c0cksuck3rs4lif3 - Tumblr blog

c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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so uh

camping with dean/beau/jensen (i can't choose), and it's like really raining out and cold. the tent and sleeping bags are practically doing nothing to keep you warm, so the two have to snuggle up together for warmth… which eventually leads to smut may or may not be based on an experience i had (partially)

hi baby!! i meant to post this sooner but i got distracted with work <3

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

synopsis 𓏵 stuck in a freezing damp tent during a raging thunderstorm, you and dean find creative ways to stay warm together.

the rain hasn’t stopped for three hours now, and you’re pretty sure your teeth are going to chatter right out of your skull. this whole camping trip was dean’s idea — something about “getting back to basics” after the last hunt went sideways. you’d agreed because, well, when dean winchester flashes that crooked grin and says “come on, it’ll be fun,” you apparently lose all common sense.

except now you’re in the middle of nowhere, oregon, in what feels like a hurricane, and the tent is about as waterproof as a screen door. water’s seeping in from the corners, your sleeping bag feels like you crawled inside a wet paper towel, and you can’t feel your toes. dean’s on the other side of the tent, and you can hear him muttering curses under his breath as he tries to stop another leak with duct tape. because of course he brought duct tape camping.

“this was a terrible idea,” you announce through chattering teeth, pulling your damp sleeping bag up to your chin. it doesn’t help. if anything, the wet fabric just makes you colder. “we could’ve been in a motel right now. with heat. and walls that actually keep water out.”

“yeah, well,” dean grunts, giving up on the duct tape and tossing it aside. “the forecast said partly cloudy. how was i supposed to know partly cloudy meant biblical flood?” he’s soaked too, his flannel clinging to his shoulders in a way that would be distracting if you weren’t actively dying of hypothermia.

“maybe check more than one weather app next time?” you suggest, but there’s no real heat in it. you’re too cold to be properly angry. “dean, seriously, i can’t feel my feet. or my hands. or... anything really.”

he turns to look at you then, and even in the dim light of the camping lantern, you can see the concern flash across his face. dean winchester might play tough, but he’s got a protective streak a mile wide. “shit, sweetheart, you’re shaking like a leaf.” he moves closer, reaching out to touch your face. his fingers are cold too, but still warmer than your cheek. “fuck, you’re like ice.”

“we gotta warm you up,” he says, already moving into problem-solving mode. “body heat’s the fastest way when you’re this cold.” he starts unzipping his sleeping bag with determined movements. “come on, we’re combining these things.”

“what?” you blink at him, brain moving sluggishly from the cold. “dean, that’s...” but he’s already spreading his sleeping bag on the tent floor and motioning for you to bring yours over. the practical part of your brain knows he’s right — shared body heat is survival 101. the other part of your brain, the one that’s been harboring a crush on dean since the day you met him, is screaming.

“unless you wanna lose some toes to frostbite, get over here,” he orders, and that snaps you into motion. you crawl over with your sleeping bag, helping him zip them together into one large cocoon. the whole time, you’re hyperaware of how close he is, how his t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to his chest.

“lose the wet clothes,” he says matter-of-factly, already pulling his flannel off. “they’re just making it worse.” when you hesitate, he rolls his eyes. “come on, we’re both adults here. nothing i haven’t seen before.” which is a lie — he’s definitely never seen you in your underwear — but you’re too cold to argue.

you strip down to your underwear with numb fingers, trying not to think about the fact that dean is doing the same thing two feet away. when you finally slide into the combined sleeping bag, wearing nothing but your bra and panties, dean’s already there in just his boxers. the touch of his skin against yours is like fire and ice at the same time.

“jesus,” he hisses, when you press against him. “you’re like a frozen ice cube.” but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “c’mere, gonna warm you up.” his body heat feels incredible, and you can’t help but burrow closer, dignity be damned.

“better?” he asks after a few minutes, and honestly? yeah. the shivers are starting to subside, replaced by a different kind of tension. because now that you’re not actively dying of cold, you’re extremely aware that you’re pressed against dean’s very naked, very warm chest. his hands are rubbing slow circles on your back, and it’s supposed to be warming, but it’s also doing other things.

