, thumb finding your clit with that unerring accuracy of his that always made you a little dizzy whenever he got to work. “Let go whenever you need to. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
The dual stimulation was almost too much. Your rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. You were so close, so close, and then—of course—your thigh cramped at the absolute worst possible moment.
You made a sound that was half moan, half frustrated laugh.
Hotch’s eyes crinkled at the corners even as his breathing stayed ragged. “Cramp?”
“Shut up,” you managed, still grinding against his thumb because stopping was simply not an option at this point.
He chuckled and helped you shift the angle until the cramp finally eased. Then he pressed up just a little: careful, controlled, still mindful of his ribs, to meet your next downward motion, and the friction hit exactly right.
Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, sudden and sharp and overwhelming. You clenched around him with a broken cry, thighs shaking hard, forehead dropping to his as the pleasure rolled through you in waves that left you trembling and breathless against him.
Hotch held you through it the entire time, murmuring soft praises against your temple while his thumb kept moving in those slow, lazy circles until the aftershocks finally made you twitch and push his hand away with a breathless little sound.
Only when you slumped against him, boneless and breathing hard, forehead still pressed to his, did he finally let himself thrust up in short, careful strokes.
“Can I?”
“Yes,” you breathed, the word coming out more like a plea than an answer. “Please. Want to feel you.”
It didn’t take long. A handful of those controlled upward rolls of his hips, the tight heat of you still fluttering around him, and he came with a low, punched-out groan, burying his face against your neck as he spilled inside you.
His hands flexed hard on your hips for a second before he forced them to relax again, still mindful of his own limits even in the middle of it.
For a long minute the only sound in the room was the two of you catching your breath, chests rising and falling against each other in the quiet dark.
You eventually lifted your head enough to look at him. Hotch’s hair was a complete mess. There was a faint sheen of sweat along his collarbones. The bruise on his jaw looked even darker in the low light.
He looked thoroughly wrecked and thoroughly, quietly pleased about it.
“So,” he said after a moment, voice still rough around the edges. “How do you feel about being on top?”
You considered it for a second. Your thighs were still trembling. There was cum slowly leaking out of you around him.
You’d nearly fallen over twice, given yourself a leg cramp at the worst possible moment, and almost smothered him with your own hair.
You grinned, still a little breathless. “I think I need more practice.”
Hotch’s answering smile was slow and warm and full of promise. “Lucky for you,” he said, carefully helping you ease off him so he could pull you down to lie against his uninjured side, “I’m an excellent teacher. And I have nowhere to be for the next forty-eight hours.”
You settled against him carefully, one leg draped over his, hand resting lightly over the least-bruised part of his chest.
It had been awkward. It had been clumsy. It had been, by any objective measure, kind of a mess.
It had also been perfect.
And as Hotch’s fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, already planning the next round with the same patience he brought to everything that mattered to him, to you, you decided you were very much looking forward to the practice.
summary: after one heated and spontaneous night together, aaron can’t seem to get his pretty subordinate (or her pussy) out of his head.
content warnings: smut, 18+, minors do not interact!, pussy!whipped hotch, age gaps, dirty talk, rough unprotected office sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving, mentions of m receiving in the past), choking, hair pulling, ass slapping, groping, some angst if u squint, love confessions and some asshole behavior, hotch is a munch and masturbates in his office.
word count: 6.5k (yea…)
a/n: this may seem a lil out of character for hotch? we all know he’s a professional thru and thru but the point is this is that he’s pussy whipped! also lots of flashbacks in italics whoopsies <3
Aaron was sure he was going crazy.
Or maybe he already was, and he was just starting to feel the effects of his craziness.
Aaron Hotchner, usually poised in a way that unwillingly intimidated others and made them back away from him, was unraveling in a way he had never done so before.
Having a one-night stand with his subordinate, the same subordinate he had been harboring painfully arising feelings for literal years, often led to such a reaction.
He could still recount every single detail from that night, from the moment the tension between you both began building itself up to the moment it actually snapped. It was as if he had everything engraved in his mind; the views he never thought he'd get to see to the things he never thought he would get to feel etched into his brain.
It had all been a blur that night, and a part of Aaron still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that you reciprocated his attraction towards you, letting him, not only touch you but also fuck you.
You two had stayed up late in your shared hotel room only to talk, really. After you and the rest of the team had wrapped up a somewhat good case, you only wanted to rant to one another. Aaron knew that you weren’t a ‘whiskey girl,’ or whatever it was that you said, but he had offered you a drink either way.
Neither one of you had even gotten tipsy, so he couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol. But the connection had always been there, though, one thing finally leading to another and all the unsaid words and stolen glances between you both began to surface.
It was as if everything you both silently felt for another was starting to seep through and everything that hindered you from telling each other no longer mattered.
It had felt so hot, from the way you held him close with your legs wrapped around his waist to the messy yet passionate kisses you shared, your bodies connected beneath.
It was everything Aaron envisioned it to be. But, as magical and heated as it was, he was the one to have ended things before they even had a chance at starting.
The morning after, as soon as you had both untangled your bodies from one another and got dressed to get back home to Quantico, he had done the stupidest thing imaginable.
“We shouldn’t do this again.”
You froze in your spot, half-way through tugging your pants up your legs. You blink at him from where he stood on the other side of the bed, already dressed, “This?”
“Yes.” Aaron says, voice awfully neutral.
You frown, jutting out your bottom lip that same way you did when you were thinking, “May I ask why?”
He takes a deep breath, “I’m your boss,” he gives you a pointed look, as if he had to remind you after fucking you dumb, “and you’re my subordinate. This goes against several workplace regulations and if anyone were to find out we could both lose our jobs.”
You’re quiet for several moments after that, and Aaron uses the silence to his advantage to prepare for any arguments you could be thinking of to use against him. He can’t seem to read you, though, your expression pensive as you stare at the floor.
Then you shrug. “Okay.” You say, simple and nonchalant.
Aaron watches as you continue finishing getting ready and he doesn’t know if he should ask if you were actually okay with it.
He decides that it’s for the best, not getting any pushback or having to argue on why he’s just subconsciously pushing you away after having one of the best nights of his life.
“Okay.” He repeats, giving you a small nod, even though you weren’t looking at him. With one last glance to your surprisingly calm figure, he finishes collecting the rest of his things and heads out of the room.
Even after the team had checked out of their hotel and settled onto the jet, you didn’t spare him a second glance. You hadn’t necessarily moved to ignoring him or silently lashing out, but it was as if everything went back to normal, with no mentions or glances back to that night.
That should be what was driving him crazy; the way he didn’t know if you were only calm because you were planning on going to the higher-ups, to HR, about what had happened. If you were secretly planning on putting him on blast out of anger or betrayal or telling him that he had coerced you to sleep with him and threatened you in case you didn’t.
No. What was driving him crazy was that he couldn’t get you out of his head, even after he broke things off.
Everything was engraved into his mind, from the sight of you on your knees, mouth full of his cock while you stared up at him with tear-pricked eyelashes and basked in his praises. Or the way your nails dug into his skin as he thrusted into you and the way you felt around him, all while he took pleasure in the sweet sounds he emitted from you every second.
He was going mad, and the already established feelings he had for you weren’t helping, either.
Aaron stared at you from inside his office, studied your features from afar whilst you sat on your desk. Your face was set in a neutral expression, flickering your attention from your computer screens to the physical files in front of you, but all he could see was the same face and person morphed into the one that had been withering in pleasure underneath him.
“Hotch…” you whine, a hand wrapped around his bicep as he dipped a finger inside your glistening pussy.
He watched as your back arched off the bed, throwing your head back against the pillows at the feeling of his thick digit inside you, “What, sweetheart?” He asked, the nickname rolling of his tongue easily. “What do you need? Hm?”
Your hips stuttered as he inserted another finger, thrusting them in and out you, “Y-You. I want you. Inside me.” You peered at him through your fluttering lashes, your mascara smudged underneath your eyes from the tears that had slipped out while you were sucking his cock.
“Yeah?” His voice is filled with amusement and bewilderment, one part of him indulging in seeing you this way—all disheveled and needy for him—while the other was still stunned at the whole thing. “Want my cock inside you after you just had it in your mouth?”
You nod meekly at his words, a sweet pout adorning your flushed lips.
Despite the heat and tension that suffocated the room, Aaron’s heart fluttered at the sight of you. The way you were asking for him ever so bashfully after just giving him the best head of his life tugged at his heartstrings and made his cock twitch.
“Please,” you whisper, bucking your hips upwards. A stuttered gasp emits from your lips when you feel the tip of his dick prod at your sopping entrance, “Aaron…”
Aaron lets out a low, throaty groan at the sound of his first name mumbled in desperation, and he thinks back to all the times he’s thought about you like this. How many times he’s dreamed of having you underneath him, encaged by his broad figure and whining for him.
“I got you, sweet girl,” he says promisingly. He lifts himself to his full height on his knees, lining himself up with your entrance and holding onto the meat of your thigh. Another groan utters from the back of his throat, mixed in with your gasps and puffs of breath as he begins to sink inside you.
A knock on his office door forces Aaron to snap out of his train of thought. He looks down at himself, registering the painfully hard boner he was now sporting. Quickly, he scooted further into his desk so that the tent in his pants wouldn’t be visible by whoever was knocking on his door. Clearing his throat, he lets out a somewhat proper ‘come in.’
In walks Garcia, and Aaron doesn’t know if he should be thankful or mortified it was her out of all people.
“Sir?” She asks politely, files in hand and head tilted in an ever so Penelope manner. “We’re ready whenever you are.”
Right. It was barely nine in the morning and Aaron was already sporting a growing tent in his suit pants.
He nods, doing his best to feign being busy, “I’ll be there in five, Garcia.”
He wants to think he comes out as somewhat normal, but panic surges through him briefly when her expression turns into a curious one.
“Are you alright, sir?” She takes a step forward and Aaron has to hold himself back from screaming for her to stay where she is. “You look red and pale at the same time.”
He shakes his head, waving a hand dismissively yet good-naturedly, “I’m fine. Jack is coming down with something and I think I might be, too.”
Great. Now he was using his innocent son as a scapegoat for his own horniness and bad decisions. Some father he was.
Garcia nods, looking convinced enough before bidding him a nod shuffling out of his office and closing the door behind her.
Aaron lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in. His boner had softened the slightest bit, and he was conflicted in trying to make it go down completely or taking care of it right here and now. But the thought of having to face his team after fucking himself into his fist mortified him. Of seeing you, right after fucking himself into his fist to the thought of you after leaving you hanging coldly.
He opted out of it, though it took more than five minutes to settle himself before heading over to the conference room. Once again, he tried to play it as casual as possible while he walked to his seat with everyone staring expectantly at him, including you.
“Let’s get started.”
The team’s briefings went on as so, everyone presenting their perspective cases and discoveries within them. It was a bit easier to lose focus of what he was thinking earlier when the gory crime scenes showed up on the TV screen each time someone went up, but all focus was lost when it was your turn.
You stood from your seat, taking the control from Penelope’s hands and talking everyone through the case you were currently focusing on.
Aaron held his fist up to his face as he tried to focus on the details of the case instead of you and your entire being. Your hair whipped out and into your face each time you looked from the screen and back to the team. The top part of your dress twisted with each turn and motion you made, the bottom part of it creasing along with it. Was it a new dress?
Didn’t matter. It didn’t compare to the pajama shorts he had slowly, almost tauntingly, pulled down your legs before–
“...makes me think he’s keeping them in a secluded space. He obviously likes the control and the pleasure of having his victims’ screams and cries for help to himself, so I’ve advised police to search condemned and empty areas far away from the city and even on the outskirts of the town.” You finished with a nod and once again Aaron was snapped away from his unholy thoughts.
While everyone else added their own commentary and advice, Aaron realized he had been the only to have not said anything during your presentation, too preoccupied with you once more.
“Adding in the possibility of him keeping them outside of the main town the victims have been found in was a smart move,” He quickly added, trying his best to comment on what he had paid attention to. His breath hitched when you turned to look at him. “Law enforcement might have missed that and can collaborate with police from the next town over. Good job.”
You smiled softly and nodded in appreciation, “Thank you.”
Fuck. How were you so nonchalant about this? Aaron’s mind wandered back to the probability of you getting back at him by going to Strauss about your rendezvous. It was only early morning Monday, the first day back in the office after said events, so it wasn’t a surprise he hadn’t heard anything from her. Yet.
He nodded back in response, though, casting his gaze downwards and collecting his things, “Great. I expect everyone’s reports to be on my desk by tonight, please.”
Everyone stood from their seats, shuffling out of the room with mumbled conversations. Aaron held back, taking his time in looking through his files and stacking them together while you did the same, leaving the two of you alone once everyone else had gone.
He wanted to say something, gather the courage to ask you something. Anything, just to make sure you were alright. If the two of you were still right, in spite of everything.
Only when you finished collecting things did he bring himself to open his mouth, a soft utterance of your name to get your attention.
You stopped in your tracks, a good couple feet away from him and the door. You stared at him, waiting for him to speak with a neutral expression on your face.
Not one of annoyance or irritation. Just expectant.
God, you really were driving him crazy.
You raised a brow when he didn’t say anything, “…Yes?”
He clears his throat again before asking, “Is everything okay?”
You blink and tilt your head, dumbfounded, “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Aaron grips at his files, guilt consuming him all over again. “With us,” he clarifies, swallowing harshly. “Is everything okay with us?”
You blink a couple more times, eyes wandering to the side as if you’re trying to catch onto what he’s implying.
It makes his heart churn.
“Oh.” You finally say, meeting his gaze. “Yes. We both agreed, no? To what you said.”
Aaron can’t decipher if the smile you give him is genuine or jeering, and he can’t tell if what you say last is clarifying as his answer or if it’s something underlyingly petty.
Either way it’s something. You’ve given him something and he’ll take it.
He nods finally, “Yes, we did.”
You shrug, smiling a bit wider this time, “All good then.”
He gives another curt nod, stepping to the side so you could exit the room. He moves to follow behind you, but he gets a whiff of your perfume as soon as you brush past him. The scent makes him halt and he has to hold onto one of the back posts of a chair to stabilize himself.
He takes a deep breath, inhaling the remnants that linger behind you for a moment.
He truly was going crazy.
The rest of the day goes by the same and hardly any work gets done on Aaron’s end. He’d scribble whatever he needed to write down or fill out then get distracted by the void of you.
It was getting impossible for him to keep working with the relentless problem that was his ongoing boner. He was tucked into his desk all the way yet it hurt whenever he leaned forward or backwards while moving around. Oftentimes he tried to give himself some sort of relief by running a hand over himself, but it didn’t help much, and the dirty thoughts about you certainly didn’t either.
The sounds that filled the room were lewd, your gags and moans from below mixed in with Aaron’s grunts and words of encouragement echoing off the hotel room’s walls. His large hand was entangled in your hair, pushing your head forward to take more of him, as if your jaw wasn’t aching enough already.
Though there wasn’t a way for him to tell, really. You gave no sign or indication that you wanted him to stop, your tongue swiping at the head of his cock each time he dipped your head even more. Saliva pooled from your tongue and leaked from your mouth, dripping into the carpeted floor and entailing a trail from your lips to your chin.
Aaron’s head was thrown back in utter pleasure and astonishment, bewildered that you’d ever be doing this to him. He didn’t want to finish before you, but it was taking everything him to not give in and fuck your face the way he truly desired.
He’d never received head this good, nor had he received it much recently. His legs were spread with you settled in between them contently. “That’s it sweetheart,” he mumbled, brushing fallen strands of hair out of your face lovingly. “Taking me so good, such a good girl.”
His praises only edged you on even further, bobbing your head up and down a couple more times before pulling off of him with a slick ‘pop!’ You rest your head on his thigh in an attempt to catch your breath, a shaky, stuttered sigh heaving from your chest as your hand comes up to continue the rest of your work.
Aaron has to run a hand over his face to try and keep his composure, his nails digging into the skin of his palm albeit their short length. He throws his head back against his chair, a grunt threatening to emit from his throat as he coercively runs his hand over his boner.
At least he wishes he can say it’s coercively, really it’s just a tainted image of you he’s embedded in his own dirty mind.
It doesn’t take long for Aaron to give in and reach inside his pants, sparing another careful glance to his now locked office door before springing his painfully hard cock free. A low, pleased grunt spills from his pursed lips as he wraps his hand around himself. He gives his length a good tug, bucking his hips up instantaneously, the same way he did when you first wrapped your mouth around him.
Still, as cautiously and quietly as possible, he begins to stroke at his length, a hand covering his mouth as he continues to dart his eyes from below himself to his door–as if anyone would walk in at any second and catch him jerking himself off in his own government-issued office.
He begins to imagine that his fist is you. That you’re sitting in the space between his legs with your hot mouth licking long stripes up his length and that your hand is toying with his balls the same way you did before. It only makes him pump at his fist even faster, the hand that was covering his mouth shooting down to the armrest of his chair, gripping at the cushioned leather as he began to reach his high.
“Fuck, Hotch, fuck!” Your whines are eccentric, head thrown back in pure ecstasy. Your legs wrap around Aaron’s waist, pulling him closer to you as he continues to thrust into your sopping pussy.
Aaron groans loudly, silently thanking that his and yours room was placed further down the hall from everyone else’s. His hands rest at the bottom of your thighs, his large hand gripping the flesh for support as he pounds into you relentlessly. Your pussy grips him like a vice and your nails dig into the skin of his biceps from where you hold him.
His sight is focused on you only, the way your tits bounce with each thrust and the way your mouth is curled into a wide ‘o’ from the pleasure you’re receiving.
“So good for me, baby,” he mumbles, hand coming down to grab at your breast, squeezing possessively before leaning down to crash his lips against yours hungrily.
You whine through the kiss, grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging while your other hand scratches at his back. A string of saliva connects at your lips when he pulls away, his head dipping down to kiss and suck at your neck while he grabs your hips to better pistol himself inside you.
A moan echoes through the room again and straight to his ear, your back arching into his chest, “Feels so good, Aaron, so good!”
Aaron’s release sputters everywhere messily and he has to bite at his fist to stop himself from groaning loudly. His come spills onto parts of his leg, his desk, and even onto the floor. He leans back into his chair, trying to contain himself and his heaving chest.
He takes a look at the mess he created–the mess you unknowingly entailed from him. Like clockwork, the paranoia and guilt from doing this begins to seep in and he’s quick to snatch a handful of tissues from the box he kept on the corner of his desk to clean himself up. He tucks himself back into his pants then moves to clean at his desk and his floor.
Clearly, he hadn’t known what he was thinking. Not when it came to calling things off between the two of you before they even happened and certainly not now after he realized the spell he was currently in.
The last hour of the work day comes by agonizingly slowly. After his little session, Aaron finds it a little bit easier to get the rest of his work done (key word: a little bit). The rest of the members all begin to spill into his office to hand in their finished paperwork and files, all of them sparing him brief glances of curiosity and concern–the same way Garcia had done earlier–before bidding him goodnight and leaving.
The only one that hasn’t come to hand in anything was you. He knew you were still here, he could see you sitting at your desk from the view through his blinds, scribbling away casually like you had been doing so the whole day. After you had stalled to follow behind the rest of your co-workers, Aaron had gotten up from his desk and pretended to be walking around his office with a file in hand, lifting his head every few minutes to see if you were ever making your way towards him to turn in your work.
He wanted desperately to know what you were thinking. If you were secretly being tortured by the recollections of your hook-up, too, or if you truly didn’t care about him basically dumping you after having sex with you and telling you that it could never happen again due to your perspective titles.
With a defeated sigh, he closes the file he was still pretending to read. His eyes instinctively travel back to where your desk was at and his breath immediately catches in his throat when he sees that you aren’t there. He hears the sound of footsteps approaching closer and closer through the staircase that leads up to his office and you walk in soon after.
You freeze in the doorway when you see that he’s already staring at you. Your eyes flicker to a space behind him then back at him before you take a tentative step back and glance at the clock hung on the wall facing his desk, “Uh, is this a bad time?”
“No!” Aaron takes a step forward when you take another one back. He rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, “No, no, it’s not. I didn’t know you were still here. Everyone else left almost half an hour ago.”
“Oh,” you glance back behind you to the rest of the bullpen before looking back at him. “I was just finishing up the reports you said you wanted done by the end of today.” You jut your chin toward the stack of files you were carrying in one arm.
“Right.” He clears his throat, motioning to the pile of files the rest of the team had stacked on his desk. “You can just leave them there.”
You nod, giving him a small smile.
He watches as you walk over to his desk, taking in your appearance while you double-check that everything was correct. He swallowed harshly, taking in the way your skirt hugged your lower figure perfectly the same way it did during the morning debriefing. Your hair flows ever so slightly and he takes in a good look at your side profile when you tuck a loose strand behind your ears while you continue to flip through the pages of your file.
You’re breathtakingly gorgeous and Aaron doesn’t know if what suddenly makes him start walking up behind you is from what he’s felt since sleeping with you or if it’s everything he’s felt since way before that.
You halt your movements when you feel his presence directly behind you, gasping when you turn and find how close he was standing.
“Hotch–” you gulp, heat blooming through your cheeks albeit feeling confused. “W-What are you doing?”
Aaron takes in your tone and he can tell that you’re not asking in a disgusted, annoyed way, more so in a flustered way. He lifts a hand to brush the hair that frames your face past your face but doesn’t actually move to do it, keeping it there to see if you push him away. But you don’t. So he brushes it away.
“I can’t get you out of my head.” He mumbles, eyes boring into the side of your face as you stare up at him as best as you can from your practically rigid figure.
You scoff, a sound filled with so much humor yet so little at the same time, “You were the one that said this couldn’t happen again.” You twist your head, trying to turn your body around more with the way he had you pressed against the front of his desk.
“That was a mistake,” he whispers. He dips his head so that his mouth is by your ear, watching you shiver from the proximity.
“A mistake?” You repeat, brows raised. You lull your head to the side but you don’t know if you do it to get away from him or to grant him access to your neck.
Aaron takes it as the latter and hovers his lips over your skin, the same spot where he had left splotches of pink and purple last time.
“Yes,” he confirms, “a mistake.”
You want to ask why he said it then, want to press him for answers but you can’t when his hot breath sends shivers down your spine and arms. Your legs go weak when he brings a hand around you to wrap at your middle, big hand splayed across your stomach to pull you in even closer, if possible.
“H-Hotch,” you clear your throat. “We can’t. You said so yourself.” You roll your shoulders back in a weak effort to push him away, but all he does is hold you tighter.
“I was wrong,” he mutters, pressing a feather-light kiss to the very side of your neck. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of your perfume again and letting out a pleased hum from the back of his throat. “I was so wrong.”
You gasp when he flings an arm out in front of you, proceeding to knock over the multiple things from his desk. Files, pens, and other trinkets fly off the hard wood and land on the floor with a loud crash. Aaron spins you around before you can process the whole mess, turning you around so that you were facing him.
“Aaron-!” Your mind is a whirlwind as he grabs at your hips and easily sets you down on the edge of the desk. His lips crash onto yours messily and you hum, satisfied.
The kiss quickly becomes sloppy and hungry, muffled whines as you two practically devour one another. Your hands wrap around his neck while his own roam your body, curious hands searching for the zipper of your dress and bunching up the fabric in the process. You mewl when he finally finds it and slowly tugs it down. You break apart from the kiss in order to help him, scrambling from side to side so that it comes off from under you.
Aaron lets out a groan at the sight of you as he tosses the dress to the side. You’re wearing a matching set: a lacy white bra that cups your breasts gorgeously and a lacy white thong paired with it. It takes everything in him to not come undone right then and there.
Holding your gaze, Aaron sinks to his knees, shrugging off his suit jacket as he kneels before you.