“yeah,” you manage, voice coming out breathier than intended. “so much better.” your face is tucked into his neck, and he smells like rain and leather and that uniquely dean scent that’s been driving you crazy for months. his hands are large and warm on your back, and every sweep of his fingers sends little sparks through you.

“good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and his voice is different now. deeper. “can’t have you freezing on my watch.” one of his hands slides lower, resting just above the waistband of your panties, and your breath hitches. “you know,” he continues, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “there are other ways to generate body heat.”

you pull back enough to look at him, and his eyes are dark in the lantern light. “dean,” you breathe, but you’re not sure if it’s a warning or encouragement. probably both. “we shouldn’t...” but even as you say it, your body is pressing closer to his, seeking more contact.

“and why not?” he challenges, hand sliding up to cup your face. “been wanting to do this for months, sweetheart. and if we’re gonna be stuck in this tent all night...” he trails off, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “might as well make the most of it.”

“months?” you repeat in slight disbelief, brain short-circuiting a little. “you’ve wanted...” but he cuts you off with a kiss, and holy shit, dean winchester is kissing you! his lips are soft but demanding, and when he nips at your bottom lip, you open for him immediately. the kiss is hot and desperate, months of tension pouring out all at once.

“fuck,” he groans when you break apart for air. “knew you’d taste sweet.” his hands are everywhere now, sliding over your sides, your hips, the curve of your ass. “been driving me crazy, you know that? walking around in those tight lil’ jeans of yours, bending over in front of me...” he punctuates each word with a kiss to your neck, and you’re practically melting.

“oh, dean,” you gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders. “please...” you’re not even sure what you’re asking for, just that you need more. he seems to understand, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. the sleeping bag is tight quarters, but he manages it, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.

“gonna warm ya up,” he promises, voice rough with want. “gonna make you feel so good you’ll be begging me to cool you down.” his mouth trails down your neck, across your collarbone, and when he reaches the edge of your bra, he looks up at you. “this okay?”

“god, yes,” you breathe, and he grins, that cocky grin that makes your stomach flip. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, tossing it somewhere in the tent. his mouth is on your breasts immediately, and the contrast of his hot mouth against your still-cool skin makes you arch beneath him.

“perfect, sweetheart,” he mutters against your skin. “so fucking perfect.” he lavishes attention on each breast, using his tongue and teeth until you’re squirming beneath him. when he finally starts kissing his way down your stomach, you know where he’s heading, and your whole body tenses in anticipation.

“dean, you don’t have to...” but he’s already hooking his fingers in your panties, pulling them down your legs. “oh god,” you gasp when his mouth finds you, hot and perfect and exactly what you need. he eats you out like he does everything else — with single-minded determination and skill that should be illegal.

within minutes, you’re writhing beneath him, one hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sounds you’re making. the rain might be loud, but you’re pretty sure the whole forest doesn’t need to hear what dean winchester’s tongue is doing to you.

when you come, it’s with his name on your lips, like a prayer and your fingers tangled in his hair. he works you through it, only pulling away when you’re shaking for a completely different reason than cold. “told you i’d warm you up,” he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he crawls back up your body. you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you, and it’s filthy and perfect and you need him inside you right now.

“wait,” you breathe against his mouth, reaching between you to palm him through his boxers. he’s hard and hot and when you squeeze, he groans into your mouth. “i need you. de, please.”

“yeah, baby?” he asks, but he’s already shoving his boxers down. “you sure about this? because once i have you...” he trails off, but the intensity in his eyes finishes the sentence.

“i’m sure,”,you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. “been sure for months.” that seems to break his control. he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is perfect, exactly what you needed. when he’s fully seated, you both need a moment, panting heavily into each other’s mouths.