“Aaron…”
He immediately shushes you, discarding the jacket somewhere next to your dress on his office floor. “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.”
Instead of obeying, you knock your knees together bashfully, the fat of your thighs pressing against each other.
Aaron’s eyes darken at your shy defiance. “I said spread your legs.” His hands come out to grab behind your knees and you gasp again when he spreads them apart forcefully, large hands holding them in place.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he utters, gaze locked on your soaked panties. His palms slide down your legs, eyes flickering back up at you as he begins to kiss at your calves. Each peck to your skin leaves a wet trail from your earlier kiss and you whine in anticipation as he makes his way up before coming face to face with your pussy. His fingers hook themselves inside the thin fabric and you immediately get the message, lifting your hips once more so he could slide them down your legs
Aaron swiftly shoves the wet material into his pockets, wasting no time before diving straight in and burying his head in between your thighs.
His tongue swiping at your folds elicits a loud moan from you, your hands shooting out to grab at his head, “Aaron!” You yell out, fingers tangling in his hair to stabilize yourself from the suddenness.
Aaron grunts from below you, the sound sending vibrations up your body and causing you to arch into his touch. He didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of tasting you that night in the hotel room, too preoccupied with the pleasure he had received from you. But–dare he say–this was better than head, better than anything else he had ever gotten, tasted or even done. He wasn’t even a minute into devouring you and he had already decided that this was the best pussy he had ever had in his whole life.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about this pussy.” He lapped at your juices, mouth hot on your dripping cunt. His hands continued to grip at your thighs, large palms still keeping you in place from where you were writhing in pleasure.
“A-Aaron,” you whimper, grinding your hips against his face. “Please, I need you. Need you so bad.”
Your head was thrown back in utter bliss, hips stuttering with each nibble at your clit. Your fingers tugged his face closer despite the longing you had to feel him inside you, caging his head to keep him there.
Aaron couldn’t help but bask in the sounds he was pulling from you. It was as if his mouth had a mind of his own and all it could focus on was licking up every single one of your juices, the taste nearly intoxicating. He flickered his eyes up to you, taking in the way your chest heaved and your breasts pushed against the cups of your bra, practically spilling out.
Without removing his tongue from your pussy, he reaches behind you and easily undoes the hooks.
You let the straps fall from your shoulders and aid him in tossing it somewhere in the room along with your dress. Desperately, you reach for Aaron’s hands and place them on your breasts, groaning when he rolls each already hard and sensitive nipple in between your fingers.
Your legs begin to shake and you’re quick to wrap them around Aaron’s head, the heels of your feet digging into his muscular back. “Mm, fuck, ‘m gonna cum,” you toss your head back as the coil in your belly threatens to snap.
“Yeah?” He teases, angling his head so that he could spit onto your cunt, all before diving right back in and swirling it together with your arousal. “You gonna cum on my mouth, honey?”
You nod, feverishly, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel your orgasm getting closer and closer.
“Go ahead, pretty,” Aaron ushers, voice deep and rough from his non stop nibbling and sucking. “Come on my mouth, sweetheart.”
A certain bite on your clit immediately has you seeing stars and the office is soon filled with your cries of ecstasy as your orgasm washes over you violently. Your body shakes and stutters as you ride out the high on his face, leaning backwards until your back was resting against his desk.
Aaron doesn’t relent even as you begin to come down from your high, enhancing the way your legs shook from where they were wrapped around him.
“No, n-no more, Aaron, p-please,” you begged, keeping your back on the desk while weakly attempting to push him away.
“Just one more, honey. You can give me one more, can’t you?”
You don’t get the chance to answer, back arching off the desk as his fingers prodded at your entrance briefly before he shoved two inside. A high-pitched moan emitted from your swollen lips and your hips rutted against his face once more as he scissored the thick digits inside your gummy walls.
“That’s it, pretty girl, that’s it,” Aaron’s sultry words only encouraged you further, his face wet with your arousal and the release of your first orgasm. “I’m gonna make it up to you, sweetheart. But first you gotta give me another one.”
His thumb came up alongside his mouth to rub rough circles on your already sensitive, swollen clit and you immediately felt that coil snap once more, mixing in with the first orgasm you hadn’t even properly come down from.
“Aaron, Aaron, Aaron!” You mumbled dumbly, mouth agape and head hanging back from the desk as you rode out your second high on his face, the heavy wood shaking with every motion.
Aaron’s head was buried even further in between your legs, lips trying to catch every single drop that leaked from your hole, pulling out your fingers and cleaning them with a swirl from his tongue. He delivered a sweet kiss to your folds before standing, his knees cracking in response to being kneeled on the ground for so long.
He leans over, bringing a guiding hand to the back of your neck to get you to sit up, “You good, honey?” Aaron asks, brushing away the stray hands of hair that had stuck to your face. “Still with me?”
You hum, nodding weakly, “Need you, Aaron.”
Aaron chuckles at your fucked-out form, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your head, “I got you, sweetheart. Bend over the desk for me.”
You stand on wobbly legs and do as he says blindly, the need to have him inside you outshining your nearing overstimulation. You feel yourself salivate as the sound of him undoing his belt is heard from behind you and you look back to watch him pull himself out from his boxers.
He hears you gasp when his cock springs out and hits against his stomach, tip an angry red and leaking with precome. He wraps a hand around himself and groans at how painfully hard he was. He quickly lines himself up with your entrance, slapping his length against your dripping folds before easing himself inside little by little.
You whine from in front of him when he bottoms out, the tip of his dick easily hitting your sweet spot the same way it did before in the hotel. This time, though, it feels even better with how wet you already were, his cock glistening when he pulls out before shoving himself back in roughly.
It doesn’t take long for Aaron to set a brutal pace, hands on your hips as he begins to pound into you from behind ruthlessly, a stark contrast from the way he had asked you if you were okay.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You have no idea how crazy you’ve driven me since I first fucked this pretty pussy,” Aaron grunted form behind, fingers digging so hard into your hips he was sure there would be an imprint there. “Had to get myself off in my own office, that’s how crazy you had me going.”
You don’t answer. You can’t answer. Your mouth is wide open, small huffs the only noise you can make while a line of saliva drools from your tongue. It’s only when you feel him wrap your hair in his hand and pull your back flush against his chest that you squeal, the angle pushing his cock further inside you.
“You like that, pretty?” He asks deeply, voice hoarse and gravely as he continues to pound into your pussy, the squelching that comes from beneath scandalous. “Like getting this pussy fucked by me, huh?”
You nod dumbly, too fucked out to properly answer him. A harsh slap against your ass makes you cry out, the sting somewhat snapping you back to reality.
“Answer me,” Aaron commands, tugging at your hair and making your back arch even further against him. “Did I fuck you dumb like last time?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble, legs shaking even in your standing position. “I l-love it, Aaron. Feels so g-good.”
He chuckles against your ear, the way you could barely register his questions only making him quicken his pace, “You gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna give me one more wrapped around me?”
You nod with as much fervor as possible, “Yes, y-yes, can I, Aaron? Want you to c-cum inside me, please.”
“Yeah? Want me to stuff you full of my cum?” He asks. He doesn’t bother to correct you when you don’t answer, instead snaking his hand to your front and down to your pussy.
The feel of him rubbing circles on your clit is the final push you need before you’re clenching around him, body trembling against him as he continues his assault on your swollen bud.
It doesn’t take long for Aaron to spill his own release inside you, giving you a couple more shallow thrusts as he comes down from his own high.
You whine when you feel him pull out, a string of your mixed releases following suit on the tip of his cock.
“So good, baby,” he praises, wrapping a hand around your neck gently and pressing soothing kisses on your cheek. “Did so good for me.”
You lean your head against his shoulder as he reaches for some tissues to clean you up, “So I guess we’re definitely doing this again?”
Aaron laughs, a pink adorning his cheeks, “Yes. Yes, we are. In fact, I’m telling everyone to work from home tomorrow so I can take you on a proper date. I’m not risking going crazy again.”
You suppress a giggle, “You went crazy? Over my pussy?”
Hi! This is my first time requesting so feel free to ignore this, but ever since reading Leave on the morrow I can’t stop thinking about Maeker coming back from war and Wife!reader had a son (Daeron) while he was at war and how he would react to that or how he would feel and interact with baby Daeron. No smut just pure fluff! Feel free to ignore this if it doesn’t interest you!
A/N: cute cute cute. I do fear I made it a bit angsty on accident for a second there idk what’s wrong with me. (Leave on the Morrow)
The Morrow
Maekar Targaryen X Wife!Reader
WC: 1.8k
Daeron has been all you’ve had. Your world, your comfort, your tie to him. The connection to Prince Maekar you needed to feel comfortable existing in his home without him here.
The first two moons in the red keep had been strange. It got much quieter after the festivities ended, families left and every able bodied man and older boy was marched from kings landing back into battle to stomp down the rebellion. When everybody was gone you felt like the only guest. Just lingering about without true purchase to stand on. Maekar would have still been a stranger to you at that time but at least standing at his side would make you feel like you should be within these walls.
Though two months after the wedding, when your stomach started to harden and your moonblood again did not arrive the Maesters felt comfortable confirm you were indeed with child.
Blessed by the gods and bred in one night by the prince. That is what court whispered.
The moment your condition became obvious to those at court you suddenly felt quite welcome. The Queen inviting you to break fast together, to read together, to just be in one another company. You were having the kings first grandchild and at the time of unrest, what you grew in your womb was very welcomed and more than that some little symbol of hope for the future.
Daeron was born when it was raining. Pouring so badly that some of the halls with open archways filled with enough water that it pooled, that the midwives skirts were all wet around their ankles by the time they made it to your birthing bed.
You hardly remembered the climax of it, the pushing and then screaming and the mess. You just recalled the hours of acheing and the anxiety in your chest that built as you knew your body was about the enter a personal battle. The Queen was brought to your bedside when Lady Jena could not remain to offer you the emotional support that a girl of your age, with no husband or family there needed. The first thing you remembered after the haze of the pain was the queen wiping your face and telling you to look upon your son.
He was crying into your chest. Seeming very offended that you had brought him into the world. You had told him it was alright, that you were frightened too about this new phase. He must have been reassured by that, or maybe it was just the sound of your voice because that first night, after he was clean and content and just starting up at you while swaddled he was still and silent. Just blinking his pretty and long lashes up at you.
“Your father will be here soon…he is just busy winning a war.” You whispered.
Even the king commented on how quickly motherhood seemed to come to you. Daeron was a treasure to everybody at court and you found yourself quite proud of him even though he did nothing but grab at ladies hair and get passed from arm to arm.
Nights were different, and they were secret because you did not want to be critiqued and you did not want him to lose all the praise he got during the day. The sweet babe wailed of you were not holding him, if you did not rattle his toys to distract him and let him be up and out of his cradle.
Nobody knew, mostly because your husband was gone and so you did not share a chamber with anybody. That has now changed and you found yourself sick with dread. Laid flat on your back in your bed, the one you shared with Maekar. Arms at your sides and eyes set on the wood paneling above you.
When Maekar had escorted you and Daeron back to his rooms earlier after the grand feast he had asked if you would be offended if he did not touch you.
Asking that had not been easy for him, it’d actually been weighing on him a great deal and although he did physically want to he just did not feel he should. Not with eveeybring weighing on his mind still. Battle fresh, your marriage that has been established for a year had really only consisted of one night together and now he had a son. A son who all these people seemed to know and he was a stranger to go boy.
“No…gods no, I’d not think anything.” You assure him. “I’m sure you are tired as it is, and just wishing to savor a proper bed.” You were rocking Daeron against your chest and realized after a moment that the little boy was what Maekar seemed most focused on.
“or perhaps you would just like to hold him?” Maekar nodded because he feared his voice might shake when he answers.
“maybe…sit down here.” You nod to the bed. “He’s quite wiggly as of late.” You smile down at your son and kiss his nose before guiding him into his father’s arms.
Daeron’s chunky legs kicking against his father’s strong thighs and you watched the two just stare at enough for a while.
“I thought his hair was Targaryen silver.” You admitted, sitting beside him and running your fingers through Maekar’s. “I realize why the ladies chuckled now.” Daerons was light no doubt but it was more golden than white.
“don’t let them jest at your expense.” It came quickly and you chewed your lip.
“very well…but it was moons ago. There is no harm.”
“If my sons mothers claims he has silver hair than court can pretend that is the truth.” He glanced at you and you nodded with a small smile.
“he does look like you though…hair aside.” You look at both of them and are already drawing up comparisons.
”He’s nans for this.” Maekar muttered into his pillow when your shifting to get out of bed disrupted him.
“I’ve had nothing else to do while you were away, nothing other than just being his mother. To look after him.” You explained when Maekar sat up in bed to question why you were opening the door to the nursery. “I see to him.”
Perhaps if you had said this to him on another day, a day he hadn’t just returned from war. A day when the memory of committing himself over and over to the same cause. Something that was honorable and befitting of him….and was also exhausting. If that fatigue in his bones and mind was not still felt in every inch of him he may have heard your comments and thought you a decent lady who sought to care for her son.
But he still felt the ache and he saw it in you.
“lay back down.” He grunted. He’d been a bit short during the wedding ceremony but you’d only learned of how demanding and particular he was after he departed and it just came up naturally when people spoke of him.
So you laid back down, because though it had been many moons since you wed, today was really only your second day as his wife and you did not want to frustrate him so early.
You watched him sit up and then rub at his face for a moment. “Stay in bed.” He stood and walked to the nursery door. The cries got louder when it was opened and you grimaced a bit.
“nothing is wrong with him!” Maekar called out over the babes tears after a few mintues and all the things that would naturally make a child of his age shriek were fine.
“I know…it’s every night.” You admit and then he is in the doorway again. Looking at you, seeing the ache pour from your mouth. “Every night he sobs and I cannot get him to sleep.” You’d kept it in for so long. You didn’t cry, gods know you’d shed all your tears before this moment, there were none left. All that remained was the dread and fear.
“let me-“ you pushed the covers back to stand and caught the set of maekar as jaw from across the room.
You settled back down, you did not need it spelled out.
He returned to you a moment later with Daeron against his bare chest. The crying already ceased.
“he just does not want to be put to bed.” You sighed shoulders relaxing because the tears were drying already on his soft cheeks when Maekar maneuvered back into bed with the boy.
“The nans are used to dealing with fussy babes.”
“he is not fussy.” You correct sharply. A sharpness Maekar was seeing for the first time. Perhaps it was a new trait, one brought out via motherhood. “He just, well he must have nightmares.” Maekar’s chest lifts with a laugh.
“he is four moons old.”
“why else does somebody resent rest.” You mutter and shift closer so you can brush his soft hair back and kiss his back. Your lips missing a few times and hitting one of Maekar thick fingers, though neither of you comment on it. Both of you just lay there watching your firstborn. His eyes wide and alert, unlike yours.
You did not realize how exhausted you were until it was too late. Until your face was heavy against Maekar bicep and hand that had been on Daeron’s back fallen to a scar near his side.
“You see what you’ve done to your mother.” He grumbled to the boy. “I hoped you might be kind to her when I heard the news.”
Maekar’s efforts doubled when the raven carrying word that you were with child arrived. He somehow tripled those when news that you’d given him a son came.
On the eve of the battle of the Redgrass Field he had told his brother that this war would be done. That he was finished with it, that tomorrow they would crush the Blackfyres, that he was fucking needed elsewhere! Perhaps somehow he had known that you two needed him here. That his son would not sleep and you would not allow help.
“why not sleep?” This was as close to a cooong voice as Maekar got and he only did it because you were snoring into his arm and not able to witness it.
“don’t be scared son.” He kissed the boys head and tucked him into his neck, Daeron’s little fists holding to his beard. “I’ll not let anything harm you.” He swore.
When the maids entered the princes chambers at dawn you were still asleep at his side, Maekar was sat up against the pillows with his head lulled back and mouth opened for some deep snoring. Little prince Daeron was cuddled to the broad chest of his father, hands grabbing anybting he could reach with his light, round eyes wide open.
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pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader
summary: getting shot is bad. bleeding out in your boss-slash-ex’s arms? somehow, worse. based on this request.
warnings | an: hurt, some comfort (not too much because i wrote this when i was sad lol) descriptions of getting shot, bleeding out, hospitals, needles, mentions of death, ok maybe there is physical comfort because i couldn't help myself, probably a v unhealthy relationship with ur ex—move on girl!
word count: 2.6k
✧ masterlist
fav song & perhaps hotch x ex!reader’s national anthem
You didn’t notice the pain at first—just the strange sensation of heat blooming beneath your skin, like a match pressed to paper, a kiss of flame before the burn. The bullet had slithered into your side, embedding itself as if it were searching for home. Still, the sting didn’t register—not right away. Maybe it was the adrenaline taking its turn, or maybe it was his voice in your ear.
“Talk to me. Are you hit?”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes found Prentiss, her expression faltering as her gaze dropped. You followed it down, almost confused by the slow bloom of crimson spreading across your side and belly—like a cruel artist dragging a brush through water, letting the pigment bleed. The soft grey shirt you’d thrown on that morning—chosen with little thought—now looked like it had been made for this exact kind of tragedy. You hadn’t considered how well it would pair with blood.
The fabric clung to your skin now, hot and wet. The bleeding wasn’t fast—it was abiding, resolute, like your body had made peace with the idea of unravelling slowly. There was a pressure building beneath your ribs, sharp and incessant, like something vital had been nicked and was now screaming for your attention.
Your knees gave way first.
Footsteps pounded against the pavement, sounding somewhere far off. Or maybe they were close. It was hard to tell with everything starting to muffle, feeling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears and the world was beginning to fade.
Above you, the sky wavered, as if seen through glass smeared by an unkind hand—smudged and streaked, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or fade with you. Your fingers twitched against the asphalt, seeking something solid to hold onto.
“Move! I’ve got her—move!”
His voice came before the rest of him and you forced your eyes to stay open.
Just a little longer.
Just to see him.
If this was it—if this was the breath before the end—then let it be him you carried into whatever came next. Let his face be the last light seared into the backs of your eyelids, the last shape your body remembered before becoming nothing more than a bloom in soil.
Let it be him.
He dropped beside you like gravity had pulled him down harder than the rest of the world. You felt the absence of his hands for a single, suspended second—like the earth had held its breath with you—and then they were everywhere. One braced behind your head, the other pressing into your side firmly, and oh, God, it burned.
You gasped, a wet, broken sound that cracked from somewhere beneath your ribs and he flinched, just once.
“S’okay,” you managed, your voice thready, ghostlike. “Not as bad as it looks.”
His eyes snapped to yours, overflowing with disbelief, and you tried to offer a smile—something crooked, something brave—but it faltered the moment you tasted copper. A metallic bitterness coating your tongue.
Your lips parted in confusion before the nausea caught up. You turned your head just as a frenzy of coughs clawed their way up your aching chest, wracking your frame.
Warm and slick blood found its way past your teeth, past your lips.
“No—” His voice cracked, low, hoarse, and terrified. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as you shuddered, trying to hold you steady, trying to keep you here. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—just breathe.”
But it was getting harder to do even that.
Air was beginning to feel like smoke in your lungs, thick, stinging, and impossible to hold. Every inhale caught somewhere halfway, like your body was forgetting how to stay alive, or simply beginning to make peace with going.
Your gaze fluttered to his mouth, watching the way his lips moved.
The sound wasn’t reaching you anymore, not clearly. You had to focus, had to summon what was left of your strength just to hear him, just to hold onto his voice.
“…vest…” You watched his mouth shape the word, his hand still pressing against your side. “You didn’t have your vest on…”
Regret twisted in his features—not anger, never that—just devastation carved into bone. Like he was trying to figure out how to bargain with the universe. Like if he could go back, he’d put the damn thing on you himself.
“T-took it off,” you murmured, each syllable slow and splintered, barely more than air. You didn’t know if he could hear you. You weren’t even sure you were making sound anymore. “D-didn’t know…there w-was a second unsub…”
“You should never take it off.” The words sounded like they belonged in of his lectures, but his voice lacked the sternness it usually carried. “You know that, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
He hadn’t called you that in months.
Not through the check-ins he made under the guise of protocol. Not during the late dinners, the endless conversations in half-lit hotel rooms or your apartment where the line between exes and colleagues blurred just enough to hurt.
But now—now—when you were bleeding in his arms and slipping further from him with every breath, the word had tumbled out like muscle memory.
And for a second, it didn’t matter how much time had passed.
You were still his.
“T-tell me something,” you whispered, the words barely forming. Your eyes felt impossibly heavy now, taking more effort to keep them open than to let go. “Something warm,” you breathed. “I feel…so cold…”
You weren’t sure of much anymore—weren’t even certain if he was really there—but then his grip tightened around your hand, grounding you in the space between pain and unconsciousness. Your eyelids fluttered right as he leaned his head closer, his breath a small comfort against your cheek.
“Do you remember that night in Georgia?” he murmured, moving a blood-matted piece of hair from your face. “The motel with the broken heater…and the vending machine that ate your dollar?”
You blinked. Slow. Maybe a nod. Maybe just the way your breath caught a little differently.
“You were freezing,” he went on, the memory spilling out like a lifeline, “wrapped up in that ridiculous blanket you stole from the jet.”
“It was itchy,” you rasped, voice so faint he had to lean in closer to catch it. “The blanket… so itchy…”
“I remember, honey,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your temple. “It was your excuse to steal my sweatshirt… and half the bed.”
You blinked again, slower now—and this time, your eyes didn’t reopen, content to shut with the memory of his face carved into the darkness behind your eyelids.
The soft curve of his mouth. The small, reluctant smile you hadn’t seen in so long. You clung to it, tucking it somewhere safe inside you, wondering if the universe would be kind enough to let you keep it.
“I…I still have it…the sweatshirt…w-wear it every night I miss you.”
You didn’t see the way his face crumpled, how his eyes squeezed shut like he’d just taken a bullet too. But you felt him. The gentle press of his forehead into your own, the way his hand tightened around yours like a vow.
“I never slept better than I did that night,” he murmured, his voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone hear. “You curled into me, and I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. Just to feel you near…. just to hear your heartbeat…”
You gathered what little strength you had left and squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough.
“I used to think,” he whispered, “that if I stayed still enough, breathed quiet enough… you’d never leave.”
“M’sorry,” you managed, two syllables slurred and soft, trailing into silence before everything went dark.
The unforgiving light clawed and seeped into your eyes, prying them open. You winced against it, lashes fluttering. Your tongue dragged over your lips—dry, cracked, and peeling like old paint left too long beneath a scorching sun.
Everything ached.
Not sharply, not suddenly—but deeply, as if your body was punishing you for choosing survival. As if every cell was still mourning the lost promise of eternal rest.
Your fingers twitched. Even the smallest movement stirred something beneath your skin. A needle—an IV, maybe. You hated needles. Hated the way they sat inside you, like splinters in your veins, begging to be torn free.
And lower, at your side, a steady throb pulsed there. Not bleeding anymore. Not fresh. There was no urgency in it now.
You were no longer bleeding.
You were clean.
The dressing gown they’d put you in was pristine white—so white it felt unnatural. Blinding. The colour of surrender. And the brightness of it overwhelmed you, pushed you back into yourself, and made you shut your eyes again.
Until—
“Hey you…”
You turned your head toward the sound instinctively, and pain lanced through your side, cauterizing and immediate. It stole the breath right out of your lungs, made you suck in sharply and squint against the fresh wave of ache as your eyes opened again.
“You’re okay,” the voice soothed, closer now. “Can I get you anything?”
Your vision cleared slowly, and there he was—Hotch—standing rigidly by the bed, one hand braced against the bedrail like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer without breaking something.
You tried to speak, but your throat seized, burning the words before they could form.
He stepped closer, reading the pain on your face like a map he knew by heart. "Water?"
You gave the smallest nod, and he was already moving, reaching for the pitcher near your bed. His hands, usually so sure, fumbled just slightly, the water pouring in a slow, uneven trickle into the cup.
Your vision wavered, but you caught it anyway, the faint smudges under his nails. Dark stains that might have once been red.
Blood.
Your blood.
Even now—even close to death—parts of you had found their way onto him, marking him in ways neither of you would ever be able to wash clean.
Hotch guided the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the back of your head with a tenderness that threatened to undo you. You reached out too, a weak attempt to mask the need—the way your fingers curled around his, under the guise of helping hold the cup up.
The rim pressed against your mouth, trembling slightly between both your hands and his. You took a small sip, the water sliding down your raw throat like broken glass softened only by his touch.
His hand stayed cradling your head, his thumb unconsciously brushing the curve of your skull in grounding strokes. You swallowed, the effort exhausting, and leaned a fraction more into his palm without thinking, without guarding yourself like you usually would.
Your gaze lifted to meet his, blinking heavily, fighting against the pull of sleep. And when you found him—really found him—you sensed it in your chest, that same ache that had never faded, merely rested in the depths of your stomach, anticipating. Anticipating the times when both of you looked at one another for too long, lingered in touch for too long, spoke to each other for too long.
You wanted to reach out, to gentle the line between his brows with your fingertips, to dissolve the way he wore worry as if it were woven into his very skin. He didn’t deserve that weight. You didn’t deserve to be the reason it sat there.
You were not supposed to be his burden anymore. You had made sure of it. And yet—here he was, still looking at you like losing you would have hollowed out the parts of him you used to call home.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more coherently this time, just as he pulled his hands away, setting the cup back down.
“No.” He shook his head immediately—the quickest movement you’d seen from him since you woke. “You don’t apologise. Not for this. Not for surviving.”
You wanted to tell him you weren’t apologising for surviving. You were apologising for still wanting him like this. For still reaching for him in the dark, even when you no longer had the right.
“Rest,” he instructed, his voice softening. “I’m staying.”
His hands found you again, one settling lightly on your shoulder, guiding you down against the bed. You didn’t protest. You let him adjust your pillow, let him fuss over you, knowing you would start scolding him for it tomorrow.
But for today, you let yourself bask in the comfort he was offering without thinking about how much it would cost you later. How much it would set you back. You shut your eyes, listening to the chair scrape as he pulled it nearer to your bedside, then the gentle thump of him settling in.
For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.
"Do you think things would’ve turned out differently if I’d gone through with the transfer?” The question slipped from your lips before you had a chance to consider the pros and cons of posing it. "Between us, I mean..." you added, voice unsure. "We always said it was the job that got in the way.”
Hotch didn’t respond immediately.
You took the quiet as a chance to glance at him, wondering if he’d even heard you. But when you shifted your head in his direction, you found his eyes already on you.
"Maybe," he answered finally, elbows resting on his knees. "You would’ve still been here. Still at Quantico. Still... close."
You nodded, a minor movement against the pillow.
“But close doesn’t always mean easy,” he continued. “And we were never very good at easy.”
“Yeah,” you breathed, the world barely scraping out. “Guess it always felt easier blaming the job than—”
“Me?”
“Us,” you corrected, shifting weakly against the pillow, the ache in your side feeling like nothing compared to the one rising in your chest. Again.
“You shouldn’t have had to choose between what you wanted to do and…me.”
“Why? Because you’d already made your choice?”
His eyes dropped to his fingers, until he noticed the dried blood under his nails. He quickly concealed his hands, as if he could somehow mask the guilt persistently attached to him.
You sighed, peeling your eyes away from him. “I don’t blame you, Aar,” you whispered. “We both made the same choice. I suppose now we’re both left to question if it was the right one.”
You heard him exhale, followed by the rustle of fabric. A second later, you felt his hand enveloping yours again. “I’ll always be here. In whatever way you need me to be.”
"I don't know if that's a good thing anymore," you admitted, voice cracking right down the middle. You closed your eyes—not just from the exhaustion pulling at you like a riptide, but because the tears behind your lids were so close.
“You don’t have to know right now,” he answered, and it almost broke you, the way he made it sound so simple. So easy. Like healing could be a choice you could make tomorrow instead of something you’d spend years bleeding over.
"Just rest," he murmured, voice dropping even softer. "And if you still feel like this in the morning... if you want me to go... I'll go."
You felt him gently squeeze your hand, like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to ask him.
“But I’m staying tonight.”
You said nothing.
Instead, you tried to will yourself into sleep, knowing full well you wouldn’t have the strength to tell him to leave. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
Thinking about Abbot x Ortho surgeon no bullshit reader I KNOOOOW that man has a competency kink. Seeing you come down from the OR ordering everyone around. Yea that gets him hard. Idk I’m just such a sucker for Baddie Careerwoman x some guy
The Natural Predator
summary: brendon park swam through the pitt with beady eyes and a blood lust. however, after he overstepped his territory, he finds out that there's a bigger fish in the water who's more than willing to put him in his place. and jack abbot loves nothing more than to watch his wife take down her prey.
tags: jack abbot x ortho!wife!reader, no large age gap (41/50), jack has a major competence kink, medical inaccuracies (making up some bullshit), way too much ocean imagery used, ED? we don't know her, jack is getting hard in the trauma room (hashtag praise kink), smut (fingering, dry humping, cumming in pants), 18+ NSFW MDNI
notes: thank you @in-ky for this request! this was yummy yummy to write and I hope it's up to your expectations! taglist is at the bottom, enjoy!
word count: 3.9k
The Pitt acted like the sea.
Busy hours and waning slow periods were the waves. Patients, nurses, and doctors walked as though they were fish, constantly swimming through the hoards of schools and catastrophes, not needing to keep their head above water because that's exactly where they thrived. They found purpose in bobbing and floating and flicking their tails to get from one room to another. It had its obstacles, seaweed hoards of poles and monitors and gurneys, but when night came, the Pitt settled into lapping motions instead of crashing roars.
However, the calmer waters meant it was primed for the bigger fish to swim cleanly, jaws chomping at whoever dared to get in their current.
Known to all, the Pitt had a few big fish to worry about. Victoria knew to steer clear of her mother, Dr. Shamsi, and her biting words. When Garcia got called down, Dennis turned heel and hid in triage (safety in numbers). Even Robby, the very top of the pecking order in the emergency department, vanished when he caught the hint of Gloria coming down the elevator.
Yet, like all oceans, some fish weren't lucky enough to swim away fast enough. In all instances, everyone never wanted to get caught by the PTMC's very own great white: Brendon Park.
"Look alive, Santos, we got an incoming," Jack stated as he passed the sleepy-looking R2, fresh from pulling the first half of her second night rotation.
Trinity blinked wearily before pushing up from the table. She'd been seated during a lull in waves that seemed to always happen between the hours of 1 and 3 am. Jack had warned that things got weird after the sun went down, but most she'd seen was a puking toddler and a man who came in complaining of sleep issues.
"What do we have?" she asked after finding a place next to the older attending. "And please tell me it's interesting, cause so far I haven't seen the weirdest or wildest cases come through. I'd hate to see that your little pep talk is full of errors."
Jack barked out a laugh. "Trust me; it only gets weirder from here."
"Don't jinx us, please," Ellis joined in, stopping on Jack's unoccupied side.
"Those don't exist!" Shen called out as he rounded a corner before disappearing back into a room.
Trinity's jaw popped as she yawned. "I need something fast paced or I'm going to fall asleep standing up."
"We can always have you organize the third storage room. I don't think it's been redone since I started here," Jack mentioned.
"So, like, way back in the medieval era?"
Parker raised her eyebrows and smirked at the brunette. "Ooo-hoo-hoo, Abbot you set yourself up for that one."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Try the third dynasty. Pretty sure I saw a rat go in there once and it never left."
"I'll take standing up, thank you."
"Incoming trauma goes straight into room 1," Lena announced.
The sliding doors to the ambulance bay brought a gust of cool wind before offering a patient and two paramedics to the small group of doctors. On the gurney laid a man in his thirties whose face had gone ashen, eyes not even visible.
"We got a thirty-two-year old male. Partial traumatic amputation, left lower extremity at the mid femur. Clean cut considering he was run over by roadside milling equipment approximately twenty-two minutes ago. Significant blood loss on scene," one of the paramedics said once they got within ear range. "Detached extremity is here. Packaged separately and wrapped in saline gauze, double bagged, transported on ice but not in direct contact."
Trinity noted the bag that sat near the patient's remaining foot. It reminded her of one of those goldfish bags you got for winning a fair game.
Jack stepped forward and grabbed the side of the gurney, helping roll the man straight into Trauma Room 1. Behind him, he heard the normal sounds of gloves snapping on before both Trinity and Parker joined him.
"On my count," he ordered. "One, two, three—" He grunted under the weight of the man as they slid him over onto the bed.
"The tourniquet was applied high and tight to the left thigh around 7 minutes after the accent. One CAT failed, second CAT secured on the way over. Hemorrhage controlled after the second application," the second paramedic stated while he began to wheel the gurney away.
Jack looked over the man. "What's his pressure?"
"Last manual was eighty-four over fifty. Heart rate one-forty-eight. Respiratory thirty-two. Sp-Oxygen ninety-four percent on fifteen liters non-rebreather. GCS fourteen. Lost consciousness on the way over."
"Fluids?"
"Minimal crystalloids. Two-fifty LR. We started whole blood—one unit in progress. One gram TXA given over ten minutes."
Jack smiled and nodded. "Excellent."
Trinity leaned over the man with her stethoscope already off and bell pressing into his chest. "Airway's intact. Breath sounds equal bilaterally."
"Femoral pulse right side weak," Parker called out, two fingers pressed into the man's right upper thigh before moving up to his wrist. "Radial's thready."
"Pressure's seventy-eight over forty-six," Mateo called out near the head of the bed.
"He's hemorrhagic until proven otherwise," Jack breathed, hands moving to gently pull back what was left of the man's pant legs. "Let's cut the tourniquet down enough for me to visualize."
"Dr. Abbot, you think they'd just cauterize the leg back in your day?" Trinity bit with a smirk.
"Nah," he argued, "they'd just wrap it and pray infection didn't set in before harvest."
Parker snipped slowly at the tourniquet, and blood instantly welled through the mess of flesh and bone.
"Back up and tighten it," Jack said, halting Parker from going any further. "That's arterial, and can someone page ortho? This looks like it'd be right up their alley."
"Please tell me Park's not on shift tonight," Trinity muttered, already walking over to the red phone mounted on the wall.
"Well, if you hear the Jaws theme song when they put you on hold, you'll know."
While Trinity talked with upstairs, Jack and Parker did their best to pack the stump as much as possible, combat gauze soaking up red as fast as they put it on.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes later when the hiss of the trauma room's doors filled the air, the automatic sensor holding long enough for whoever to slip through. Jack's heart beat wildly as he held the gauze, trying not to think about his own experience of being on the receiving end of the painful pressure.
"What do you have for me, Abbot?"
If the room could have groaned, it would have caused ripples by the sheer sound, because, of course, Brendon Park just had to be the one to swim through. Trinity glanced up at him, eyes tracking the way he immediately hovered over their work like a shark coasting around its prey.
"Partial traumatic amputation to his left leg. Whatever machine he got under cut clean through his femur. Leg was bagged on site, and blood flow is slightly waning under the gauze and consistent pressure."
Park didn't seem all that impressed, and his eye brow raised when he spotted the fair-fish bag full of amputated leg sitting on a tray to the side. He narrow eyed the way Jack's hands almost wrapped completely around the stump, gloves speckled with blood that managed to seep through.
"You're going to damage the vessels if you hold on that hard," he muttered. "Thought you attendings knew better."
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes. "The pressure is what's keeping this man from bleeding out. But by all means, I can lighten up if you want to play Legos and 'click the leg back in place' on a dead body."
"You're the ones who paged me," he bit, teeth chomping around the word. "Unfortunately we can't all be surgeons, or maybe this ER would know how to perfectly pack a partial traumatic amputation."
"Now, now, let's play nice, Park," a new voice joined over the hiss of the trauma doors. "Without the ER, we wouldn't be standing here now would we?"
Now, Jack's heart beat wildly for a different reason. In a small glance, his eyes settled on the familiar figure of the Pitt's stand-in night shift Orthopedic Surgeon when Walsh had the shift off.
"Oh, boy," Parker whispered beside him. She nudged Trinity slightly, body twisting so she could be near the R2's ear. "You asked for wild, and, well, it's about to get wild."
Trinity barely processed her words as she fixated on the woman who just walked in. She couldn't note how put together she looked with her hair tucked neatly, gray roots peaking through a very expensive looking hair dye. Her white coat was crisp, and Trinity could only guess that it had been tailored with the way it hugged perfectly at her shoulders and waist. If she let herself, Trinity would be drooling, yet, the glimmer of a pair of rings that could probably pay off her entire student debt held her back from sputtering out some illy planned pick-up line.
"Nice of you to join us," Park gritted out, clearly not happy with the new addition. "But I had this handled.
You hummed lowly while you looked over the leg yourself and the hands around it. "Sure you did if by having it handled you meant berating Dr. Abbot and his more than capable team."
"His pressure is way off, and if he keeps it up, the leg isn't going to be able to attach back perfectl—"
"Aht, aht, aht," you tutted like talking to a child. "You're done talking, because obviously you can't tell the right amount of pressure from the wrong."
You stepped closer to the bed and leaned over the railing, never hovering but making sure your presence was noted.
"If you'd taken a breath and took the chance to actually look at the patient instead of wondering if he could be another gold start to your chart," you stated calmly, "you'd find that Dr. Abbot is currently keeping the femoral artery at around—" You leaned in closer to see just how tightly Jack's fingers held the gauze in place. "—250 to 300 mmHgs of the standard pressure needed."
Jack had to keep himself from blushing under your praise and keep concentrating on, just as you said, the needed standard pressure. He guessed that Park would back off, however, the bigger man wasn't one to ever give up the last word.
"No offense—"
"None taken," you slyly interrupted.
Park huffed, visibly irritated the more he stood there. "But clearly, they should have paged me the moment this man was wheeled in instead of trying to play hero and cut off the bleeding." He crossed his arms and puffed his chest. "They're not surgeons; they're—"
You held up a hand. "I'll stop you right there, Brendon. Yes, they might not have the specialty experience we both have, but they are more than equipped and competent to handle a partial traumatic amputation." Your lip crinkled in a small sneer. "Dr. Abbot is also more knowledgeable about this type of injury than the both of us, or do I have to remind you that he's lived through something like this."
Elation bloomed in the pit of your stomach as you watched Park swallow thickly, but you were far from done.
"And, as someone who volunteers as a S.W.A.T medic after spending countless hours down here, Dr. Abbot has undergone thousands of hours of medical, tactical, and physical training. His muscles are earned through hard work, unlike the ones you like to boast on your Instagram after doing a few sit ups and curls to increase the blood flow of your arms that are more for aesthetics than actual strength."
Jack was hard.
He was so incredibly hard, cock already pushing against the front of his scrub pants. He just prayed that Parker and Trinity would continue looking at you with stars in their eyes and not down at his . . . predicament.
Without moving, you held out your hand, palm up towards the ceiling. "Can someone hand me the case tablet? I'm taking over this, and I will personally be scrubbing in myself."
Park blanched at that, body finally squirming under your unwavering eyes. "You can't—"
"I can't . . . what, exactly? Take over a case while I am currently your superior as the chief orthopedic attending on call?" you shot back while your fingers curled around the tablet Mateo handed over. "Because that's exactly what I'm doing." You glanced down at the screen before looking back up into Park's dark, blue eyes. “You're more than welcome to observe, Dr. Park, but please, never insult me or any of PTMC's doctors ever again, or I will make sure that you're stuck wrapping soft tissue sprains for months."
You turned around with a smile on your face, demeanor completely the opposite of what you'd just shown. "Thank you three for making sure this man didn't bleed out on the spot. We'll prep an operating theater and get him transferred up shortly. Best of luck for the rest of the night."
Your steps were light as you walked away, however you couldn't help but let out an Hoo-Ahh! over your shoulder.
Jack watched in deep satisfaction that Park didn't even attempt to say anything else, choosing to walk away while he still held the ability to operate in the future. The mechanical doors hissed and closed off the room from the rest of the Pitt.
Only the monitors kept beeping continually, filling the otherwise silent room. Jack tilted his head down and closed his eyes while he took a deep breath.
After a moment, Trinity was the first to speak. "Who the fuck was that? I think my world's been rocked."
Jack looked back up, hazel eyes trained in the direction that you disappeared off into. He swallowed the pooling saliva down in one gulp before answering. "My wife."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The surgical cap tied tightly around your forehead itched, hair underneath poking and being pulled an at odd angle as a result of your haste to put it on. Park had overstepped, and you needed to show him that he wasn't the biggest fish in the Pitt's ocean, because that title belonged to you.
Jack would probably laugh at it all later due to your enjoyment of underwater documentaries and fascination with orcas, especially with how they hunted and preyed upon sharks. You'd seen the way he had tried to not look at you for very long down in the trauma room. The thought of him being embarrassed quickly passed through your mind before you shook your head.
He was never one to be ashamed of being your husband, often boasting at the fact that he put a ring on your finger before anyone else could. He loved you fierce and hard but also soft and sweet, so him looking away had to be because he was focused on making sure the man didn't bleed out before you could get his leg put back together with ease.
The hall to the surgical room was empty as you stripped from your gown and gloves and pushed them down into the nearest hazard bin. Your footsteps echoed while you walked toward the elevator, wanting to go back down and at least give Parker and Dr. Santos the good news. However, the moment you passed by one of the empty recovery rooms, a hand reached out, grabbed hold of your arm and tugged you in.
"What the fuck!" you shouted, voice coming out in a screech.
To your right, the door shut, and the motion-sensor lights flickered on, revealing the person who had yanked you. You sighed in relief.
"Hi," Jack whispered, pinning you to the wall, chest pressed against yours.
"Jack, what the hell are you doing up here?" you hissed. "I always come down to give you the update."
He said nothing and tucked his face into your neck. His lips lightly grazed your pulse point before his tongue peeked out and ran hotly along your jaw. Your hands instantly flew up and sunk deep into his greying curls.
"Jack?" you questioned again. "Wha-what are you doing?"
"Just loving on my wife," he muttered, teeth now gently nipping at your skin. "Can't a husband do that?"
You barked out a laugh that quickly turned into a moan as he sucked harshly. "I mean, he can. But normally he doesn't until after we get home."
Jack's neediness sent questions washing through your body as he slotted his thick thigh between your legs. Another moan punched out at the feeling, your scrub material bunching in delicious pressure against your heat.
"Jack," you breathily sighed. "Baby, we have work; we can wait and pick this up later."
"Can't," he bit, lips and teeth still attacking whatever inch of your neck he could reach. "Can't wait. Been hard since you left."
"Since I left?" you echoed, mind spinning until it clicked. "Wait, Jack—"
He hummed in an answer.
"Don't tell me you got hard because I told off Park in the ER."
Jack stilled against you and sighed heavily. "Is it really surprising that I'm turned on because my incredibly hot wife knocked asshole Park the Shark down a couple of pegs while simultaneously singing my praises?"
He pulled back enough that your eyes met his, the hazel hues already swimming with heat. Internally, you battled the pros and cons of having letting Jack continue, but obviously the pros definitely outweighed the cons, and he noticed the moment all fight drained out of you.
"Fine," you gave in, "but you need to hurry before either you or I get paged, and you're left with blue balls for another four hours."
"Hurry is my middle name," he quipped, facing going back in to mauling your neck.
You rolled your eyes. "No it's Waynefucking jeez.," the comeback dying into a moan half-way up your throat.
Jack's right hand rested against the length of your throat while his left danced along the waistline of your pants, fingers teasingly dipping below and toying with the hem of your underwear. He drew another gasp from your lips when he pushed his thigh up higher, the muscle nesting against your core. Taking your open mouth to his advantage, his hot, slick tongue dipped deep between your teeth and licked around. His chest rumbled in a moan at the taste of you.
While he kept your mouth distracted, his hand went further down your underwear, knuckles brushing against your navel until his fingertips found exactly what they were looking for. He couldn't help but groan at the feeling of your wet, sticky arousal already pooling between your folds.
"You're already so fucking wet. How long have you been like this, sweetheart?" he panted after pulling back. "Did you like putting big ole Park in his place while your husband watched? Cause I enjoyed every minute of it."
To show his enjoyment, Jack thrusted up against your stomach, his hardness evident through his own pants. Your eyes widened at the size of his bulge, cunt clenching with the thought of him putting it right into you. You whimpered loudly into the air, head tilted back to rest against the wall.
His pointer finger circled around your throbbing clit in soft, minuscule motions and drew pleasured breaths from your lungs. When you started rocking back and forth, he reached a bit lower before sinking two fingers into your sopping, fluttering hole. The thick and sudden intrusion had you whining.
"Jack! Ooh-ohh-oooohhh," you sputtered as the tips of both fingers found your sweet spot with experience swiftness. Stars dotted your vision, and your stomach and thighs tightened. "Feels good shiittt."
"Yeah?" Jack asked as his hips continued thrusting up into your center, the band in his gut drawing tighter. He could practically feel the clenching of your cunt around his throbbing length when you tightened around his fingers. "You close, sweetheart?"
You nodded. "C-close. So, so, so, so close; you're gonna make me cum."
Your words had Jack whimpering against your neck, eyes pinching closed to not blow his load prematurely. He needed to make you cum before even thinking of letting go himself.
He withdrew his hand in order to push your scrubs and underwear down, giving him more room to thrust his fingers upward while thumbing at your clit. Without the extra layer, your slick arousal dripped down his hand and spotted his dark scrubs.
"There we goooo," he drew out, words raspy between his gasps. "Soaking my hand and my pants, sweetheart."
You were getting close, and your hips canted harder to meet his fingers. Your inner thighs clenched around his hand, and a high-pitched whine squeezed between your teeth.
"I'm gonna cum!" you keened. "Gonna-gonna-shitfuckfuckfuckfuck! Jack!"
Your stomach flipped as your walls clamped down tightly around Jack's fingers. To draw out your high, he continued to circle your bundle of nerves and shallowly push in his fingers. He, however, didn't stop grinding against you, and while you were focused on feeling every hot dip of pleasure from climax, Jack grunted twice before his hips stilled and his cum spilled from his leaking tip into his boxers, soaking though to stain his scrubs.
You sighed dreamily and held Jack's wrist to stop his motions, your core becoming too sensitive for him to continue. Your chest heaved against Jack's, and he leaned back into languidly kiss at your mouth.
"Never," you managed to get out between kisses. "Never thought my husband would have a competency kink. Learn something new every day."
"Like I said: it was hot," he said.
You smirked when he finally met his eyes. "Hot enough to make you cum in your pants, I guess. What are your doctors going to think when you go back down in different color scrubs than you had on before?"
Jack laughed loudly. "I think Trinity will be too distracted because you are definitely her type, and it won't be the worst thing Ellis has ever seen."
Heat flooded your cheeks at the remembering of the one time Parker caught you and Jack actually fucking in an on call room. She teased the two of you for months after you promised to help her out with getting a shot at a surgical fellowship.
Once your pants were back in place, you smooshed close back into Jack's chest, cheek squished against his pec while his hands rubbed up and down your back in slow motions. Aftercare in a recovery room could never be the same as snuggles in bed, but Jack would be damned if he let you go without a little post-coital hugging and kissing.