“holy fuck,” he breathes. “you feel incredible, baby girl. so fuckin’ tight.” he starts moving, slow at first but quickly building to a rhythm that has you seeing stars. the sleeping bag restricts movement somewhat, but it also keeps you pressed close together, every inch of skin touching. “not gonna last,” he warns, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

“don’t,” you gasp, meeting him thrust for thrust as much as the confined space allows. “wanna feel you. want you to come inside me.” the words make him groan, hips stuttering. a few more thrusts and he feels like he’s on cloud nine, face buried in your neck as he empties himself inside you.

you lie there catching your breath, still tangled together in the sleeping bag. the rain is still pounding on the tent, but you’re warm now, flushed and satisfied. “so,” dean says eventually, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “still think camping was a terrible idea?”

“the worst idea,” you agree, but you’re cheesing hard. “we should probably do it again sometime. you know, just to make sure we’ve got the whole body heat thing down.”

he laughs, pulling you closer. “deal. but next time, i’m checking five weather apps.” you’re about to respond when he shifts inside you, still half-hard, and your words dissolve into a gasp. “actually,” he grunts, voice dropping back to that dangerous register, “storm’s not supposed to pass until morning. might need to keep generating heat all night. you know, for safety.”

“yeah, yeah. for safety,” you agree breathlessly, already rolling your hips against his. after all, you wouldn’t want to get cold again. and if dean winchester wants to spend all night keeping you warm? well, who are you to argue with survival tactics?

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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PLEASE WTH I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO LIKE ANIME ANYMORE 😭😭

kuroo being a nerd while making you squirt for the first time

kuroo lays with his cheek on your thigh, his fingers twirling the hem of your shorts. he kisses your thigh, “baby…” he says softly.

you look down, “hm?” you put down your book. he pouts up at you, “i learned how to make you squirt while fingering you.”

you laugh, “what?” he nods. “i seen it! look!” he grabs his phone and opens twitter. he shoves his phone in your face, showing you a video.

you look at him, “seriously, kuroo?” he lays his head higher, on your stomach. “yes! i wanna try!” he whines. you put your book on the nightstand.

“fine.” he says a little yay! before removing your shorts. he’s fingered you before… just never made you squirt from fingering.

he kisses your panties, “remember when i ate you out… through your panties?” he asks. you cover your face, “don’t remind me.” he smiles, “you were super overstimulated… it’s because of the pressure and tension of—“

“baby..” you stop him. he nods, “sorry.” his fingers carefully remove your panties. he kisses your clit instantly.

you gasp, “kuroo…” you say softly. you look down at him, your head on your shoulder. he stares up at you as his tongue flicks on your bud.

“ready?” he asks. you nod, “mhm.”

he sucks on your clit as his slender fingers enter you. you moan softly, biting your bottom lip. he hums, “good… good girl. i got you.”

your head falls onto the soft pillow, “i’m gonna start now, kay?” he says. you nod again, “o-okay…” his fingers pump in and out of you.

your wetness makes a squelching noise, “oh fuck…” you whimper. he continues to finger you as his lips wrap around your clit.

“i feel you… i feel you squeezing my fingers. you close?” he asks. you moan, “yes… yes…” he sits up more, his large warm hand pressing against your stomach.

“does this hurt?” he looks at you. you open your eyes again, “no, baby…” you reassure him. “tell me when i find it.”

his hand presses harder… and harder until you gasp and tremble, “oh fuck— kuroo.. baby— right there!” you moan loudly. he smiles, “right there?” you nod frantically.

he spits on your cunt as he leans back down, his hand still pressured against your stomach. his tongue attaches back to your clit.

you tremble and moan repeatedly, “f-fuck! it feels like i’m about to pee—“ you throw your head back. he devours you, “i know… it says that squirting feels like you’re supposed to be. even though i would be fine with you peeing in my mouth—“

“shut up… shut up, kuroo,” you whine as your fingers grip his hair. “baby—“ you breath heavily as your juices cover his face. he continues to pleasure you as your high goes down. he gets up, slapping your cunt.

“good fucking girl, baby! you did so good!” he smiles. you look at him. his spiky black hair now messy and covering one of his eyes. he looks down at your sheets, “made a mess but it was worth it, right?” he kisses your cheek.

you lay down, shy and tired.

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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the things I’d do for this man are diabolical

Hey, Pretty Girl

Pairing: Dean x you

Summary: A quiet night in the bunker with Dean.