You had just gotten his lips back on yours when the pager at his side buzzed to life. He pulled back with a groan.
"Duty calls."
"Duty always has the worst timing," you grumbled. "See you in four hours and then round two at home?"
Jack smirked and tapped the side of your ass. "Maybe I'll make sure Park comes back down so you can yell at him again."
You snorted, hand coming up to slap at your nose. "Your foreplay preferences are so weird. Maybe I should yell at you. I think you'd like that, Dr. Abbot."
With that, you slipped out the door and back into the empty hallway, leaving Jack in yet another blushy mess and length twitching at the thought of you talking down at him like you did for Park.
Summary: You have been Aaron Hotchner's nanny, taking care of Jack, for over a year when someone looking for revenge breaks into the house while Aaron is away on a case.
5.3 K nanny!reader
Warnings: break in, attack, stalking, blood, violence
-
Most days being Aaron Hotchner’s nanny were simple. Get Jack to school, using the occasional cereal bribery. Make sure all of his homework was done and in his backpack. Keep the house from looking like Aaron wasn’t actually gone half the month for cases. Answer the occasional late night call while he’s away so he can hear about his son’s day.
You had taken over the guest room, half of your apartment has made its way over at this point. Any time Aaron was pulled away on a case you would stay at the house. It helped Jack have as normal of a routine as possible. Aaron would deny it if anyone asked, but he liked seeing your things around the house.
You’ve been with them for just over a year now. It only took a few months for it to feel a lot less like work and dangerously close to home. The two Hotchner men had quickly taken over your world and you wouldn’t change a thing.
Jack liked you right away. Somewhere between the dramatic lightsaber battle and the joke about transformers and he was sold.
Aaron, on the other hand, had taken longer. He was always polite and respectful, but he was also rigid. He moved like he was always bracing for impact. He trusted carefully in measured doses, and time and time again you proved yourself.
“You’re still awake.” His voice comes through right after you hit answer.
You smile and bite back the yawn you’ve been fighting.
“So are you.” You comment, “That’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You’re profiling a serial killer, and I’m trying to profile whether Jack actually brushed his teeth or not.”
He lets out an exhale that is as close to a laugh as you can get while he’s on a case. You know there’s a small smile with it too.
“Something like that.”
“Jack informed me when you get back he needs you to know dinosaurs would definitely beat sharks in a fight.”
He hums, “So he came to a conclusion?”
“He said sharks lose because they can’t climb stairs.”
“Solid logic.”
You snort out a laugh.
“Thank you.” He says softly after your laughter has slowed.
“For what?” You ask.
“For this. For being there.”
Your chest tightens in the way it always did when Aaron let the walls slip a little.
“You don’t have to thank me, Aaron.”
A pause.
“I know.”
You hear a soft unmistakable click of the back door in the kitchen. You straighten instantly, sucking in a breath of air. Aaron notices the change immediately.
“What is it?”
You slowly stand from the couch and take quiet steps back towards the stairs.
“I-I think someone’s in the house.” You whisper.
Silence.
Aaron breaks it with no trace of softness left.
“Y/n, get to Jack and lock yourselves in his room. Right now.”
You grip the phone tighter in your hand, your heart racing. Your instincts are screaming at you, but part of you wonders if you really heard it. Did your mind make it up? The house has been silent ever since.
“I-” You hesitate.
“No,” His voice turning sharp before you can hear him shout to someone close by, “Garcia get the police to my house immediately. Someone’s in the house and Y/n and Jack are there.”
Your eyes are laser focused on the kitchen, taking a half step back toward the stairs. Then a shadow moves and your stomach drops.
“Aaron-”
A man lunges forward and you race for the stairs. You make it up the first three before his hand catches your shoulder. It sends the phone clattering against the hardwood floor.
Aaron is hundreds of miles away, forced to listen. The sound of the phone hitting the floor echoes like a gunshot.
“Y/n!” Aaron shouts your name, pacing the conference room of the Tennessee police department. Against his true desires, he puts it on speaker so the rest of the team can hear this and understand what’s going on.
His voice tears through the line, but it’s useless and frantic. He could hear everything. Furniture scraping violently against the hardwood. Your cries and sharp gasps. The sickening sound of someone being thrown down on the stairs. Aaron’s entire body went cold.
“Garcia, how far away is the unit?” Aaron asks, clutching the table in front of him. The sounds just continue to go on.
“I’m on it, I’m on it!” She stutters, clearly distracted by the other phone on the line, “The closest patrol is three minutes away.”
Might as well be three hours away.
Aaron could still hear you fighting.
“Get the hell off of me!” You shout, the unsub snarls something the phone doesn’t quite pick up.
Then suddenly footsteps running upstairs.
“No!” You shout.
Because Jack is upstairs. You knew it and he knew it too. Everyone can hear the pure desperation in the way you shout. There’s more crashing, following by the awful sound of bodies colliding. You manage to throw yourself at him, taking both of you down to the bottom of the stairs.
Aaron’s grip on the table grows so tight his knuckles start to burn. He could hear the sharp cry when the unsub yanked you back down to the floor hard enough to make JJ physically flinch. But you’re fighting like hell, kicking and scratching, anything purely for survival at this point.
A small voice from far away calls out.
“Y/n?”
Everything stopped.
You look up to the top of the stairs and see Jack standing there in his pajamas. He has one hand on the bannister, but his eyes widen with fear when he sees the reality of what’s going on.
“Jack!” You cry, “Hide! Run!”
Your voice is clear and cuts through the chaos like a whip.
“Now!”
Aaron could hear the shift. The moment you started to fight harder, you could feel it too. The fear was gone, now you’re running off of protective fury. A sharp kick connects hard enough for the unsub to curse loudly and roll over onto his side on the floor.
You pull yourself toward the stairs, managing to stand after using the railing for leverage. The unsub groans, slowly rising from the floor. You try to move faster, but he drags you back down again. You scream again but never stop fighting.
Sudden sirens take over the neighborhood. Loud and close, the bright red and blue lights shining in the living room windows. The unsub freezes. He shoves you back again, hard, before taking off for the kitchen and you hear the back door again.
You crawl up the stairs to where Jack is hiding somewhere.
“Jack?” You call, “It’s okay! He’s gone, the police are here.”
Your voice is shaking now, pain starting to catch up to the adrenaline. Small footsteps bound down the hall, you sit on the top step unable to move any closer. You hold your arms open for him and he collapses into you instantly.
“It’s okay, I’m here.” You sigh, running your hand over the back of his head, “We’re okay.”
You repeat it over and over until the police break down the front door.
“They’re safe, Hotch.” Morgan places a cautious hand on his shoulder.
Aaron can’t answer. He can’t answer because you’re hundreds of miles away, helpless and terrified, and all he could do was listen. Again.
-
The jet was silent. It was heavy in a way that only happened when something was personal. This was a direct attack in Aaron’s home against you and his son.
“Garcia said the officers think the unsub knew the house layout.”
Hotch stares straight ahead.
“He did.”
He didn’t need the officer's report to know that.
“He knew where the backdoor was and he moved like he had been there before. He went upstairs.”
Toward Jack. No one said it, no one had to.
Rossi leans closer, “We’ll find him.”
Hotch gives him one short nod, but his expression remains the same.
The unsub isn’t the only thing weighing on his mind, he can’t get over the guilt pulling at this throat. Heavy and sharp. He heard it all happen, he listened to you fight for his son while he was useless. And you had nearly been killed because of it.
The jet landed just after dawn and no one bothered with going home, they just went straight to the hospital. Garcia had already texted that she was in the waiting room and would stay until they got there.
She jumps up from her chair when she sees them walking together down the hall and walks straight up to Hotch.
“She has a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, stitches along her hairline, and enough bruising to make everyone working this floor visibly wince when they leave her room.” Penelope spits the words out quickly, Aaron’s face remaining the same.
They slow as they approach your room, through the open door they can all see you. You’re asleep and carefully propped against white pillows. Bruises in ugly shades of purple and blue litter you, with one arm secured in a sling. The other arm is wrapped around Jack and resting on his back. He’s tucked against your side, out cold.
Morgan swore quietly under his breath and JJ had to look away. Rossi, who has seen enough violence for ten lifetimes, stood there without speaking.
It was undeniable and written all over your body that you had but yourself between danger and Jack without hesitation and fought like hell. Aaron stood in the doorway like the air had been knocked out of him.
Rossi gives him one firm nod before stepping back, “We’ve got the rest. Go be here.”
Aaron stepped into the room alone, shutting the door halfway. For a long moment he just stood there and watched the two of you taking steady breaths. He pulls a chair close to your bedside, sitting carefully like a sudden moment would have you both jump. Maybe it would.
He doesn’t know how much time passes where he just enjoys the consistent sound of your breathing. Long enough that he notices the second it changes and you shift a little. Your eyes open slowly, heavy with pain medication and exhaustion.
“Aaron?” Your voice comes out rough.
He nods first because it takes him a second to trust his own voice.
“Hi.”
A small smile curls on the edge of your mouth.
“You look terrible.”
A surprised laugh escapes him.
“It's okay, I look terrible too. I think my face scared Jack earlier. But he’s used to having you around, so he managed.”
You try to lighten the mood, anything to ease the deep frown and heaviness all over his face. You’ve seen him after some terrible cases, but you’ve never seen him like this. He looks defeated.
Silence settles between the two of you. You glance down at Jack, sleeping soundly against your side.
“He finally crashed a little bit ago. He refused to leave.”
Aaron looks over his son, then back to you.
“He stayed because he knew you were safe.”
You swallow.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes widen with surprise, “For what?”
“For not stopping it sooner, for scaring Jack-”
“Y/n.” He interrupts, his voice cracking. That actually makes you stop. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tight like he had to physically hold himself together.
“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.” He shakes his head, “You protected my son.”
The next words were lower and less steady.
“You put yourself between him and a man you knew could kill you, and you're apologizing?”
Tears flood your vision, but you still can’t pull your gaze from Aaron’s.
“I couldn’t let him get to Jack.”
“I know.”
His voice was softer now.
“I heard it. I heard it all.”
He heard it all. You had forgotten he was on the phone when the stranger broke in, which is likely what saved you. He got police to you within minutes. Everything could have been so different if you hadn’t stayed up waiting for his call. But he had heard it all. The fight. The fear. Jack.
You lift your hand carefully from Jack’s back and reach out for Aaron to take. He looks at it for a second before using both of his hands to completely envelope yours. He stares at them for a minute while he gathers his thoughts.
“I was on the other end of that phone listening to someone hurt you, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Aaron” You start.
“I’ve only felt that helpless once before, and I never wanted to feel like this again.”
His hands tighten around yours.
“Aaron.” Your voice calm, pulling his focus back on you, “You got the police to us in minutes, Jack is okay, and I’m okay. You don’t get to carry blame or guilt over a man choosing to do something horrible.”
He wants to look away, but he knows he won’t get away with that. Jack shifts, mumbling something in his sleep and both of you instinctively look down at him. The room stays quiet like that for a few minutes before Aaron looks back again.
There’s something in his expression now that had been there for months but neither of them had dared to touch. It was also part of why you waited for your late night call. They had started as a way for him to say goodnight to his son, but had evolved to at least twenty minutes with you each night.
“I don’t know what I would do without you.” He admits and your breath catches.
Aaron Hotchner does not say things he doesn’t mean.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
-
By late afternoon, the hospital had reluctantly signed discharge papers. Aaron was given strict instructions to follow for three different pain medications and that you can’t lift anything heavier than a pillow. Hotch nodded along like he was taking an oath.
You borrowed extra sweats from Aaron’s emergency overnight bag, and were entirely unimpressed with the mandatory wheelchair escort all the way to the car. The car ride to the house was quiet, Jack hardly making a peep as they got closer to the house.
Aaron parks in the driveway and from here you can see the caution tape over the door. The wood is splintered where they kicked down the front door to get to you. You don’t make a move to get out of the car and neither does Jack. Aaron turns from the driver’s seat to face you.
“The two of you wait in the car. I’m gonna run in and get our stuff, we’re not staying here.’
You blink, “We’re not?”
“It’s not safe to stay here until we know who we’re looking for. We’re going to go in to Quantico.”
“The BAU?”
“It’s secure. Garcia’s there and JJ is bringing enough snacks for Jack to qualify as a federal offence. Until we know who did this, I’m not leaving either of you alone. I’m sorry.”
You frown, “Don’t apologize for that.”
He looks back at Jack and he gives him a thumbs up. Aaron gets out quickly and races inside, it doesn’t take him long to pack go bags for all three of you.
“I get to see Uncle Reid!” Jack says excitedly.
“Agent Reid.” Hotch corrects.
“No,” Jack shakes his head, “Uncle Reid.”
Aaron sighs, “Apparently I’ve lost control of professional boundaries.”
You dare a smirk.
“Long ago.”
For the first time since the attack you see the ghost of a real smile from him.
The team was waiting when you arrived, Garcia launching herself at you before remembering your injuries. She settles for a cautious hug that you hide a wince for.
“Oh my god, look at your face!”
“I’m okay.” You laugh softly.
Rossi leans in next to press a careful kiss on your cheek, “He’s gonna give you a really good raise after this.”
You laugh and look back at Aaron. You missed it, but Rossi gives Aaron a look behind your back that says ‘you’re in love with your nanny and everyone knows it’. Aaron ignores him with practiced precision.
They set you up in the conference room with ice packs and coffee, Garcia is watching Jack in Aaron’s office. Everyone is sitting around the table, far from their typical victim interview but this was far from a typical case.
This was personal.
The hospital did pull DNA from under your fingernails, but whoever the unsub was, he wasn't in the system so it turned up nothing.
“Start from the beginning. Anything you remember matters, even if it’s small.” Hotch manages to keep his voice steady, staring directly at you.
You nod slowly, setting down your coffee down on the table.
“The back door first. The house was quiet, but I heard the click. He knew how to get in without making much noise.”
Reid starts taking notes.
“How tall was he?” Morgan asks.
“At least a head taller than me. Strong. He knew exactly where he was going, he didn’t hesitate.”
You swallow.
“He never looked around, he moved like he already knew the house.”
The room fell to a still. Reid’s pen stopped moving and everyone looked up.
“He was there for Jack.” Aaron states.
You nod, agreeing with the theory.
“And for you.” Rossi nods toward you.
You look at him, “What?”
“People who target families like this aren’t improvising. It’s personal. They want fear, and they want the message to last.”
“He could’ve killed me if he really wanted to.” You shake your head, “He kept trying for the stairs for Jack-”
“He probably wanted you to be scared.” Morgan clears his throat, “He was getting off on your fear.”
The stuns you into silence.
Emily sets down her pen, “Did he say anything to you?”
You frown again, “He said…’He should know what it feels like’.”
Aaron’s jaw tightens instantly because that isn’t random at all. That sounds like revenge, which confirms his biggest fear. Yet again his job is putting the people he cares most about in harm's way.
-
The team had scattered to run more leads, but you stayed in the conference room. You find yourself standing in front of the evidence board for the case. Crime scene shots, the staircase, the broken bannister. Your blood on the hardwood. The photographs from the hospital that are so clinical and detached you don’t even recognize yourself.
The woman in the picture looks like someone else.
“You really shouldn’t do that.”
You turn and see JJ in the doorway.
“I know.”
She steps into the room and stands next to you, turning her attention to the same photographs. For a solid minute neither of you speak. Finally, you exhale.
“It just feels like if I stop trying to remember something that’ll actually help… like he’s winning somehow.”
JJ nods, “I get that.”
“I hate that I’m scared of his house. That his house is crime scene photos again.”
You know that this isn’t the same house he had with Haley, but it’s still been his home with Jack for years now.
“Y/n, you were attacked. Being scared doesn’t make you weak.” JJ insists.
“It feels like it does.”
“No,” Her voice firm now, “what you did was beyond brave. You kept Jack safe and saved yourself.”
You blink, “I was terrified.”
“Exactly.” She finally smiles, “And you still did it. Bravery typically looks like that.”
That hits you harder than you had expected. JJ softens even more when she realizes none of this has done anything to ease your concern.
“For what it’s worth, Aaron is barely functioning.” She smiles knowingly, “He’s trying very hard to look like Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, but the rest of us have eyes.”
You let out a warm laugh.
“He cares about you. A lot, honestly. I think he’s been trying not to for months.”
Her words make you go completely still, eyes darting to his office on the other side of the room. JJ simply shrugs.
“We all see the way he looks for you first when he walks in, and the way Jack talks about you. Hotch hasn’t been the same since you came into his life, and I mean that as a good thing.”
“Why are you telling me this?” You look back at her finally.
“Because I don’t like wasting time. Or seeing people I care about hurt without each other.” She reaches out a hand carefully for your shoulder before leaving the room.
Maybe JJ is right. Maybe everyone already knew.
-
You softly knock on the doorframe before letting yourself into Aaron’s office. He looks up from his desk instantly. You're wearing a spare FBI hoodie, but you're still wearing his sweats that are too long. You look as cozy as you can while wearing an arm sling.
Jack peeks his eyes open, he had been faking sleep over on the couch for nearly a half an hour.
“There you are!” He sits up.
You smile at Hotch before making your way over to him. You sit on the edge of the couch and smooth a hand over his hair, gentle and automatic. Jack shifted so you had more room and he could tuck himself against your side. Within minutes, his breathing slowed. Sleep finally won.
“He couldn’t sleep without you.” Aaron says softly, unable to take his eyes off the two of you.
Eventually you look up, daring to meet his gaze. The bullpen is still a blur, but it’s warm and quiet here in the office. Safe.
“He’s scared you’ll leave again.”
His eyes dart down to his son.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t blame you,” You continue, “he is so proud of what you do. He just knows something bad happened when you were gone.”
“Again.” He answers, “Something bad happened when I was gone, again. I’m supposed to be the person who keeps him safe.”
You frown, “You are.”
“I wasn’t there.”
The guilt is still there. How could he not still feel guilty? Here you are trapped at the FBI for your safety, covered in bruises, and he’s sure you still can’t take a full breath with your ribs.
“You got the police to us immediately and came home.” You offer a teary smile, “He knows you love him so much.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough.”
You shake your head.
“It's enough.” You disagree, “And you can’t blame yourself for something some lunatic decided to do.”
He leans back in his chair, you can finally see the exhaustion that JJ was talking about. He looks tired in a way that sleep can’t even fix.
“I can’t get it out of my head.” You shake your head, mostly saying it to yourself but Aaron is hanging on every word, “Who is capable of doing that to a family?”
Aaron’s eyes flash with recognition.
“What?” You question, seeing the idea that just hit him.
He steps out to the bullpen where the team is still there. You ease yourself carefully off the couch not to wake Jack and lean against the door frame. You watch him go down the steps toward the desks.
“Garcia, look into Karl Arnold’s recent activity. I want to know everything that has gone on at his prison, any of his visitors, and all of his mail.”
Morgan’s head snaps up, “The Fox?”
“On it, sir!” She begins rapidly typing on her laptop and you’re just as puzzled as you were thirty seconds ago.
“Who is Karl Arnold?” You ask, pulling all eyes on you. Everyone hesitates in their answer, save for the youngest member of the team.
“Karl Arnold killed entire families-”
“Reid.” Emily warns, effectively cutting him off.
“He fixated on me during the case.” Aaron explains, “Personal resentment and control issues. He blamed law enforcement for his capture.”
“You think it’s connected?” Rossi asks.
Aaron nods, “The one and only time I’ve seen him since then he was passing along a message for Foyet.”
Garcia starts typing even faster at this realization.
“Okay, digging into everyone’s favorite horrifying family annihilator. Prison records, visitor logs, and communications, give me… uh oh.”
“What?” Aaron stops in his tracks.
“Karl Arnold has had the same visitor for the past three months. Every Tuesday, his younger brother Daniel Arnold.”
Morgan crosses his arms, and Garcia connects her laptop with the big screen. A large picture of a white man in his mid-forties pops up. Your grip in the doorframe tightens to steady yourself. The second you see the picture, all of the color drains from your face.
“That’s him.”
No one moved right away.
“He wasn’t just sending a message, he was trying to continue the work.” Morgan’s voice is low and careful.
You’re unable to pull your gaze from the screen. The same dark eyes from last night staring right back at you through the screen.
“If he’s following Karl’s methodology, he was watching the house for weeks.”
That makes you sick to your stomach, you slowly turn back into Aaron’s office and settle carefully back onto the couch with Jack. You don’t want to hear the rest.
The bullpen was still moving fast, Garcia discovered Daniel has a storage unit in the area and a rental car that has been reported missing for nearly five weeks.
“Okay, Mr. Creepy Brother also has a very concerning purchase history including lock picks and burner phones, because apparently subtlety is dead.” Garcia’s typing doesn’t falter for a second.
Morgan checks his weapon, the rest of the team gearing up.
“Got an address, mama?” Morgan looks at her.
“There’s an apartment in Arlington.”
“Split up.” Aaron instructs, “Morgan, JJ, and Reid go to the storage unit. Prentiss and Rossi go to the apartment. Bring Anderson too.”
He looks over the team one more time.
“I’m not going.”
“What?” Garcia blinks.
Morgan looks up too, surprised. Rossi simply nods and pats his shoulder before walking toward the elevator. Rossi understood first, but the rest were not far behind. Family first.
"We've got this." Emily nods, following the rest of them out.
The bullpen felt quieter immediately with the team gone and Garcia returning to the lair. You flinch when Aaron opens his office door, not expecting anyone to be here.
“You’re not going?” You ask softly, glancing down at Jack once more before looking up at Aaron. He doesn’t move back toward his desk, he just takes slow heavy steps and lands in the chair right next to the couch.
“No.” he sighs, “You were right.”
You frown, “About what?”
He looks down at Jack before coming back to you.
“You said he’s scared I’ll leave again.”
“Aaron…”
“I spend so much time trying to protect him by doing that job that sometimes I forget he also needs me to stay.”
The honesty makes your chest ache.
“I need to be here when he wakes up.”
A beat passes while he studies you. You hate that. The advantage he has to every conversation and moment. You’ve gotten good at reading him over the past year, but it was nowhere near his capabilities.
“You don’t need to be out there with your team?” You question carefully.
“Everything I need is right there.” He reaches out to take your hand in his. It’s warm.
“Really?” You smile.
“Mhm.” He barely cracks a grin.
“You know, for a profiler, you’re being surprisingly unclear.”
That actually earned you a quiet laugh.
“Probably because I’m very aware I’m saying this to the woman who was attacked in my house while protecting my son twenty-four hours ago.”
You squeeze his hand.
“Yeah, probably not your smoothest timing.”
“Definitely not.”
You look down at Jack again for a second, then back up.
“I care about him.”
Aaron nods once.
“I know.”
“And I care about you.”
It was out there. No taking it back.
You bite back a nervous smile, “See? Very brave of me. Your turn.”
His thumb starts to stroke back and forth on the back of your hand. You can tell he’s being extremely careful, like it all truly mattered to him.
“I care about you too,” He swallows, “More than I should have let myself.”
Your breath catches.
“But I did anyway, and I don’t regret it.”
“Good.” You whisper.
“Good.” He agrees.
You sit up, letting him pull you closer to him. His kiss is soft, still careful but it still feels like relief for both of you. Like coming home.
A mischievous giggle escapes from behind you on the couch. You both pull away and turn to Jack. He has one eye squinting shut, like he could still be asleep.
“Hey!” You tease, turning on him to tickle at his sides.
His giggles start instantly and Aaron is quick to jump up and join in. Jack’s laughs only get louder.
“Okay! Okay!” Jack sits up, out of breath from his laughter. Aaron sits in the space it opens, all three of you squeezing together.
You’re confident neither of you wanted him to know about this quite yet. Maybe a trial run before letting the eight year old know that they liked each other.
“I saw you kiss Y/n.” Jack grins.
“I did.” Aaron admits, eyes checking in on you for a second before focusing back on his son, “What do you think about that?”
“Would you be home more?” Jack turns to look at you.
You nod, “Yeah, it would be more time with your dad and I both at home. At the same time.”
He nods eagerly, causing both of you to chuckle. Aaron’s phone rings on his desk, causing all three of you to look at it. He gets up to answer it, pausing for a second before saying ‘Hotchner’.
He looks up after a few seconds, his eyes narrowing on you. He replies with ‘okay’ several times before ending the call with a ‘Good work. Thanks, Morgan’ and sets the phone back down. He turns to face the two of you.
“Morgan has Daniel in custody.”
You let out a breath of relief and it’s visible in your shoulders. You close your eyes briefly, it’s finally over. Aaron comes back to the couch, pulling the two of you closer to him. Jack sits on his lap, and you lean against his side.
For the first time in days, the danger was gone and there was a new future ahead for each of you. It finally feels like everything really could be okay.
-
an// ok kind of cheesy ending but you guys why did i lowkey scare myself while writing this LMAO?! I should’ve waited for my roommates to get home… it was 11pm when I was setting up the break in and it had me shaking in my own boots! But seriously I loved writing nanny!reader so I might have to do that again. Please let me know your thoughts!!
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synopsis: you do a bar crawl with the night shift as a new couple with jack abbot and he’s concerned about your blood sugar
cw: established relationship (they’ve gone on one off screen date) flirting, reader is being babied by Jack a little if you squint, Ellis and Mateo are here too! Oh mention of cannabis (smoking and being semi high!)
Maybe you’re a little too dressed up for a bar crawl with the night crew, but you couldn’t care less. You’ve got on a red and black patterned slip dress that you’ve hemmed to sit just a couple centimeters under your ass, and cherry red boots on.
You’ve got a dramatic Smokey eye and red lips and a pair of sunglasses that should’ve retired two hours ago, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
You smell like tangerine and tobacco, and your skin glistens from your lotion.
You look hot, and you feel it, especially when you catch Jack’s eyes roving over you like a wolf stalking prey.
You and Ellis have made it a game to see how many free drinks you can get at each bar, and you’re currently on your fifth shot of tequila and your third Long Island Iced Tea.
“I bet you that girl is gonna come up and offer to buy us lemon drops to get your attention.” You’re slurring, but only slightly, and you watch Ellis smile as she sees the girl you’re talking about.
“You’re such a good wing woman,” she says and you smile, beckoning the girl over. She turns to tell her friends something before coming over.
“I try!” It doesn’t take long to chat the girl up between you and Ellis, before you’re sipping a drink and turning your back to Ellis and the girl whose name you learnt is Diana.
As you turn to give them some privacy, you notice Jack stalking towards you with a tray in his hand.
You can’t make out what he’s holding, besides your pretty black bag, but it seems important because he’s walking straight over, not caring who he bumps into.
“Eat something,” he grumbles by your ear as he sets the tray down on the bar counter.
“Where did you get these?” You stare at the chicken strips before picking one up.
“There was a fast food place still open. Eat one, sweetheart.” His hands are shoved into his pocket to stop himself from pulling the strands of hair currently stuck to your glossy lips.
“M’not hungry though. Have you ever heard never to mix food and alcohol? I thought you were old enough to know that at least, Jack.” Your cheeks are hot when you sneak a glance at him and find him fighting a smile.
“You’ve been drinking for the past three hours, princess. Your sugar is through the roof and it’s almost at 360.”
You frown, “How do you know that for sure?”
Even drunk you want to go back and forth with him; Jack could kiss you.
“Your password is your birthday,” you sense some sort of judgement there but you shrug, it’s easy to remember all the time. “Just humor me, yeah?”
His hand falls to the small of your back and he looks at you with those huge green gray eyes and who are you to resist the call of the foggy forest?
“I’m only having one.”
You have three and then pass the rest to him, resigned to sipping your now watered down drink.
“You haven’t said how good I look.” You state it frankly, watching Ellis and the girl from before stalk off to a corner.
Jack scoffs, “You’ve got hickeys up and down your neck, baby. You know how good you look.”
You give him a smile, watching as he drains his beer and his Adam’s Apple works with his swallow.
“Still is nice to hear.”
He shakes his head, leans in close and tucks his nose under your jaw. Pressing a line of kisses there till your earlobe that he takes a nip at. “You smell and look good enough to eat.”
You giggle happily, “I know.” The song changes and you gasp, “Come dance with me? This is my favourite song!”
Jack pushes off the counter immediately.
You don’t last long dancing with just him, Ellis comes to get you, then Mateo, then Walsh and all Jack can do is stand and watch you enjoy yourself with your friends.
You last four songs and then you’re finding him with a drink in your hand and your hair gathered up off your neck.
“I’m so hot,” you whine as you stand in front of him, his hands falling to your thighs. He can’t see, but he can feel the pearls of sweat on your skin. You let him take a tissue to your damp skin, drying you off a little as you sip your drink.
Jack can hear you humming along to the music and though you try to stay still, your hips move slightly to the beat. He needs another date night.
“Tinkerbell!” Your head whips in the direction of your nickname being yelled across the club.
Mateo’s holding something between two fingers and waving you over.
“I’ll be twenty minutes.” You promise to Jack, smearing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You notice Ellis searching her pockets. “Maybe half an hour.”
Jack nods, kissing your lips properly before letting you go. “Don’t throw up.”
You scoff before walking backwards towards your friends, “You wound me, Abbot.”
He finds all three of you on the curb outside the club 45 minutes later, eyes bloodshot and silent.
“Jackie boy!” You squeal, stubbing the butt of the roll on in the cement. You hold your arms out to him and he joins you, tugging your calves over his thighs when he sits.
Mateo shakes his head, “This is still the weirdest thing ever.”
Ellis nods as she unwraps a stick of gum. “How’d the hottest R3 get stuck with him?”
Jack can feel your skin flush under the compliment. “I’d tell you but you’d never speak to me again.”
You sound so grave as you say it that they all can’t help but laugh. Silence descends again, comfortable and relaxing until you break it with a gasp.
“I have chocolate chip cookie dough in my freezer!”
Mateo laughs and turns to Abbot, “You’ve got about twenty minutes before her munchies actually kick in and you’re stopping at every fast food restaurant for a soft serve ice cream.”
His eyes widen, “Don’t tell me she got you and Ellis driving her around the city for ice cream before.”
You fake offense, “Don’t forget Mel! Mel loves the contact high every then and now.”
Ellis and Mateo laugh, “Now and then, babe.”
You save a hand at them, “Whatever, I just want my cookies.” You look up at Jack with most pathetic puppy dog eyes you can muster.
He turns to Mateo and Parker, “You guys need a ride?”
Ellis shakes her head, “I’m sticking around for a bit.”
You smile, “You’re taking Diana home aren’t you?”
She shrugs as she walks towards the door, “You’re going home with Abbot, what’s the difference?”
She’s got a point there.
You turn to Mateo, “Are you meeting Javadi after?”
He nods, “Heading home to sleep and then go get her. I’ll Uber though, I’d prefer not to get a backseat view of whatever you two get up to.”
Jack scoffs, “Don’t act like a saint. We’d keep it PG.”
Mateo rolls his eyes, “Nobody’s talking about you Abbot.”
You grumble out a weak, “Hey!” Before telling Mateo, “Text me when you get home.”
He nods, “You too, Tinkerbell.”
You salute as you watch him leave to order his Uber, your eyes bleary as you turn to Jack.
“Can we go? I can bake them before the high kicks in if we hurry.”
He pays your thigh before standing and then helping you up.
“Are you having them with milk?” He asks and you pretend to gag as he opens the car door for you.
“Milk is my number one enemy, Jackie boy.”
You say it so gravely he can’t help but laugh as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You’re so fucking strange it’s endearing.”
He starts the car and within seconds you’re rattling off every thought that pops into your mind. “Do you think an ice cream sandwich will push the blood sugar over the edge?”
Jack spares you a glance and calculates where your sugar should be mentally, “Not really. All the dancing and the chicken strips should have you at about 200 which is your norm.”
You fist bump, “M’gonna have three ice cream sandwiches.”
You have half of one before the high takes over and you’re mumbling about feeling static behind your eyes and then falling asleep on Jack’s shoulder.
Summary: The rest of the ED find out about their sunshine nurse and gruff attending in the most surprising of ways.
AN: Another short and sweet fic. I hope you guys like it! I'm hoping to get some more out but really I just write when the inspiration hits lol. Not proofread.
(I do NOT give anyone consent to use/publish my work. Any copying or translating of my writing is considered plagiarism. If you come across my work on any other site or app, please let me know and report them as well)
Everyone knew that you and Dr. Abbot were exceptionally close, more so than anyone else. Still, the two of you conducted yourselves in a professional manner and the residents chalked it up to doctors having their favourite/preferred nurse to work with; ie. Robby and Dana.
Whenever there was a case that Jack worked on, everyone knew that you'd be the first person he'd ask for. Whenever out with the team for a post-shift beer or rare bar night, Jack could always be found chatting with you or Robby, but with you always somewhere close behind. During short lulls in the shift, on the occasion that Jack would actually eat, he'd make his way into the staff room and plop himself down beside you, no words needed, just your company and the simple task of sharing a meal together.
So as far as relationships go, the residents and med students never even thought of pitting the two of you with one another. Regardless of how much time you spend with the doctor, your personalities were entirely different. You were the sunshine of the ED. Whenever someone was down, you were always the first person to try and comfort them, lending an ear or shoulder to cry on. When a difficult patient came in, you somehow always managed to calm them down, explaining the situation and never letting them feel blindsided by the steps and procedures needed to be done. To the rest of the staff, you were the epitome of rainbows and butterflies so they expected that if you were dating someone, they'd be just like you.
Jack on the other hand could not be more different. Just the fact that he was more senior in position and age to most of the people in the ED intimidated them already. Also, in their eyes, anyone who could spend years being Robby's best friend must already have something wrong going on with them, the SWAT shifts did not help to dissuade this assumption. Jack wasn't mean or rude, but he was definitely assertive. Jack knew how to run a trauma and didn't let anyone's mistakes get in the way of saving a patient. He could be gruff and sometimes appear cold but only because he didn't feel like oversharing about his life like the rest of the team. Jack knew what he liked and didn't like and was honest almost to a fault, the reason why some people felt scared to approach him.
Thus, all things considered, you and Jack were nowhere near the resident's radar, with only Dana and Robby knowing the truth about your relationship, that is, until the two of you stopped caring whether or not the rest of them knew.
It was one of those rare quiet times in the ED when no one needed immediate care and attention. Everyone was gathered around the nurses' station and computers. The residents were all catching on their charting while Robby and Jack sat close by reviewing patient labs and getting orders for medication ready. You of course were sat beside Jack catching up on your own work.
Trinity felt as though her head was gonna explode, closing her eyes for a brief second to try and will the ringing in her ears to go away. Dennis sat beside her and yawned for what felt like the hundredth time in ten minutes. Across from them, Victoria looked as though she was two seconds away from falling asleep while Mel's face scrunched up trying to focus on her screen. On either side of the desks, McKay was mindlessly scrolling through her chart, trying to look as if she was actually absorbing any information while Samira sat on the other end, the most put together of the bunch with her headphones in. The day seemed to drag on with no end in sight, the comfortable beeping of machines and low murmurs of patients acting as background noise.
"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"
Everyone's immediate attention was ripped away from whatever they were doing in order to turn in your direction which seemed to be entirely focused on Jack.
All of the residents looked at each other with incredulous eyes, even Samira took off her earphones once seeing how everyone reacted. Though, you seemed not to care at all that the rest of the ED seemed to be watching you as you continued to stare at Jack; even Dana looked up from where she was reading a chart to let out a small huff of laughter at your antics.
When Jack didn't immediately respond, you poked him lightly on the bicep trying to get his attention.
"Jaaaack" you draw out his name, "would you still love me if I was a worm?"
Without even looking up from his work, Jack silently grabbed your hand that you were holding out before bringing it up to his mouth to plant a brief kiss onto your hand, "yes darling, of course I would."
Satisfied with his answer, you gave a giddy nod of your head before turning back to your work, keeping your hand in Jack's as though this was the most normal thing in the world.
Less than five feet away, the residents felt as though they were witnessing a medical miracle. Victoria was left with her mouth hanging open while Mel sat completely still, blinking in fast intervals as though trying to understand what just happened. Dennis kept looking back and forth between the two of you before turning over to look at Trinity, knowing that if anyone was going to speak up, it'd be her.
"So, are we just pretending that didn't happen?" Trinity asked bewildered.
"Pretending what didn't happen?" Robby said, looking up from the chart in his hand.
"That, right there" McKay gestured widely at you and Jack still holding hands.
"I don't know what you're talking about" Robby smiled, before looking back down at his work.
The residents continued to share wide eyes with each other, even going as far as to look over at Dana for explanation but the charge nurse wouldn't even glance their way, choosing to stare at the tablet in front of her, but not without them seeing the obvious smirk on her face.
While the rest of the ED tried to make sense of what the hell just went on, you and Jack shared a loving look with one another before you leaned over and planted a small kiss on his cheek, the moment only lasting so long before you heard who you were sure was Trinity exclaim "oh what the fuck, now they're just messing with us!"
the fire alarm ruins your orgasm, for the third time this week. thankfully, your neighbor offers to help you after you snap at him in the parking lot, and in return, he wants cookies. you would give him anything if it meant he would ruin you...
pairing | aaron hotchner x neighbor!fem reader
disclaimer | don't read this if it makes you uncomfortable. what you consume is your own responsibility <3 MDNI
warnings | PORN WITHOUT PLOT, PERV!hotch, also dark and cocky!hotch, he is sooooo confident and fulllll of himself, reader is very sexually frustrated and angry like that's the entire plot, a lot of cursing, italics, mentions of outfit, no body descriptions, no use of y/n, hotch lives alone!!!, sex of convenience (is that even a trope?), basically a week of edging up until this point, rough sex and gentle touches!!, crying, oral (both), protected p in v (be proud of me), multiple orgasms, dubcon undertones but in a sexy way, slight choking, almost loss of consciousness?, reader says no but he keeps going and it all works out<3, forehead kisses, slight exhibitionism kink? ..... this is PURE FILTH. #ovulating
word count | 4.3k we're all going to hell together <3
It had to have something against you, that was the only explanation.
Perhaps you had done something to anger it, to provoke the monster inside to unleash its wrath and direct it at you. Maybe it was karma for that time you finished check-out at your local grocery shop, and didn't give the change to the homeless man outside.
In your defense, you were in a rush, and the few dollars had been pushed into the depths of your back pockets in a hurry.
But you should have given him the change, you would have given him all of your money if that cleansed your karma.
The fire alarm had blasted its deafening howls at the wonderful hour of two in the fucking morning—and you suppressed the urge to cry with it as you kicked off the sheets of your bed and stomped to the door. Angrily.
Three times in one week.
Three times had the fire alarm gone off—three fucking times had you not gotten off. It sent your nerves into overdrive. Every fiber in your body was tense, buzzing with frustration. Your mind no longer worked properly, there was not a single thought in your head that could even resemble sanity.
You were spent, uptight. Fired up. Deeply and infuriatingly.
The past week had been Hell. Capital H. Like the place they send your soul to suffer for eternity. Someone should call the Devil and tell him if his Underworld was ever at capacity, they could send the rest to live in your apartment complex. There was no difference.
Maybe this was the Underworld, and the Devil was the one causing you to suffer.
You wondered if the Devil fucked good.
Probably. Most likely. Unfortunately.
Half of the week had left you exhausted. Passed out the moment your head hit the pillow. Every other day you worked at the Office of Worst Kinds of People (a staff of only business men), and you had repeatedly run out of patience and will to live.
When you had not been swamped with work, you found yourself alone, in the solitude of your own apartment.
The quiet was driving you insane.
Every single one of your friends had been busy, whether with their own jobs or vacations. You didn't have a boyfriend, despite how much you found yourself needing one right about now. You were lonely.
It was you and your steadily growing collection of adult toys—except, you didn't get to be with them either.
How was it even possible that every moment you had to yourself, to get the release that would hopefully lift your shitty mood, the fire alarm protested by screaming its discontent.
Its pleasure was your displeasure, you were sure of that.
Oh, how you wished you could have gotten your shit together and downloaded the dating app your friends had begged you to get. Or even gone to a club, a bar—even a fucking strip club—just to get laid.
Fuck, you needed to get someone inside of you. Soon. Hard and fast.
"Aren't you cold?" Aaron, your next door neighbor, asked from your immediate left. Your head whipped to the side, to glare at him while you mentally sewed your mouth shut. It took everything in you to not snap in his stupidly handsome face.
Apparently, by the looks of him, he had better instincts when it came to urgent situations. You know the questions that are like 'what three things would you grab if there was a fire'? Yeah, Aaron seemed like he had his things figured out.
First of all, he was actually wearing clothes—and not a cropped tee and frilly, ruffled shorts that made your ass look amazing—mostly because it didn't cover anything.
Second of all, he had a bag slung over his shoulder. Which you guessed was actually useful stuff, and not the initial image that popped into your head of sex toys and bondage equipment.
Third of all, he didn't seem to mind being hauled out of the comfort of his apartment in the ass crack of—not even dawn.
Of-fucking-course you were cold. It was two in the fucking morning and your shit had been scared out of you by the infuriating fire alarm—which, also, most definitely, had it out for you.
And not 'out for you' in a good way, like it had whipped out its boner just for you. Because if that was the case, you wouldn't have been as cranky and frustrated as you were.
You would have climbed it, that was how desperate you were.
Pride was long lost and it would be a fool's mission to search for it.
"It's fine," you lied, lifting and dropping a shoulder to really sell the act of indifference. The urge to cross your arms over your chest and rub some warmth into your skin was increasingly hard to resist. You wished someone else would rub warmth into your skin instead.
Maybe the cold would seep into your bones and extinguish the burning between your legs. Hopefully.
"You're in a bad mood tonight," he clicked his tongue and chuckled, almost more to himself than you, "here, take this."
The world seemed to slow as you watched him reach for the zipper of his jacket. One inch was all it took, it slid down one inch to reveal the column of his throat and panic struck you.
"Stop," you gasped but it sounded more like a whine, an open palm stretched out to shield the sliver of skin from your vision—from the wrath of the demon in between your legs, "if you undress any more, I'm going to fucking jump. God."
"Fuck," your voice lowered to a whisper, to direct your words to yourself, as you dragged a hand down your face, "I need to get it together." This was getting out of hand. You had to get your shit together before anyone in the sea of people around you ended up the a danger zone.
"Three fucking times this week," you closed your eyes and sighed, "I just—need to get laid."
Aaron stilled as you continued muttering to yourself. He just stood there, unsure how to react, close enough that the warmth of his body caressed your skin in a way that drew goosebumps—far away enough that he wasn't in immediate danger of getting pounced on. Yet.
You met his unreadable gaze with an apologetic wince, "sorry."
Shit, you must have come across as an insane and desperate whore. Which might have been true, but that was not the subject of panicked discussion here. Aaron was nice, he always offered to help carry your stuff if you were struggling. Was always helpful if you had trouble with your car.
And he always appreciated your baking. If he wasn't home whenever you had made a batch of cookies or muffins or whatever, you'd shoot him a text and he'd knock on your door as soon as he got back.
Aaron watched out for you. He didn't deserve your shitty attitude.
He chuckled, a dark sound, rough and raspy. Like his throat had yet to fully wake up from slumber. Your thighs pressed together without your consent—and you knew he noticed. Apparently, your brain and your body no longer conversed before decisions were made. What a team, right?
"Can you wait until they let us back inside, or?" he purred, a playful smirk toying on his lips. As if the idea of it was amusing and not an actual fucking issue. But the urge to wipe that infuriatingly sexy look off his face vanished, as soon as his words sunk in.
Did he think you were joking?
The sticky mess practically dripping down your thighs was not funny, at all. It was embarrassing and annoying, and extremely frustrating. The idea of being this... aroused in the parking lot with every single resident of the complex present—it honestly kind of turned you on even more.
"It's not funny," you grumbled under your breath, arms folded over your chest to try to keep from shaking. Whimpering. Somewhere in between glaring at the asphalt under your shoes and picturing a giant orgy in the parking lot, Aaron had slipped his jacket off.
"Didn't say it was," he bit back a grin as he hung the jacket around your shoulders, "but only if you bake those cookies again." The scent of him waved around you, the heat of his body lingering inside the fabric now seeped into your skin.
"Are you making demands for sex?" you huffed a laugh, both unbelieving and intrigued, as you clutched the jacket tighter, "we'll fuck if I make you cookies?" Was it sad that you really hoped he meant it?
Maybe, but you did not give a single shit. Dick was dick—and he was absolutely not the ugliest person to be dicked down by—nor was the request anything but it's own win.
He was fucking gorgeous, in a dark and mysterious way. Like you'd never know if he was plotting your assassination or fantasizing about his cock deep in your throat—which was all the more attractive.
Not to mention, he liked your baking so much, he was trading sex for a batch of cookies.
This is what capitalism could have been.
Aaron chuckled, shrugging with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, "give and take, right?" Oh, he was absolutely onto something, that man. And, soon, he could be onto you—if the firemen could just get their fingers out of their asses and let you back inside.
"How could I ever refuse such an offer?" you licked your lips and smirked, reflecting the smug expression forming on his face.
The stairwell door stood directly across from your apartment, pushed against one end of the hallway. On the middle wall was Aaron's door. His apartment was the biggest on your floor, save from the exact mirrored layout on the opposite end.
It was longer than yours, stretching further out than most of the other apartments.
You halted at the familiar crossroad, tilting your head as you studied the two doors with feigned indecisiveness, "mine or yours?" It didn't matter, you did not care at all. Not even a little bit. All you wanted was to get pounded so hard, you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. And then some.
"Mine," he stated, decided, keys jingling in his hand as he unlocked the door. He held it open for you to enter, then closed it shut behind you.
Aaron kicked off his shoes and dropped his keys onto the console table, before turning back to look at you with a devilish smirk on his face, "can I get you anything?"
"Yeah, a dick and a bed, please and thank you," you mumbled as you hung up his jacket on the hooks, then snorted, "actually, the bed is optional." Anywhere would be acceptable, you thought to yourself as you sat down on the floor to untie your shoes.
Why the hell did you decide on converse? An even better question, how the hell did you manage to put them on while rushing out of the building?
"Well, I was thinking a glass of water or something," he mused, taking a step closer to where you knelt on the floor, "but, since you asked so nicely..."
"I'm going to scream if you don't touch me now." you glared up at him after pushing your shoes out of the way, barely restraining yourself from sinking your teeth into his thighs like a fucking vampire. They were right in front of you.
He seemed to really enjoy your snappy words and lack of composure, or perhaps he was the Devil himself come to prolong your suffering—might as well been as he didn't move an inch. Aaron just tilted his head down, filling your vision with his tall body and satisfied, smug expression.
However, you were a woman of your word. So, you took a breath, intent to actually scream your frustrations out—but the moment your lips parted, his cock hit the back of your throat.
You hadn't even noticed his pants coming undone, or his cock being whipped out—not until he was pushing past your lips with a groan and his hand tangled in your hair to keep you in place. He was careful, despite his grip on your head, his pace was slow and easy.
But slow and easy was not your style. Slow and easy would not do fucking shit to the volcano of horny you had transformed into.
Grazing your teeth lightly, in warning, a reminder of who really had the power, then you relaxed your jaw entirely. Offering the space of your mouth for him to use freely. Roughly, hopefully.