Warnings: None. Pure fluff & sweetness.

The bunker is quiet, the kind of stillness that only settles when the world outside finally stops spinning for a night. Low lamplight glows from the library, golden and warm, and you follow it like a beacon. You know exactly where he is.

Dean’s sitting at the table, one of those old lore books open in front of him, fingers absently tracing a line of text he’s already read twice. You can see the slight crease in his brow, that faraway look in his eyes that says his mind is anywhere but the page.

You pad toward him on bare feet, slow and quiet, until you’re close enough to lean in.

Your arms slip around his broad shoulders from behind, and you feel him exhale—just a soft breath, like you released something held too long in his chest. You press a kiss to the stubble of his cheek, lingering there for a second longer than you have to.

Dean’s hand lifts to rest on your arm, warm and solid. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to brush his cheek into your kiss before he turns to look up at you.

His eyes find yours, soft and shining with that quiet kind of affection that says you’re home.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, low and gentle. Like a secret just for you. Like he’s been waiting all day to say it.

You smile, nose brushing his temple as you murmur, “Missed you.”

“Yeah?” His hand tightens on your arm, thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “Was just sittin’ here hopin’ you’d find me.”

“I always do,” you whisper, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek against his.

And for a moment, there’s nothing else in the world but that—your arms around him, the soft creak of old wood, and the way his voice wraps around you like a warm blanket.

His hand slides from your arm down to your fingers, lacing them gently before he tugs.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

You don’t hesitate. You move around the chair and let him guide you, settling sideways across his lap, your legs draped over his and your arms instinctively circling his shoulders again. His hand finds your thigh, grounding and slow, and the other settles at the small of your back like he never wants to let go.

Dean leans back just a little, eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing every inch. “You okay?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your hip through the soft fabric of your tee.

“Yeah,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. “Better now.”

He smiles, that soft little grin that barely pulls at his mouth but lights up his whole face. “Been sittin’ in here tryin’ to focus, but… kept thinkin’ about you.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I always know where to find you, you know.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, eyes still locked on yours. “Guess part of me’s always waitin’ for your footsteps. It’s like I breathe easier when you walk in.”

Your heart clenches, and you lean in to kiss him—just a soft press to his mouth, slow and unrushed. He kisses you back with the same tenderness, fingers tightening on your waist like he needs to feel every inch of you.

When you pull back, he exhales against your lips and murmurs, “God, you’re somethin’ else.”

You curl against his chest, letting the weight of the world melt away as he holds you. His chin rests on your head, and his hand strokes slow, lazy circles over your back.

No monsters tonight. No hunts, no danger, no noise.

Just the soft hush of the bunker’s library and Dean Winchester whispering sweet nothings into your hair like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

You don’t realize you’ve started to drift until the pages of the open book blur behind your eyelids. Dean’s warmth, the rhythm of his hand on your back, the low hum of his voice when he mumbles something soft—all of it wraps around you like a lullaby.

You shift slightly in his lap, and he feels it immediately. His arm tightens around you, and he glances down, brushing his lips to your hair.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice a quiet murmur against your temple. “You fallin’ asleep on me, pretty girl?”

You hum, half-smiling as you tuck your face into the curve of his neck. “Mm… maybe a little.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, that sound deep in his chest, and it rumbles right through you. “Knew I was too damn comfy,” he teases softly. “You curled up on me like this, no wonder.”

He strokes your back one more time, then shifts—careful and gentle, like he doesn’t want to wake you fully. One arm hooks under your legs, the other steady around your shoulders.

You blink sleepily as he stands, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flannel, and you whisper, “You don’t have to carry me…”

Dean presses a kiss to your forehead, already walking you out of the library. “Yeah, I do,” he murmurs. “You think I’m gonna let my girl stumble to bed half-asleep when I’ve got arms made for this?”

You smile against his collarbone, heart fluttering. “Your girl, huh?”

He glances down at you, eyes soft and green and glowing even in the dim light of the hallway. “Damn right. Been mine since the first day you walked into my life.”