Aaron did. He fucked your throat until tears were streaming down your face. Until you had snaked a hand down your shorts and fingered yourself—until you had gotten so close you trembled—and that was when he pulled out.
Seconds before release could wash over you.
You tried your best to not sob as he lifted you up to your feet, a smile on his lips, his hands on either side of your face. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his thumbs brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks, "how many times, sweetheart?"
"What?" you shook your head in attempt to focus on the question he had asked. The gesture was so gentle, you almost passed out from the shift in energy. But the fire in your veins burned with threat and promise of eruption. Every cell in your body was tense, every fiber was screaming for the release you had been denied way too many times now.
"How many times do you want to cum for me, sweetheart?" Aaron repeated casually, like it was the most common question. His hands traveled down your sides, to your waist, under your shirt. His touch was like gasoline, fuel to what was brewing in your lower stomach. You shivered as his thumb grazed your peaked nipple, moaned as he pinched it between his fingers.
"Three?" he suggested in the absence of your answer, his hands cupping both your breasts firmly, "or more?" The smile on his lips seemed even more devilish as he tilted his head to the side, studying your dazed expression. A predator watching his prey. Fuck, it was hot.
"Three," you managed finally, nodding absentmindedly at your own confirmation, "fast, please. I'm going to explode if I can't—"
"I know, come on," Aaron relented with a chuckle, dragging you through the living room, to his bedroom.
The moment your feet crossed the threshold, his lips were on yours. Hungry and claiming. His tongue darted into your mouth with a force that stole your breath away, that had you wishing to never need air again. There was nothing slow and easy about him anymore.
He was all fire. Consumed by a demon of his own.
His mouth traveled across your jaw, biting the soft skin down your neck. As if he was teasing himself, refraining from devouring you entirely. If vampires were real, you would gladly offer your own neck if it felt like this.
Your hands tangled in his hair, clawed at his neck—anywhere you could reach, you scratched. Every thought in your brain evaporated as he groped your ass. Harshly. Everything about him was demanding, every touch on your body was an act of claim, every bite on your neck was a mark.
Then, he stepped back, out of your grasp, to rake his gaze down your body. He was appreciating the sight, drinking in the state of you. His cock was pressed against his lower stomach, the tip glistening with precum and the remnant of your spit.
You clenched around nothing at the thought of him inside you, how big he was in your mouth and how deep he fucked himself down your throat. How good he'd stretch you out. How you had promised him three orgasms.
Aaron clicked his tongue and tilted his head, "as much as I would love to fuck you in those shorts," he purred lowly, almost growling, "if you want to keep them in one piece, I suggest you take them off. Now."
You did not need to be told twice—not when the look on his face alone had you shivering with anticipation—the sound of his voice echoed through your bones, vibrating your body with the melody. His eyes darkened with something you could only assume was a warning sign, as his own clothes decorated the floor alongside yours.
The moment your shirt was off, he threw you on the bed, his hands gripping your hips to pull you to the edge as he positioned himself between them. His cock twitched against your thigh as he leaned down, face hovering inches above yours with a predatory look in his eyes.
"Sweetheart," he purred, in a way so condescending, you couldn't help but squeeze your thighs around him, "how would you like your first one?"
Fuck. In the dim light of his bedroom, with the gleam in his eyes, he looked every part of the Devil you had imagined.
"Don't care," you breathed, grinding you hips against him, "would jus' like it right now." The ache was consuming you, the desperation was at an all time high. You could practically feel your head emptying, and filling up again with images of him. No thoughts, it was all a burning need for Aaron.
"Guess it's my choice, then." he mused, a satisfied smile on his lips.
Then he was gone again, rummaging in the closet on the opposite side of the bedroom, returning with a blue—tie? You shuddered, breath hitching with a small whimper as he stalked for you. Slowly.
With a nod of his head, you pushed yourself backwards until you hit the headboard. Without exchanging a single word, you lifted your arms and he tied them together, securing you to his bed. You were at his mercy—and, God, did it turn you on.
Aaron was everywhere. His hands spread your thighs, his mouth devouring your breasts. Then his hands snaked up to replace his mouth, and his head lowered between your legs. He blew, air fanning across your folds—before he settled.
You moaned as his tongue danced around, plunged into you, pushing every button that ensured you would explode in no time. He rolled your nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger, the other hand moving down to your lower stomach, to press you into the mattress.
Your hips bucked, or tried to, against his hold. Tried to both push yourself into the feeling of his mouth on you, as well as away from it. It was dizzying and breathtaking, too much and yet not enough. The tie around your wrist dug into the skin, to keep you restrained as you pulled.
His groans were muffled by your thighs, vibrating around your clit. The sounds of him consuming you like it was everything he'd ever wanted, it sent you barrelling for the edge. Tumbling rapidly for the pleasure you had been denied for a week, as if it could be ripped out of your grasp any moment, and this was the only chance.
Your thighs shook with the intensity of your approaching orgasm, your whimpers turned into breathy moans, then small screams—until his fingers plunged into your mouth, and you unfolded. Drowned in darkness, the abyss of bliss.
It hurt so fucking good.
The sound of a wrapper ripping open did not register in your dazed state. You didn't register much at all before his cock slammed into you. In one movement.
Aaron wasn't giving you the moment to catch your breath, or to adjust to the size of him. No, he was a man of his own word, and he was intent to collect the debt you owed him. In his own pace, hard and fast, unrelenting.
It didn't take long for the sensitivity to melt back into desire. For the pain to reshape into a mind-numbing pleasure.
"Fuck," you gasped, eyes rolling as he hit the deepest spot inside of you over and over again. Both of his hands gripped your hips to hold, to use you as his anchor—and you hoped there would be bruises. Prints of his fingers, marks of his claims. Tattoos of the memories.
Aaron looked like a god above you. A disheveled, sexy god. His hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat as he pounded his cock deeper. Rougher. His eyes were wild, like he was in a crazed state and the urges had taken over. As if he had been possessed. He fucked like it, too.
"Wan' touch you," you managed to breathe, back arching off the bed with another forceful thrust. Your jaw was slack with the intent of forming another sound, yet none came out. Nothing but gasps could be heard. Gasps and skin slapping—and his deep rumbles that almost sounded like praise—but you couldn't make it out over the buzzing in your body.
The pressure lessened around your wrist and you pulled them free, grabbing his shoulders instead. Raking your nails down his back as he leaned over you, fucking you harder into the mattress.
Aaron bent your leg, your knee pressing against his chest to allow him deeper. His hand moving to your throat. It was a light hold, but firm enough to restrict the airways. You were shaking again, moaning pathetically as you clenched around him. The pressure around your throat was dizzying in the best ways. Intoxicating.
"Give it to me, sweetheart." his lips brushed your ear, his tone so demanding—you obeyed even before his words registered.
Everything was on fire. A delicious flame threatening to consume you as your body went numb with the force of your second orgasm. Skin buzzing with electricity, legs shaking around him as it swallowed you whole. A scream stuck in your throat, hindered by his tightening grip.
The world started to fade, the edges of your vision darkening. The abyss stretching endlessly— "Don't you dare," Aaron muttered somewhere far away, followed by a small sting on your cheek.
You gasped at the pain, the haze clearing up again to find his dark eyes staring down—at you.
He clicked his tongue, in what sounded like disapproval.
"I'm not done with you yet," he stated, a fake sweet smile growing on his lips, as if that would make it easier for you, "we had a deal. I'll fuck you until you give me—" he halted his words to move his hips, dragging himself out and pushing himself all the way back in, "—how many?"
"No, m' can't." you whimpered as tears rolled down your cheeks, his thumb swiping them away gently. Every slow thrust of his cock rubbed against your walls, you shuddered as he bottomed out, whined as he rolled his hips.
Aaron cooed, condescendingly, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, "but I know you can."
His pace picked up, slowly increasing to give you a chance to follow, until he was pounding into you again. Hammering while kissing away the tears on your cheeks, fucking you like his life depended on it, while gently stroking your hair. The contrast of his actions confused you enough, distracted your mind enough that your body melted into him. To give him what he wanted.
"Good girl," Aaron purred in your ear, snaking a hand around your thigh—"look at you," he hummed with appreciation, continuing his distractions to keep you focused on his voice, as his thumb started rubbing circles on your clit, "always knew you'd be good for me."
You mumbled incoherent noises, shuddered as new waves of pleasure jolted through your sensitive cunt, cried as he hit that very spot again. He was getting close now. His breath turned ragged and his hips were faltering, snapping with desperation for his own release. But he wasn't going to let himself, not until you gave him your last.
With a sob, your third orgasm washed over you, and Aaron followed with a groan of your name. A string of curses, along with coos of praise, as he came.
By the time you had reentered your body, regained a sliver of composure in the comfort of his arms, the sun had started to rise.
His curtains were open and you were curled up against him and admiring the view. The sky turning pastel, pink melting into a light purple, over to blue.
"You can see straight into my bedroom from here," you mused, a soft smile spreading on your tired face at the revelation. The bed was perfectly in line of sight with your bed, you could even see your sheets on the floor… You snapped your head around, gasping, "how much—"
Apparently Aaron had followed your train of thought, he understood instantly. "Only when you don't close your blinds," he grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement as he watched it sink in, "speaking of, maybe you should close them more often."
"Aaron," you raised a hand to cover your mouth, a panicked giggle escaping from your lips, "I never close my blinds." Yet, despite the horror of knowing you had been watched in the not-so-private privacy of your bedroom—which was absolutely your own fault—it also sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. Pooling right between your legs.
He had watched you.
And you didn't hate it. At all.
"Do you have anywhere to be today?" he whispered into your hair, his breath fanning the shell of your ear. You shook your head, biting your lip as his nose brushed down your throat, to your shoulder, "no, why?"
Aaron lifted his head and smiled sheepishly, "you still owe me cookies."
hellooo angel! here with your request! im currently rewatching s7 and i was thinking about reader being upset with aaron about hiding emilys survival in the same way that spencer was mad at jj, except in this case him lying to reader for so long is a much bigger deal because theyre in a relationship, bau!reader or not, up to you! anywho i was toying with this in a spencer x reader angle and getting nowhere and this may already be a fic idk but id love to read your take on it! feel free to make it as angsty (or not angsty) as you like 😋😋
ty for the request babe! <3 i went angsty with it (also this fic assumes that hotch had some say in whether or not he went to Pakistan)
Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 1.6k words
Your eyes are redrimmed as you stare at the steam twirling upward from your untouched mug. It's been a testing, tiresome few days. Working nonstop to the best of your ability to finish it all off.
Emily is alive. Aaron came home from Pakistan. Emily, your friend, the woman you’ve mourned for months, the woman you’ve buried over and over again in your mind, is alive. You should be elated and yet most of what you feel is a deep simmering hurt. A hand has gripped you, squeezing until it drains all the joy from you.
“I just–” you start with a sniffle. Aaron sits across from you, your dining table a physical barrier between you both. His face is neutral, he’s pragmatic as ever while facing down your sadness. Or is it anger? You keep flip flopping between the two. Either way he looks like a man ready to fix a problem as he has so many times before. You're unsure he can fix this one.
“I don’t understand how you could keep this secret– lie to me, like this. It seemed so easy for you.”
“It wasn’t.” he shakes his head with a calm voice. Aaron leans forward, one hand stretching across the table as though the extra few inches might somehow reach you. His fingers stop just short of yours. There's something pleading in his expression. A desperate hope that if you just looked at him long enough, you’d understand. “Honey, it wasn’t. I agreed to the assignment in Pakistan because I couldn’t stand it.”
Pakistan.
That’s an entirely different issue. One you think, eventually, you could have forgiven on its own.
It meant months of overworking yourself, trying your best to support Morgan as he tried to lead a team that essentially had its legs cut off. You had to watch Spencer retreat into himself as grief consumed him. Consumed you. You had to pick yourself up after a bad day because the one person you needed was 7000 miles away.
When the days ended, they never really did. There were more things to worry about than just the BAU, like the sweetest Hotchner boy. Your free time was spent helping Jess with Jack. You made sure she didn’t have to do it alone. Dinner and homework and soccer games. You were there.
To know now that he said yes to ease the pain of lying to you, that he left you in this mess alone, well, it reignites the flames of your anger.
“You got to escape from it!” you say, voice sharp. “You left.”
Aaron nearly flinches at your tone. Never once has he heard that type of anger from you directed at him.
“You got to leave while I stayed here alone.” Your voice trembles despite your efforts to steady it. “I had to live through every single day believing my friend, our friend, was dead.”
“I know.”
“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “You don’t.”
Guilt starts to melt into Aaron’s features. It softens the set of his jaw, dims his eyes and drags his shoulders lower.
He’s been selfish. It’s a truth he almost never has to face. His entire life is built around sacrifice, his career, his family, the choices he makes everyday. But this had been for him. Watching you grieve had been unbearable and every lie had felt like another betrayal.
“But it doesn’t even matter, I don’t care about Pakistan.” You wipe impatiently at your eyes. “I–I care about the fact that I trust you. Always. And I have for a long time and I know you have reasons for everything you do but this one I can’t figure out. How could you hide this from me?”
“I couldn’t tell you. JJ–” His tone is pleading and his eye contact never waivers as he tries to explain. “-- is the only other person that knew. It had to be that way. We had to keep Prentiss safe and the fewer people that knew she’s alive the easier that was.”
“I know that.” Your voice is sharper than intended. “But you couldn’t have– have given me a clue?”
His eyes fall away from you, studying the grain of the dining table because this has suddenly become too much. Everything that has built up within you over the last few months is bubbling up to the surface. Aaron shakes his head with a heavy sigh.
“Not even when I was crying in your arms, falling apart, night after night, before you left?”
Aaron remembers those nights all too well. Nights where you were inconsolable, mourning your friend who was gone and would never come back. You wouldn’t sleep and you barely ate, the only solace you seemed to find was in him.
It all broke his heart, watching you, his love, become a shell of yourself. Especially, when he remembered that he held the key to stop your pain and he couldn’t use it. All he could do was sit like a guardian, telling you lies, telling you it would be okay, telling you you’d get through all of this together. All while knowing you were carrying a grief he could have lifted.
“No,” he says softly, sadly. “I couldn't."
Silence creeps back in, and you watch the steam curl into the air. You’ve never heard Aaron sound so defeated. The anger that had burned so fiercely only minutes ago gutters beneath the weight of it leaving behind something far worse. Your inescapable sadness.
Aaron feels it too, overcome with helplessness. This isn't a problem he can solve and fix as easily as he’d like, he can’t see the path forward that helps you rather than hurts you. He doesn’t want to hurt you or for you to be hurt any longer.
“I know,” you shrug, tears collecting on your lashline. “It still hurts, though.”
“I’m sorry, honey, that it had to be this way.”
You’re nodding your head before he finishes, sniffling as your nose starts to run and the sting behind your eyes becomes more noticeable. You know he had his reasons, you know why he did it. Knowing doesn't lessen the sting.
You give Aaron a sorry excuse for a smile, the corners of your mouth barely lifting as you formulate your next sentence carefully. You don't want to hurt Aaron, there's no part of you that could ever want that, but there are things that need to be said that you think might.
“After all this…” you clear your throat. “...This big secret you kept, how am I supposed to know that you won't keep something from me in the future?”
“Unless I absolutely have to,” he says, immediately. “I won’t.”
“How can I believe that?” His mouth opens and closes as he searches for words. “Where do you draw the line for things you can and can't tell me? How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth?”
“You just have to trust me.” Aaron replies resolutely.
“I could before,” you whisper. “I don’t know that I can now.”
Aaron slumps back in his chair, as if your words are a physical blow. He is the picture of defeat as he rubs a hand over his face. Maybe if he does it hard enough the last ten minutes will have never happened or maybe he’d find some magic words to fix this mess. He loves you and you love him, so how have you got here?
His eyes are sad and impossibly tired when he drops his hands into his lap, you can hardly look at him. You feel sick.
“Tell me–” he starts, unsure and clumsy. “Tell me what to do, honey. Tell me how to fix this and I will.”
The twisted thing about it all is you don't think there is anything he can do. Can’t think of a single thing Aaron can say or do that would make any of this easier. They say time heals all wounds and you hope it mends this one.
“You should go see Jack,” you can’t look at him as you speak, eyes fixed on the table, unable to watch as defeat and heartbreak start to fill his eyes. You’ve never seen him this way, it’s awful. “He’s missed you so much and, I think, I need some space.”
There's a second where Aaron doesn't move, frozen in place, he can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He’d already planned ahead, asking Jess to have Jack for one more night so he could speak with you. Maybe he expected something easier than this. He’d imagined tears and anger, but not this quiet defeat.
The idea of leaving you here, upset and miserable, kills him. But what gives him the right to pick and choose when and how he’s going to be there for you. He’s already taken enough choices away from you. In your shoes, Hotch doesn’t think he’d want to be around himself either.
“Okay.” he says in a tone that suggests all of this is anything but okay as he stands. “Let me know when you're ready to talk, sweetheart, please and I'll be here.”
He doesn't move towards the door until you look at him and nod. The walk away from you feels longer than it ever has. Once he has a hand on the door handle he turns to look at you where you sit unmoved at the table.
“I love you.” For the first time since he’d spoken those words to you, Aaron doesn’t wait to hear them returned. He can’t take the chance that you might not say them back anymore.
The door clicks shut behind him and you're left sitting at the dining table with tears wetting your cheeks and a cooling mug of tea.
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: The sleeve squeezes him, the grip and pull of the latex is just enough as he jacks himself off. He groans, hand flexing as he slides the toy down to the base of his cock, then back up. His hips rock with the rhythm, and he slows down, wanting this pleasure to last. But he’s thinking about you, the way your soft lips formed to say pussy, so plainly and unaffected. He wonders if you’d smirk at him, knowing he’s home getting off with what you sold him.
Warnings: smut, joel jerking it with a fleshlight, voyeurism, cum eating, pussy fingering, sex shop, porn, i'm gonna make that man yearn, listen to grunge, and cum in everything i write
Words: 7,000
A/N: Enjoy two of my loves... Joel Miller and vintage porn. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, @magpiepills, and @sin-djarin for letting me talk this whole thing out with them.
Masterlist
—-
Joel Miller doesn’t know why he stopped into Austin Fantasy Gifts on the way home from the construction yard. Maybe it’s the fact that his house is empty for the first time in eighteen years. Maybe it’s due to his and Tess’s breakup almost a year ago, when the distance between Detroit and Austin got to be too far. Could be because he’s been too damn horny and he’s too scared to Ask Jeeves for porn on his work laptop.
The store welcomes him with a loud ding-dong when he steps into the oddly bright space. Fluorescent lights reflect off the black and white tiled linoleum, and he doesn’t know where to look. There’s a giant wall full of dildos in all different sizes, shapes, and colors, a rack of lace underwear he’s sure he can rip in one pull, and an empty check out counter. Nobody greets him, he feels all alone amongst the plastic and vinyl. It almost feels like he shouldn’t be here all alone, but he walks the perimeter, pretends to browse, but mostly tries to keep his eyes level and his mouth shut. There’s a slightly musky, plasticky smell in the air mixed with a sweet vanilla, it’s almost intoxicating in a good way. His boots occasionally squeak on the tile as his footsteps lead him across the store. He can feel the hot blood in his neck and his ears, and he almost wants to admonish his forty-year-old self for the feeling of shame he holds.
He finds the movie section… rows upon rows of clamshell cases lined up under a sign promising “OVER A THOUSAND HOURS OF FUN.” He browses through title after title, barely looking at the covers because after a while, the photoshopped fronts all blend, no matter the name. PUSSY PIRATES 14, QUEENS OF ANAL 3, LESBIAN LOVERS 39… the women all look the same: long acrylic nails, swollen and injected lips, rock hard tits, and platinum blonde fried hair. Joel grimaces and rolls his eyes. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly, but it’s not this.
He thinks of his first porno, bought at the skeazy hole-in-the-wall “newsstand” near the dairyette he used to work at during the summer. He can still perfectly recall the cover… the title in bright red and the pretty brunette on the cover in a white bikini. Oh, the times he had with that tape.
Back then, the women looked like women, and the sex felt real. It all seemed so goddamn sincere to whatever is going on now. He suddenly feels so nostalgic as he slides a box titled “SORORITY SLUTS 7” back onto the shelf and wipes his palm on his jeans before picking up “COLLEGE HUSTLERS 4.”
He hears a soft cadence of steps approach him, and his body straightens. “Welcome. Can I help you find something, or are you just browsing?”
Your voice is sugary sweet, and Joel nearly drops the case he’s holding as he places it back on the shelf. He glances toward you, his eyes widening when he sees you. Oh god, you’re pretty. Even prettier when he sees what you’re wearing. You’ve got an olive green flannel on, it sits open and oversized atop an old Nirvana shirt. Your jeans are ripped at the knees, light blue like the sky, and your boots are dark, scuffed, and used.
Shit, he’s staring. He attempts to recover with a throat clear. “No, I’m, uh. Good. Just lookin’, thanks.”
“We get a lot of just looking here,” you say before you tell him your name. “I’m here if you need any help or any recommendations.”
His mouth feels dry, and he can only nod before you turn back and head towards the checkout counter. What kind of person asks for recommendations at a place like this?
Nothing really catches his eye, but he settles on a movie, because at the end of the day, tits are still tits, even when they’re stuffed full of silicon. Joel could leave now, he’s accomplished what he came in here to do… until he sees the long, flashlight-looking apparatus. FLESHLIGHT, he chuckles at the pun. He picks it up despite himself. The image on the box makes his brows rise in surprise. That’s…. that’s a pussy, pink and open, waiting.
He glances up at the sound of you walking through the beaded curtain to the back, and he wonders what your pussy looks like. Fuck.
He’s never fucked a toy before, but there’s a curiosity. A grown man, a father, a builder of homes, standing here in a fluorescent wonderland of fake cocks and cunts, considering taking one home. The consideration doesn’t take long, he picks up the black box and heads to the counter, setting both the movie and the Fleshlight down without a word.
You walk back through the curtain and don’t bat an eye when you ring up the movie, then the toy. “We’ve got lube too, if you want. I’m pretty sure you’re going to want it,” you say with a smile.
He stares at the wall behind you, covered in ads of women in different states of undress, unable to look directly at you. “Yeah. Uh. Sounds good.”
You walk out from behind the counter, and Joel can’t stop staring at the sway of your hips as he follows you down the aisle. He should be a better man and maybe keep his eyes up, but damnit, he can’t look away. Especially when you crouch down to pick up a bottle from a lower shelf. He struggles so hard not to reach down and adjust himself.
You hold up a bottle, the label an orange flame. “This one’s supposed to warm on contact. It’s the big seller for the customers who buy a pocket pussy.”
A tingle runs up his spine, and he feels his cock twitch. Jesus Christ, the way you say “pussy” so casually… it’s almost admirable.
“That works,” he nods, his head bobbling slightly as he follows you back to the counter.
You finish ringing him up and hand him the brown paper bag.
“Thanks for coming in—”
“Joel, I’m Joel,” he blurts.
“Joel,” you repeat his name with a smile, and he wonders if you look at all your customers the way you’re looking at him. “Don’t be a stranger.”
The bag feels heavy in his hands when he makes his way back to his truck. It’s such an odd transaction, he just handed over a $100 bill to you, leaving you with the knowledge that he’s going to get off later tonight.
—-
Joel’s shut all the curtains in the house, even if he’s in his bedroom upstairs. He’s also shut Sarah’s room door, just for good measure, even if she’s 200 miles away at college in Dallas.
He feels ridiculous. Why does he feel so shy all of a sudden, especially in his own home? Hell, one of his and Tess’s favorite things was to go out into the middle of the fields east of town and fuck in the sunlight.
He sits down on the plaid, overstuffed reading chair he uses more as a glorified closet than a place to rest and flips the TV on. The DVD menu is all loud pinks and purples. A naked woman with her pouting red lips stands to the left of PLAY, TRAILERS, and DELETED SCENES. As soon as Joel hits play, a loud saxophone over a techno beat plays, and he rolls his eyes.
Everyone’s impossibly smooth and shiny, fake moans and plastic parts. He lets the overwhelming SEX of it all happen for a couple of minutes before he mutes the sound and just lets the images play.
He opens the lube, and it already warms when he feels it between his fingers. He slicks his hand and wraps it around his cock. He wonders if you’re even warmer than this magical gel. He’s already so worked up, and it’s not from the porn stars on his TV, no, it’s from you, from knowing you knew exactly what he was going to do tonight. He grunts, squeezing tight and stroking just enough to let his dick stand tall and hard.
On the screen, a blonde on her knees gags herself on some roided-out dude’s monster cock. She’s all watery eyes and smeared mascara. Her pussy shines under the blue studio lights, all bald and pouting, her slit almost looks fake.
He’s so fucking worked up, and it’s not the porno flickering in front of his eyes. It’s you. He wonders what your pussy looks like, if it has hair, if one lip's bigger than the other, if it's as sweet as he thinks it'd taste.
He hovers the toy over his cock, and slowly pushes it down, letting the silicone swallow his cock. It’s tight and hot, and he imagines he’s anywhere else but inside his bedroom. Maybe he’s back at that sex store, pressing you up against the counter, fucking you so hard the mug full of pens that reads I LOVE COCKS gets knocked off the glass top. Maybe you’re on the silk sheets like the big-titted brunette in the movie, and he’s over you, railing into your tight pussy as you moan his name.
The sleeve squeezes him, the grip and pull of the latex is just enough as he jacks himself off. He groans, hand flexing as he slides the toy down to the base of his cock, then back up. His hips rock with the rhythm, and he slows down, wanting this pleasure to last. But he’s thinking about you, the way your soft lips formed to say pussy, so plainly and unaffected. He wonders if you’d smirk at him, knowing he’s home getting off with what you sold him.
He imagines you spread out on the counter, mouth open for him, hand between your legs, fingering yourself with the same lube he’s using now. Joel twists the toy and palms his balls with his free hand. He wonders if he looks as desperate as he feels, grinding into the toy as if he’s grinding into you.
He shocks himself when he moans your name, but he lets any shame leave when he imagines you straddling him in that back room hidden behind the beaded curtain, pulling at his chest hair, calling him an old perv while you ride him until he shoots his cum inside you. He fucks the toy harder, his thighs quivering, breath huffing out deep and fast as he edges himself closer and closer.
He’s barely even watching the TV, where two too-tanned orange blondes get fucked by just-as-orange bros. He catches himself muttering, “fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” as if you’re there with him, moaning into his ear. He imagines the shape of your tits under the flannel, the color of your nipples, if you’d bite your lip when he sucked them. He grinds the toy all the way down, feels himself throb hard against the walls over it, and he shudders as he cums. His hips are canting higher and higher off the chair now, he doesn’t know what’s leaking out of his toy down his thigh, if it’s lube or his cum, or both. But he’s a fucking mess. He’s grunting and groaning, twisting the toy around his hard, aching cock.
Joel’s orgasm is dizzying. He milks himself for all his worth, filling the toy with every single drop of cum he’s been saving. He imagines it’s your wet cunt, and you’re under him, moaning his name, your tits bouncing as he fucks his cum deep into you. His head thuds against the back of the chair as he pants and stares up at the ceiling. He stays like that for a while, his cock still shrouded in the fleshy latex.
He wonders if you ever bring your work home. If you ever mind the way people look at you, and wonder what you’re like in bed. He slides the toy off and sets it on the dresser with a shaky laugh of amazement. The movie still continues, and he can’t even look at the TV when he picks up the remote and shuts it off.
Maybe he will take you up on those recommendations.
—-
Joel makes it three days before he caves and heads back to the store.
He pulls into the parking lot and checks himself in the rearview mirror. Why? Who knows. Maybe he does want to impress the pretty girl behind the counter with the fishbowl full of condoms.
The same ding-dong plays when he steps in, and his heart begins to race in his chest when he sees you. This time, you’re at the counter, same flannel as before, but this time it’s tied over a black PEARL JAM shirt. Goddamn. Joel’s pretty sure he’s found his dream girl in a strip mall across from the HEB.
“Hey,” you smile. “Welcome back.”
He can only offer a grunt of “hi” back.
“What brings you in today?” you ask.
He’s actually not sure what brings him here, he really just wanted to see you, but he quickly finds an excuse and blurts it out. “Need a different movie.”
You fold your arms across your chest and raise an eyebrow. “Oh? The one you bought is a hit here.”
“I think I, uh, like the more vintage variety of…. that entertainment.” Joel cannot believe he admitted such a thing to a practical stranger, but the way you nod in understanding, and the look you give him that holds a hint of mischief, calms his internal struggle.
“Fully understand that. What are you thinking? The Golden Age? Polyester, tighty whities, shag carpet, brown furniture, and full bush?”
There’s an almost flirty lilt to your voice, and Joel wants nothing more than to respond with a “you’re reading my mind,” but he doesn’t; he only offers a nod.
When you step out from behind the counter, Joel’s heart almost stops at the sight of you in cutoff jean shorts, the hem landing high across your thighs. You lead him to the wall of movies, kneeling down to the bottom shelf. You’re digging through the titles, searching through the blocky VHS covers and thin DVD cases. It’s then that he realizes just how close your head is to his crotch. It blinks through his mind first before it stays constantly, the image of your mouth stuffed with his cock. He takes a deep breath, trying to hide the rumble of his inhale.
You look up, tugging out a box from the shelf. “This one’s a classic,” you say, still squatting down and level with his cock that’s now pulsing under his jeans. You turn the box in your hand and reach it up to him. He takes the box, your eyes locking for a second.
“Full bush, polyester, and some plot,” you say, rising up. You’re closer now than before, and he smells the sweet, citrusy scent of you mixed with the vanilla warmth of the wax melts by the register.
Joel’s pretty sure you’re sauntering back to the counter for him, and his eyes cannot look away from the swell of your ass underneath the worn, light blue denim of your tight shorts. He almost trips over his steps when he lets himself imagine your legs wrapped around his body.
“Anything else?” you ask him, ringing up his video.
Joel quickly glances around, still overwhelmed by the sight of plastic parts and nudity. “Not today,” he responds.
You hum a response and slide his change across the counter. You dangle his bag from your finger, but you don’t reach it out to him yet. “You know, I do have my own collection of movies that might be more up your alley. I work tomorrow, I can bring them in, see if you’re interested in borrowing something?”
God, you’re bold.
“Sounds good,” he instantly rasps without any thought.
Your smile is wide and wicked, one edge of your lips lifting higher than the other. He catches the way your eyes flick down to his mouth and back up to his eyes. It’s been so long since anyone has looked at him like that, at least as far as he knows.
“We close at 8. If you want to meet me here around 8:15?”
It almost feels like a date.
“Sounds good,” Joel repeats.
Christ, he needs to find more words.
“Cool,” you say, reaching his purchase out to him. “Enjoy.”
Goddamn, he will. He wonders if you can sense the way he’s growing hard in his pants, if you know he’s already so fucking worked up, he’s going straight home and fucking himself as he thinks about you. The thing is, he doesn’t really seem to care.
—-
Can you dress up for a trip to the sex store?
Joel wonders it to himself as he tucks and untucks his blue denim shirt. It’s about the only non-plaid and flannel button-up in his closet. He’ll leave the plaid-wearing to you, hell, you look a lot better than he ever could in it. He leaves it untucked, and he doesn’t slick back his hair. He doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s trying too hard when he’s meeting someone to look at porn.
The bright OPEN sign is now off, and Joel knocks a couple of taps against the glass door. He hears the click of the deadbolt and the familiar ding-dong when you open the door.
He’s pretty sure his jaw drops when he sees you. Same irresistible flannel, but this time, only a thin, black tank top is under it. You’re not wearing those ripped jeans or shorts like before; no, your legs are on display thanks to the short, denim skirt, and you’ve traded your Doc Martens for a pair of chunky loafers and ruffled socks. Joel isn’t sure if he’s fantasizing this whole experience or not, but when someone describes his dream woman, he’s sure it’s you.
“Hi,” you say. There’s a slight growl to your voice, and it causes his back to straighten.
It takes Joel a whole ten seconds to realize he’s standing in the doorway, mute. You give him that look he thought about just last night as he came so hard he felt like he was going to black out. The one that tells him you know exactly how much he likes you, and how you know what men are thinking.
You crook a finger and beckon him inside. The lights are lower now, the drop ceiling fluorescents are off, and only the few spotlights above the displays are on. You lead him past the racks of strap-ons and novelty vibrators, past the wall of lube in every flavor and viscosity, until you reach the beaded curtain at the back of the wall. The beads part around you like water, and he follows.
Joel expects to see a stockroom or a break area, but that’s absolutely not what he finds. There’s an old TV on a desk and a small, round coffee table. What really surprises him is the loveseat, fake leather, and glossy, a pale camel color. He’d never think an adult video store would have decorative pillows, but two lie on the couch, one in the shape of a red heart, the other a turquoise Aztec print. There’s a glow to the room thanks to the couple of strands of multi-colored string lights.
“There’s a lot of downtime,” you reason over your shoulder as you remove your flannel. Joel swallows a thick gulp of need when more and more of your skin is revealed to him.
You turn and lift a messenger bag onto the folding table. He tries to look anywhere else but the swell of your tits that are framed perfectly by the low neckline of your tank… but he loses the fight. Especially when the little gold chain you wear disappears between them. There’s something so mysterious to you, an aura of sex and acceptance. He knows you can feel the heat of his eyes, and yet you ignore them, letting him gawk and gaze as you pull out a stack of DVDs and lay them across the table.
It is a ridiculous feeling, standing in the backroom of some strip mall porn shop, waiting for someone to show him “the goods.” It’s all perfectly legal, and yet it feels taboo.
He sees the film before you even put it down… the title in that familiar, red print across the spine. Joel’s body tightens, all the memories of him watching the battered tape at any chance he could when he was a horny teenager. Sneaking down into the basement at 2 AM while his dad and Tommy slept. His teenage self, on the ripped floral couch, the TV on mute, his breath held, hoping he doesn’t hear the creak of the stairs. And now, it sits on the table, angled so the cover is facing him.
He looks up at you, and he tries for casual, but it comes out gruff, “Didn’t think I’d ever see this one again.” He reaches for the DVD and picks it up, assessing the pretty brunette on the cover.
“That one’s my favorite,” you say.
His stomach tightens. Of course it is. He mulls over the DVD, assessing it like he’s some sort of expert.
“There’s a website that sells all of the classics on DVD,” you say. “A little expensive, but worth it… in my opinion.”
Joel nods, reading over the minuscule blurb on the back cover over and over, unsure where to take the conversation or the situation.
“Want to watch it with me?” you ask. Your voice is low and slightly gravely, and when he looks up, he sees pure heat in your eyes.
He bobbles his head up and down, a little too rapidly and eagerly, and reaches the DVD out to you. You take it, your hands grazing over his, staying for a beat longer than propriety should allow. Suddenly, he no longer feels like just a customer or consumer, he feels like someone desired.
“Go ahead and get comfortable,” you say, head nodding towards the sofa.
He settles on the couch, sinking into the overstuffed cushions. He wonders just how many of your other customers have done such a thing. If you make a habit of parting the beaded curtains for just any person who steps into the store. His boot nervously taps on the floor, and he stops it, his whole body tight and awkward in the small space.
You turn the TV on, the static sound fills the room and the snowy fuzz of the screen backlights your body. You bend over, your skirt hiking up your thighs, and Joel gulps. There’s a peek, just a peek, of black lace in between your legs, and he adjusts the way he’s sitting as imperceptibly as he can.
The DVD is loaded into the player with a whirr, and you turn back towards him with a slight smile. Every step you take closer to the sofa, his heart beats harder and harder, and when you settle next to him, your bare knee touching his, he can feel the heat of your skin through his jeans.
“You good?” you ask, your hand holding the remote suspended in the air.
This is all so absurd, and absolutely something he’d never expect he’d be okay doing. But Joel nods an affirmative and responds with a low “yes.”
You hit play on the 25-year-old porno.
There is no preamble, no credits, no opening scroll. Just music and full bush. It’s why a much younger Joel enjoyed it so much. No plot, no performances, just pussy. Joel is thrust right into it, sitting next to a pretty girl watching a cavalcade of women get dressed and undressed. He really doesn’t know where to look. It’s not like he’s uncomfortable, in fact, it seems like the opposite of that, because you’ve done nothing but greet him with openness and acceptance.
It’s quiet between you two, Joel keeps glancing to your side, your profile lit in an almost ethereal glow by the light of the porno. He can already feel his dick growing hard, he doesn’t know what he’s anticipating more, the next scene or the next time you’ll say something.
Funny, he hasn’t seen this movie in over twenty years, and yet he can remember most of the very few lines of dialogue. The diary is pulled out of the drawer on the screen. Joel thinks he knows this whole scene by heart. He always found it ridiculous how the girl lies on her bed in her bright, red high heels, but before it can bother him anymore, his favorite scene begins. Joel catches the way you lean towards the TV when it starts.
“They were married in real life,” you note, eyes planted on the screen.
“Oh?” Joel manages, though it comes out a little too high-pitched than he’d like it to be.
“Mmhmm. I think that’s why I like it so much,” you say, turning to him. “Sometimes you can just tell.”
He stares into your eyes, unblinking. You stare right back at him, and his vision narrows. You’re sitting so close, all he’d have to do is lean a little closer, and his lips could be on yours… he bets they taste so sweet.
Your lips curve up like you’re about to spill a secret for him, but instead you tip your head back to the television. “I love when I can feel how real it is. That’s not a script moan.”
Joel thinks he could listen to you wax poetic about porn for hours. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s gravelly, almost a cough. “You can tell.”
On the TV, a brunette arches her back, mouth open, hand reaching between her legs to stroke herself as she fantasizes. He can’t help himself, looking over at you, watching the way your lips part in tandem with the actress as she pets her pussy. Joel wonders what you look like when you touch yourself… if you draw a circle or line, if you use one or two fingers to fuck yourself.
Fuck. He has to stop thinking, or else he’ll cum in his jeans right here and now.
He tries to turn his brain off. Tries so hard, but when he glances over at you again, you meet his eyes.
“Is it everything you remember?” you ask.
“It is,” he responds.
You hmph a satisfied sound and scoot closer to him, the plastic leather squeaking under you. He hasn’t shared space like this in so long, ever since Tess left back for Detroit. He almost feels dizzy, and he knows he’s already sweating under his shirt. He’s never felt so immediately wanted.
On the screen, the pretty brunette is lying down in front of a fire, her legs spread wide, a man in between her legs eating her out. Joel thinks of you spread out in front of him, your hips canting into his mouth, his big hand pawing at your chest. It goes quiet in the scene, and he can hear your breathing… he wonders what you sound like when you moan.
You lean even closer, you’re now pressed so close to him, and your hand rests on his thigh. He glances down at it and then back up at your face. You have that same look on your face, a little amused, soft with understanding, and yet direct with desire.
Your hand drags up and down, slow, so slow, hovering so close to where his cock is pressing against his zipper. You watch the movie like nothing is happening, as he wills himself to calm his breathing.
“So,” you say after a while, “I keep meaning to ask… how’s the toy?”
Toy? What toy?” It takes Joel a bit to catch your meaning, and then more time for him to collect his thoughts while your palm still runs along his thigh.
Does he tell you he’s used that thing every night since he first met you? How he thinks of your pussy wrapped around his cock instead of the overpriced latex? How he imagines you’re so much softer and wetter than anything he could ever find?
“S’good,” he says, and then again, “S’good,” because apparently he only knows a few goddamn words now.
You huff a delighted sound out of your nose. “Good.”
Your hand moves higher and deeper up his thigh, your thumb brushing at the side of his hard-on, and he can’t help the way his hips jerk an involuntary movement.
“I keep thinking about how you look using it,” you confess, and Joel blinks at you. “In fact, I can’t look at a box the same since you bought it.”
Your palm wraps around his cock and you squeeze him. Joel’s breathing’s gone hard. He whimpers, actually whimpers. Your grin is sly and warm, like all you needed to hear was his need for you.
“We got a new model in,” you say, your hand sliding up and off. He aches, fuck, he aches so badly. It’s all caught up to him so quickly. “It just came in yesterday. This one is full of new features.” Your eyes sparkle, and Joel feels his brain go into total failure mode, shorting out, synapses firing off like the old Christmas lights hung across the wall.
“Oh,” his head bobbles. “Wow.”
Fuck, he feels like an idiot, a goddamn useless and horny idiot.
“Let me show you,” you say, already standing up and crossing the small room.
You don’t bother pulling your skirt hem down for decency when you bend over and reach into a cardboard box. You’re making a show of it, your hips softly swaying as you rummage through the box labeled NEW, the globes of your ass and the tiny string between them revealing themselves to him as your skirt rises higher and higher. His mouth waters, and he’s shocked he hasn’t already creamed all over his jeans.
Suddenly, he doesn’t care much about the porno on the TV. Even if he knows what’s about to happen on the TV, he can hear the scene progress, the moans getting louder, and the music reaching its crescendo, but he can’t look away from you. He’s just going to have to miss the cum shot.
You tilt your head back and look over your shoulder at him. “You wanna try it?”
He chokes a laugh, maybe a moan. “Now?”
“If you’re okay with it.”
He nods, all wide-eyed and in awe, and you gift him a triumphant sound of joy, sauntering back with the orange and black box in your hands. You kneel on the floor in front of him, and he parts his legs wide to make room for you. You hold the box up and give him a honey-sweet sales pitch, purring out words like “vibrating” and “heated.”
You tear the box open, and he can hardly believe what’s happening when you pull out the silver cylinder. Porno plays on the tv, the collective sounds of moans, groans, and saxophone comingles with the crinkle of the plastic as you unwrap the toy from its plastic shell.
You hold it like it’s a trophy. The toy is sleek and silver, and when you thumb the dial at the base, it begins to thrum in your hand. You stare at him as you drag your finger around the rim slowly, and then you spit, a steady dribble down to the latex hole. He shudders at the sight, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been this hard before. Your finger circles your spit into the opening, pushing just the tip inside. You angle the toy up, showing him the way it flexes around your finger, and he feels his heart skip every other beat.
He grunts, and you laugh all soft and delighted and wicked. Your other palm presses against his cock. “Bet he’s dying to try,” you tease, your hand around it underneath the dark denim of his jeans. “Can I see?”
Joel nods, unable to do anything but. His fingers fumble with the zipper and button of his jeans, and he frees himself, all flushed and leaking and desperate for you to see. He’s not even shy, hell, he’s too fucking horny to be shy when he wraps his hand around his base and squeezes himself, gifting him the pressure he’s been craving.
“Knew you’d be big ‘n pretty,” you admire with a lick of your lips.
You reach to your side, pop open the drawer on the desk, and pull out a bottle of lube. The cap flips open and you squirt a cold glob into Joel’s palm. “Go on,” you say.
He wraps his hand around his cock, stroking a slow line across his length, your eyes watching his every movement. You bring the Fleshlight to your lips, dragging your tongue along the entrance, and Joel nearly loses it right then, squeezing himself tight and thinking about the cost of lumber to keep him from cumming all over himself.
You look up at him and grin, all beautiful and tempting. “May I?”
He hisses. “Jesus, yes.”
You lean forward, and when he gets the first buzz of vibration as you push the toy down along him, he sees a galaxy behind his eyelids as he flutters them shut. You slide him deeper in, and he has to will every tightly wound nerve in his body not to let him explode right then and there.
The toy pumps up and down, the friction is tight, the wet gloss of your spit, precum, and lube enveloping his cock is perfect. Joel can’t look away from you, your eyes focused on his cock moving in and out of the toy, your bottom lip captured between your teeth. Your eyes flick up to him when you twist the toy around the crown of his cock, and he lets out a needy gasp. He’s past trying to hide how much he wants this, how wild you make him.
“Here,” you say, unwrapping your hand. “You try. I want to watch you.” There’s a dare in your voice, and the heat spreads through his body.
He feels so clumsy when he wraps his hand around the toy, but he gets the hang of it, fingers tight as he torques the silver cylinder up and down.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “You look so good, Joel.”
Oh god, the way you say his name. He grunts, sliding it faster and a little rougher, his balls drawing up as he tests the limits of the toy and himself. He barely even remembers there’s a movie playing behind you… all that TV is now is just a source of more light for him to see your beautiful face.
You watch, your face mere inches from his dick, all greedy-eyed and heavy-lidded with lust. He sees the way your chest is heaving, the gold chain around your neck rising and falling with each breath.
Joel can’t believe how in the hell he’s got himself here, legs spread on the fake leather couch, dick gripped by some sort of futuristic sex tube, and the prettiest woman he’s ever seen in his life crouched in front of him. You watch him like he’s some sort of art piece in a museum, like he’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. Your hand comes up and rests on his knee. You give him a reassuring and encouraging squeeze. You’re waiting patiently, he can feel your need for him simmering, and it makes him want to show off. He jerks himself faster, the slurping wet of the toy making an obscene sound when it’s layered with the now-ignored sound of fucking coming from the TV. His hips rock up when he chases the pressure, the toy buzzing around his cock.
You hook your thumbs under the thin straps of your black tank and pull them down, gifting him the sight of your gorgeous tits. There’s no ceremony, no awkwardness, you expose yourself all confident and cool, and all Joel can do is stare dumbfounded by your beauty. He grunts and pushes the toy all the way down his shaft and his whole body tightens, arching off the couch. He explodes, his orgasm ripping through him, his cum surging into the toy. He can only groan and stare, his eyes flowing from your face to your tits, then back as he fills the latex.
You reach up, take his chin in your hand, thumb tracing his jaw. “Good boy,” you growl.
You take the toy from his tight grip, a stream of his cum and lube dribbling out when you lift the cylinder off of him. Before Joel can even process what’s happening, you bring it to your mouth, making a show of sticking your tongue out to lick up the mess, and you moan. Joel can hardly believe it when his overwhelmed cock jerks at the sight.
“Jesus Christ,” he mouths. You look up, tongue out, and he wants to reach for you and kiss you. It’s like you can read his mind. The toy lands on the table with a thunk when you toss it behind you and crawl up onto his lap. You straddle him, your skirt hiking up, and the heat of you radiates against the sticky head of his cock when you begin to grind down.
You kiss him, fucking finally, and it’s messy, open-mouthed, and feverish. You taste of peppermint and him, and Joel groans into your mouth when he sucks the taste from your tongue.
“Touch me,” your breathy voice implores against his mouth. “Touch me.”
His hand slips down between your legs, and he cups the soaked lace of your thong, thumb pressing into the wet gusset of your panties. You give him a moan of approval and a slight nibble against his bottom lip.
Fuuuck, you’re so hot. He grabs at the flimsy scrap of lace, pushing it aside, and the wet heat of your cunt practically sears his fingers. He keeps his hands there, letting you rut against his palm, smearing yourself across his fingers. It’s filthy, the way you’re grinding so shamelessly, and it makes him want to make you sob and shake and scream his name.
He slides two fingers into your eager hole with a single push, and you gasp, clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. The gasp is a real sound, not some porn star scream. Your needy cunt clamps down on him, greedy and pulsing, swallowing his fingers.