You don’t say anything—don’t have to. You just hold him tighter, letting yourself melt into him as he carries you down the hallway. Every step is steady, protective. Every breath from him is calm and sure.

He nudges open the bedroom door with his foot and brings you to the bed, sitting down with you still in his arms before gently laying you back against the pillows. You reach for him as he moves to pull away, and he catches your hand immediately.

“I’m not goin’ far, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Just grabbin’ the blanket.”

You watch him in the low light, the strong line of his shoulders, the way his expression softens as he pulls the blanket up and tucks it around you. He climbs in beside you a second later, sliding in close and wrapping his arm around your waist like he’s afraid the night might take you from him.

You settle into his chest, his heart steady against your cheek.

Dean breathes in slow, kisses the top of your head, and murmurs against your hair, “Sleep, pretty girl. I got you.”

And you do. Wrapped in his arms, held safe in the bunker and safer still in his love… you let go of the day and fall asleep with Dean beside you, exactly where you’re meant to be.

You wake slowly, drifting up from sleep like surfacing through warmth. The room is dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp Dean must’ve left on. It’s quiet—no clanking pipes, no humming ventilation. Just the quiet, steady sound of breathing.

Dean’s breathing.

You’re wrapped in him—his arm heavy around your waist, legs tangled with yours, chest pressed to your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep. His hand is splayed just under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin, his thumb resting over your ribs like a promise.

You shift slightly, and he stirs.

A low, sleepy hum vibrates through his chest. He tightens his hold around you automatically, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His scruff grazes your skin, and you feel him breathe you in like he needs it just to stay grounded.

“Mm… what time is it?” you murmur, voice still scratchy from sleep.

Dean grunts softly, his lips brushing your skin. “Hell if I know,” he mumbles. “Too early for anything but this.”

You smile as you roll in his arms to face him. He adjusts without hesitation, pulling you even closer until your foreheads nearly touch. His eyes are barely open—green and heavy-lidded, his lashes still tangled from sleep.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispers, voice gravelly and low. “Mornin’.”

You tuck your hand under his jaw and kiss his cheek, just like last night, only slower now. Like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“Hey,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb over the edge of his stubble. “You sleep okay?”

“With you next to me?” He smirks, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Like a damn baby.”

You laugh softly, your nose bumping his. “You’re a sap in the mornings.”

Dean doesn’t even deny it. He leans in, lips brushing yours, lazy and unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just gives. Warmth. Affection. The quiet kind of love that doesn’t need words to be known.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close. “We don’t gotta get up yet,” he says, voice soft like a secret. “Just wanna hold you a little longer.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay.”

So he does. His hand runs slow down your back, your legs stay tangled, and the world outside stays forgotten for a while longer.

Wrapped up in Dean, the bunker quiet and still, it’s just you and him in the glow of the morning—no sun, no noise, just love.

You shift a little closer, your hand cupping Dean’s cheek as your thumb traces the faint line of stubble along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed under your touch, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That look he gets when he’s letting himself feel safe. Letting himself be loved.

You lean in and press a kiss to his temple.

Then another, a little lower. His brow. His cheekbone. The tip of his nose. His other cheek. Each one light, slow, and full of everything in your chest.

“I love you,” you whisper, between kisses. “I love you so much, Dean.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tense or flinch, doesn’t shy away—but he doesn’t speak, either. You didn’t expect him to.

Dean’s always been more action than words. But you feel it in the way he exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. In the way his hand slips up your back, fingers weaving into your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll lose the only good thing that’s ever felt real.

Your lips find his again, one more soft kiss to his mouth. Not asking, not taking. Just giving. Just being there.

His fingers press lightly against the back of your neck, holding you in place for a second longer as he kisses you back—deeper this time, still slow, but more certain. Like he needs you to feel it.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours again. Still silent.

But then he nudges his nose against yours, eyes locked on you, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

He doesn’t say I love you.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because he’s looking at you like he’d burn down the world to keep you safe. Because his arms are wrapped around you like they’re built for it. Because the only thing he’s holding tighter than your body… is your