He holds your hips tight in his other hand, helping you grind against his knuckles. You break the kiss, head tipping back, panting and moaning. Joel marvels at the way you look, your face wild, lips swollen from his scruff and mouth. You’re so beautiful, he feels like he can’t breathe. He just mind be the luckiest man to have ever stepped foot into a sex shop.
Joel buries his face in your neck and breathes the heady scent of you in, his tongue licking against the sweet taste of your skin. He feels like he’s a teen again, fumbling and desperate, learning new pleasures, getting lost in the sensation of the creamy heat clutching him, in the wet sound of his fingers fucking your cunt. He grins against your throat, a little cocky, a little skeptical of how lucky he feels, because he can tell how close you are for him, the way your muscles tighten around him and your thighs tremble. He wants every other man to pale in comparison to him, he wants you to ache for him the way he’s ached for you.
And so, he brings his free hand up to your neck, cupping the back of it, angling your head to look at him. He stares into your eyes as he crooks his fingers and runs them against the spongy swell of you. You stare back all wide-eyed and awe-filled, moans escaping your lips.
“C’mon, baby, I got you. I got you,” he grits.
Your pussy pulses and squeezes Joel’s fingers so hard he can hardly move them. Your eyes stay on his as you ride him out, clenching and gasping, your body shuddering against his. You flood him, the slick and hot nectar of you dripping down onto his knuckles. You’re beautiful, every single fucking part of you, and Joel can’t stop looking at your face.
You slump forward, your head landing against his chest as you catch your breath, and Joel lets out an incredulous-sounding chuckle. The TV is still flickering porn, and Joel pays no mind to it. He stares up at the drop ceiling panels, feeling like he’s in his own porno scene… with a pretty girl on his lap and his fingers still nestled in your hot cunt.
When he pulls his fingers away, you shudder and sigh, your body heavy with satisfaction against him. Joel feels like a champion, like he’s won some sort of competition, and your satiated body atop his is the prize.
“Your boss know you do this?” he asks.
“She does,” you chuckle, nestling closer against his chest. “I’m the boss.”
“Well, then, you do this with your other customers?”
This time, you pull away and look into his eyes, an almost serious look on your face. “Just the VIP list… and there’s only one member on it.”
Joel can’t help the wide smile that spreads. “Reckon I like being a VIP.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!reader
genre: filthy depraved smut
w.c.: 4k
a/n: this is a result of peer pressure /j but uhm seriously if you dont like, dont read :)
summary: You and Hotch try something new.
c.w.: 18+ MDNI, PISS KINK/DESPERATION, squirting, newly established relationship, dom/sub elements, no prior kink discussion (dont be like them), fingering, m masturbation, THERES PISS BTW
read below or on ao3 here <3
It all started while you were out on a case.
This unsub was pissing you off. Scratch that, it was pissing you all off.
You had been stuck in Texas for almost two weeks with nearly every single lead falling through spectacularly. You could tell everyone was close to their wit’s end, based off of Spencer nearly biting your head off this morning when you greeted him and Penelope not even giving you a silly nickname when you called her earlier.
But now, finally, you had received an anonymous tip and everyone was scrambling to get strapped up and out the door. The sigh of relief in the room was palpable when Hotch found the tip credible, everyone secretly hoping that this would work out and you guys can finally fucking go home.
Stress was starting to eat away at you as well— with the precinct’s AC breaking down yesterday, you were starting to run out of clean clothes, and you really had to pee.
You already had your vest on, shifting in place while Hotch barked out orders to the other officers. You’re seriously regretting the amount of water you’ve had today, but with the AC out and having had sweat through your shirt within the first hour of arriving at the precinct, you didn’t really have a choice.
“I’m going to go use the restroom real quick,” you whisper into Hotch’s ear, leaning in close enough to get a whiff of his cologne.
You don’t even wait for a response, about to turn on your heel and ready to sprint to the restroom because you’re seconds away from having to squeeze your legs together, when Hotch’s voice stops you.
“Can you hold it?”
You blink up at him, incredulous enough that it almost distracts you from the increasing pressure of your bladder and the sweat dripping down the side of your neck. “What?”
“We need to go now. Do you think you can hold it?”
You want to tell him no, you can’t fucking hold it, but there was something in his voice that has you pausing.
You’re not sure if it’s because you haven’t had time alone with Hotch in weeks, having to be content with light brushes of fingers and lingering looks before saying good night. You’re not sure if it’s because Hotch just looks really good in his vest or if it’s that voice. Stern, low and a bit too similar to the same kind of voice he’s recently started using in the bedroom, eyes dark and calculating.
You’re not sure if the heat or the lack of sleep has gotten to you, but it’s the way his voice tugs at you, low in your stomach in a completely different way, that has you huffing out an exhale and obeying.
“Yeah, I can hold it.”
Hotch raises his eyebrows at you, as if shocked, like he didn’t actually think you were going to listen to him. You don’t blame him, you seldom do.
You’re not exactly sure why you feel nervous, heat crawling up your neck and heart thudding a little bit harder.
Despite this thing between you and Hotch still being… new, it was still comfortable. It was even more comfortable in the bedroom, where you learned that Hotch liked to take control and you liked to give it to him, if only with a little bit of defiant teasing to get him riled up.
But this? Relinquishing this sort of control to him had your mind reeling and the air knocking out of your lungs.
It must show on your face, because suddenly his eyes darken and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach, curling at the edge of your spine, and when you have to squeeze your thighs together, you’re not sure whether you’re trying to stave off your bladder or your arousal. Or both.
You watch as Hotch’s mouth opens, like he’s about to say something, maybe to say that he was just kidding and that you can go to the restroom or another implicit order that would have your knees buckling.
But then Derek’s poking his head through the doorway, eyebrows raised like he knows he’s interrupting something but doesn’t care. “We’re ready to head out whenever you are, Hotch.”
Just like that, Hotch’s face transforms from heated to something more professional, rigid, as if he wasn’t seconds away from pressing you up against the wall. His shoulders tighten, mouth closing and twisting as he trying to formulate a response that didn’t give him away.
“We’ll be right there.”
You deflate a little, arousal still barely humming underneath your skin, as you try to come to terms with the fact that you’re about to barge into an active crime scene with a full bladder.
You two don’t get a chance to talk about it—too caught up in taking down the unsub and then planning who would take charge of the interrogation.
The pressure in your bladder has slightly subsided by the time you had climb into the SUV, adrenaline starting to take over the daze that melts into your brain after you interact with Hotch in that way. He seems to have forgotten as well, based on how engrossed in the road he was while driving.
When you find out that you didn’t have to be involved in the interrogation, you breathe a sigh of relief, muttering a thank fucking god, and then sprint to the restroom.
You’re too busy to notice the curious gaze Hotch wears as he watches you waddle down the hallway.
-
It’s been several weeks and you’ve nearly completely forgotten about the whole incident.
Until now.
The team had just gotten back from dinner after successfully wrapping up another case. Relief at finally catching the unsub and being able to go back home for a much-needed weekend settled satisfyingly into your bones. It was still hot out, humid enough where your hair was starting to cling to the damp skin of your neck, so you didn’t notice how Hotch kept waving his hand for the waiter to refill your glass of water, that bastard.
Not only that, but he was getting handsy—tracing circles on your thigh with his thumb underneath the table and his palm heavy at the small of your back. It was nice, especially since he usually wasn’t a fan of being so touchy around the rest of the team, but it also provided an inkling of what kind of mood he was in.
You weren’t surprised when he pushed you up against the door as soon as it clicked shut, the drowsy farewells of your teammates fading into the background as Hotch kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.
His mouth was soft, persistent, as they moved against yours. He takes advantage of the surprised gasp you let out, deepening the kiss further and overwhelming you with the taste of spice from the drink he had at dinner.
He brings an infuriatingly large hand up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your chin up further, while his free hand trailed down your shoulder, down your side, leaving behind trails of heat, until he was grabbing a handful of your ass and pulling you further against him.
You felt the line of his hardening cock against your hip, even through the fabric of your dress pants. It had been torture for you to not fuck your incredibly hot boyfriend/boss during a high-strung case, but it seemed like it was affecting him much more than you thought it was.
When he pulls away, your head still cradled in his palm, the wild glint in his eyes has you smirking. Pupils blown wide, a tinge of pink on his cheeks from both arousal and alcohol, and his hair slowly coming loosened from his hair gel and flopping against his forehead in a way that was starting to become strangely endearing to you.
“Get on the bed,” he orders, voice low, and you quickly obey.
The both of you scramble to tear off your clothes, strangely reminiscent of your teenage years, and then you’re crawling back onto the bed with that youthful kind of giddiness warming up your chest.
You sit back on your elbows and watch with bated breath as Aaron tugs off his boxers, his cock already half-hard and slapping against his stomach, before his dark eyes are set on you. He doesn’t say anything as he kneels onto the edge of the bed as his large hands wrap themselves around your ankles to tug you down.
You let out a squeal as he brings your ass to hang over the edge of the mattress before Aaron leans over you to capture your breathless giggles with a kiss. One of his elbows was digging into the sheets next to your head, the other running up your stomach and to your breasts, and your legs hitched up high around his waist. His mouth was hungry, starving, as he delved into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough of you.
It would be surprising, especially as Aaron didn’t usually prefer to have sex on cases, but you could tell there was something on his mind as his mouth peppers open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. It’s nearly desperate, the hurried way he was tasting the sweat off your skin and the way he was squeezing your breasts, his thumbs skimming against your nipple and bringing them to stiff peaks.
You let out a breathless sigh, your arms coming to wrap around his broad shoulders and tangling your fingers with the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Heat curls at the pit of your stomach, swirling with the beginning pressure of your bladder threatening to cry out at you. You attempt to push it away to the back of your mind to focus on the warm wet mouth gradually drifting down your chest.
“Been thinking about you all day,” Aaron murmurs, pressing another kiss to the top of your breast before wrapping his lips around your nipple.
“Someone’s impatient,” you attempt to say cockily, however it comes out strangled, your back arching before you could help it to chase the sharp pleasure as he nips at you, soothing the sensitive bud with a swirl of his tongue.
He pulls away and the cold air of the hotel room brushing against your wet nipple has your hips grinding up against him. The hot weight of his cock presses against your inner thigh, desperately close to where you needed him the most.
“You have no idea,” he says, and then he’s moving to suck your other nipple and give it the same attention as the other.
Even if your relationship was still new, Aaron somehow was able to learn your body better and faster than anyone else you had been with—what made your hips squirm, what made you whine into the open air, or what made you feel so good you made no noise, just letting your jaw drop open in ecstasy. He always took his time with you, and his tendency to focus on your pleasure over yours was a breath of fresh air.
You felt the result of his attentiveness now, wetness nearly dripping from your aching pussy and undoubtedly clinging to Aaron’s lower stomach. The tip of his cock would brush against your core every time you canted your hips up, notching against your entrance, and you hoped that he would hurry up and just fuck you already.
He groans every time his cock brushes against your folds, tempted to just slam himself into you. He pulls away, sitting back on his knees as his fingers trace the soft curves of your stomach, your waist, before dragging his fingertips along the apex of your thighs.
“Sweetheart, you’re already so wet,” he coos, briefly dipping his thick fingers between your sopping folds.
You shiver as Aaron makes a show of displaying just how wet you were as he brings his slick fingers up from between your thighs. He separates them, and the both of you watch transfixed as your pearly strings of your arousal clings between them.
“See? She’s practically begging for my cock.”
“Fuck,” you mumble, face growing hot at the filth of his words. He really must be hornier than you thought.
“I have to get her ready first, don’t I?” Aaron says before he’s pushing a thick finger inside of you.
You gasp at the sudden intrusion, because he’s right, he always needs to get you ready first because his cock was always so thick, always felt like he was splitting you open like the very first time.
He’s gentle, slow, despite the fact that you were so wet and ready for him his finger slid right inside.
“Fuck, Aaron…,” you moan, reaching out for him aimlessly until your hand wraps around his wrist, his hand splayed out on your hip.
And then he’s thrusting his finger in and out of you, just as slow, and the lewd squelching of your wetness fills the hotel room as your mouth drops open, your grip on his wrist tightening.
He wordlessly inserts another finger inside, undeniably stretching you even further. It’s intoxicatingly delicious, the difference, because the pathetic whimpers coming from your mouth grows higher in pitch, your blood nearly singing at the pleasure flooding your veins.
“There she is,” Aaron whispers reverently, voice raspy as his eyes drink in the way your pussy swallows his wide fingers and the sheer bliss on your face as you squeeze your eyes shut.
He starts a steady rhythm then, avoiding your clit and plunging in and out of you in a way that he knew wouldn’t get you to come.
And he’s right, he’s always infuriatingly right, however there’s that pressure in your lower stomach, vastly different from white-hot arousal, that’s slowly starting to make itself known.
You try to ignore it, focusing on the weight of his hand against your hip and the way the filthy noises of your wet pussy filtered through your ears, but it was like the faster Aaron fucked you with his fingers, the more that pressure grew.
He must notice your distracted mind, the uncomfortable scrunch on your face, as he slows his fingers. He doesn’t take them out. “Are you okay?”
You blink your eyes open and is met with genuine concern on his face despite the way his eyes continuously drift down to his fingers and then back up to your face.
“Yeah, I just…” you whisper, throat dry. You clear your throat and shift your hips, unsure if you wanted to meet his fingers or scoot away. You pause, unsure how truthful you wanted to be.
It was a normal bodily function, you think, as normal as breathing. You knew Aaron wouldn’t shy away from something as harmless like a bodily fluid like that. “I just really have to go pee.”
A pause. Something unreadable flashes over his face, but it has a strange thrill running up your spine.
And then, he starts moving his fingers in and out of you, slower, curled enough just slightly that had you gasping and your thighs squeezing together around his wrists.
“We haven’t really talked about it,” Aaron says, voice rough. His brown eyes, usually so pretty and gentle around you, were dark and dangerous. “But do you think you can hold it?”
An incredulous laugh escapes you. It’s breathy, and your eyes are threatening to roll back into your head as he begins to increase his rhythm. The way his thick fingers have curled in on you has him nearly brushing that sweet spot inside of you, but also strangely pressing up on your aching bladder.
You’ve squirted before, when you had forgotten to go to the restroom before having sex, but this was a whole different level. It was nearly uncomfortable, having to clench in an effort to refrain from letting go, and your bladder was fuller than ever.
“I don’t know…” you whisper. “I think I really have to go.”
He slowly pulls his fingers out of you and leans over to press his lips to your temple. You whimper at the loss, the pressure at the pit of your stomach increasing without the distraction of his fingers.
“You can do it, sweetheart.” And it’s the low tone of his voice and the way his calloused fingers rub over your puffy folds, wetter than you’ve ever been, that has you legitimately thinking maybe you can hold it. “Do you trust me?”
You slowly realize it actually feels good—not only the added pressure mixing with your arousal, but the sudden desperation you feel, panic clawing its way up your throat, and the small comfort Aaron’s thumb rubbing over your hipbone provides. Somehow, the strain of your bladder just enhanced the pleasure. It was sharper, more intense, and made you feel a bit drunk despite only drinking water all night.
And you do trust him, willing to do anything for him, but not only that, you wanted to be good for him too.
You swallow, meet his eyes, and nod.
He releases a harsh breath against the side of your face, as if in relief, as if he was actually worried that you wouldn’t want to keep going with him and continue exploring your sex life that was slowly becoming a little bit out of your comfort zone. When he leans up a little to capture your lips in a kiss, it’s hungry and frenzied.
When he pulls away to sit back on his knees again, wearing a small, wicked smile on his face that sends your heart doing backflips in your chest, he stops holding back.
He drags the pads of his fingers through your folds, gathering the wetness and smearing it around your pussy, making a noise at the back of his throat. He briefly nudges against your swollen clit, a teasing touch, and it makes your hips jump and mouth drop open in a sharp gasp. He pushes his fingers into your entrance, two at the same time this time, and even though he was just fucking you with them earlier, you let out a low moan at the delicious stretch and being filled up again.
The slow drag of his fingers inside of your pussy has you feeling dazed, your breath escaping your lungs with each thrust. A light sheen of sweat covered your body despite the increased chill of the hotel room. Your nipples were tight and aching, your hips trembling underneath the firm hold Aaron had on you as he curved his fingers inside of you and reaching all of your sensitive spots. All of it felt good, better than good, like you were drowning in white-hot pleasure that was quickly being coaxed out with each thrust.
Despite it all, you couldn’t focus on your orgasm when your desperation to pee grew higher and higher.
“Aaron…,” you whispered, voice strained. Your breaths were growing heavier, the ache in your bladder growing stronger with each second, with each thrust of Aaron’s thick fingers hooked inside of you. The panic climbing up your throat was starting to make itself known again, anxiety at the possibility of not being able to clench and hold off for much longer.
“Just a little bit more, honey. And then you can let go for me.”
When you blink up at him, you’re shocked to realize that there were desperate tears forming at the corner of your eyes and clinging to your lashes. Your thighs were trembling, squeezing together and trapping Aaron’s wrist.
He makes a disappointed noise, and then separates your thighs with his free hand and spreading you open. He keeps your thighs apart with his forearm, his elbow digging into your thigh and his hand grabbing your other knee. He starts fucking into you faster, the filthy squelching of your soaked pussy filling the room.
You moan unabashedly, eyes fixated on the veins protruding in his forearms and the flex of his biceps as he plunges into you. You’re able to see Aaron’s heavy cock bobbing between his thighs, the tip, flushed a pretty pink, wet and leaking with precum so steadily it made your mouth water.
You feel yourself clenching around him, and usually you would be frantically wishing and begging for him to fuck you with his cock, but now you couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe from the continuous pressure against your fucking bladder.
His hand is a blur between your thighs as he keeps fucking you with his fingers, unwavering in his pace, and your breath stutters, chest growing tight. You squeezed your eyes shut, throwing your head back against the mattress as he didn’t let up. You could feel the beginning tendrils of your orgasm sneaking up your spine, but you didn’t know what would happen if you relaxed and let go.
Before you could even make a decision, you heard rather than felt a gush of liquid coming out of you and the sounds of your pussy getting even wetter. You craned your neck to look down, eyes half-lidded and glassy, and you gasp when you notice actual liquid coming out of you with every thrust of Aaron’s thick fingers and every slap of his palm against your clit.
“There she is,” Aaron growls, gaze fixated on your pussy swallowing up his fingers and the droplets splashing out onto the sheets. “Come on, sweetheart. You can let go.”
You want to argue, tell him that what the fuck do you mean by letting go, but it was as if the more liquid shot out of your pussy, the faster and more intense your orgasm was crawling up your spine. And he doesn’t let up. In fact, it seems like he increases his speed, fucks his fingers into you harder, his palm continuing to slap against your clit, with eyebrows furrowed and lips parted.
A sharp gasp wretches out of you, your arm shooting out to grip his forearm he’s still using to separate your thighs, your muscles tensing and your pussy clenching around his fingers as your orgasm slams into you. You’re distantly aware of more liquid gushing out of you, your release painting your thighs, Aaron’s hands, and the hotel bed sheets.
Aaron lets out a long groan, his fingers slowing but still pushing, pressing and curving against your bladder as if to coax everything out of you. He releases his hold on your knee, letting your legs fall apart while he wraps a large hand around his own cock to bring himself off.
It only takes a couple of strokes before he’s cursing under his breath, voice strained, and then you feel the hot ropes of his come painting your inner thighs and on your stomach and pussy, mixing with your release.
The feeling of warmth against your lower stomach has you clenching again, dazed from your orgasm. The ache of your bladder was slightly alleviated, but it still felt horribly urgent.
Just as you were about to sit up to wobble to the restroom, Aaron stops you with a large hand in the middle of your chest. When you peer up at him, blinking through the tears at the corner of your eyes, he’s trying to catch his breath and his hand was still wrapped around his cock to squeeze the last remnants of his orgasm.
“I said you can let go, didn’t I?”
He slowly takes his fingers out of you before he’s pushing that hand on your lower stomach, pressing on your bladder. You jump, weakly grabbing at his wrist, but you’re still exhausted from your orgasm so your words die in your throat as you felt the beginning trickle coming out of you.
Luckily there’s not a lot, still able to hold some semblance of control, but there’s the unmistakable sound of you pissing on your hotel sheets because your boss wanted you to.
Hot embarrassment floods your face, your ears burning and shame making tears spring up again, but Aaron’s there. He’s watching you, arousal and affection swimming in his dark eyes, as he rubs his thumb back and forth against your hipbone. He’s shushing you, praising you and saying what a good job you did for him, and it provides some comfort that gently washes over you.
You can’t deny the relief you feel either, melting with the aftershocks of your orgasm, and when the flow stops, you softly exhale and drop your head back onto the sheets to stare at the ceiling.
You can’t move, don’t even want to move, but Aaron is there again, taking care of you. He tugs at your hips until you’re laying on a dry spot and wipes a warm wet towel over your thighs, your aching pussy, and even your stomach where some droplets of your release landed.
He’s pressed flushed up against you in the next five minutes, your shoulder pressing into his chest and his hand coming up to brush away the hair that had fallen into your face. He noses along your cheekbone. “Are you okay?”
When you twist your neck to get a good look at him, anxiety prickles at you. You almost expect him to look grossed out, disgusted at you, or even want to break up with you despite this whole thing being his idea.
What you find instead is fondness, as well as concern that he went too far and had made you uncomfortable. His eyebrows are pinched together and he gently cradles your face, his hand smelling like vanilla and lavender. God, you love him.
You lick your lips, still catching your breath, and then you say “It’s your turn next time.”
taglist <3 I AM SO SORRY IF THIS IS NOT SOMETHING UR INTO @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first.
content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something!
word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible)
a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽
dividers by @uzmacchiato
masterlist
The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.
Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.
“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.
He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.
Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.
You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.
Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.
Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.
“Beth!”
Oh.
“Oh”
“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”
Oh (but harder).
“That’s… good?”
“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.
“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.
“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.
You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.
“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.
“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.
They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?
Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.
So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?
Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.
As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.
When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.
And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.
You felt like an outsider.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.
When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.
Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.
It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.
You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.
When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.
Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.
One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.
Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.
When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.
You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.
You wanted her gone.
The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?
It was maddening. It had to stop.
It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.
When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.
Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.
You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.
Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.
But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.
So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.
It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.
You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.
“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.
Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.
“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.
“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.
Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.
“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”
You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.
Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”
Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.
“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.
“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.
“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.
Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.
When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.
“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.
“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.
Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.
“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.
Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”
He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.
“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”
“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”
“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.
“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”
And that’s when it hit you: he knew.
“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.
“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.
“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.
“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.
“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”
You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”
“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.
“Stop.”
“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”
“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”
“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”
“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.
“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”
“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”
“And you don’t?”
You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”
“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”
“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”
“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”
You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.
“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.
“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.
Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.
When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.
Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”
Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.
You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.
“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”
Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.
“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.
He blinks. And then chuckles.
When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.
“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.
“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.
“Your name?”
“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.
You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”
“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.
“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.
“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.
You try again “It’s not that hard.”
“I won’t.”
That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.
His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”
“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.
“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”
Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.
“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”
He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.
“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”
“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”
“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”
He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”
“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”
“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.
“I didn’t, you did.”
“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.
“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”
“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.
“There's no he. It’s Beth.”
Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”
“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”
“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”
Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”
“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.
“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.
“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”
“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”
The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.
When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.
You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.
A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”
“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”
“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”
Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”
Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.
How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.
“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”
You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.
“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”
“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.
“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.
“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”
“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.
“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”
After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.
He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.
Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”
“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.
“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”
You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.
“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.
When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.
“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”
“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.
“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.
“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.
“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”
“Jack will see it.”
“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.
“That’s rude. And humiliating.”
“That’s what you get for stealing.”
Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”
“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.
“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.
“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”
You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”
Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.
taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna
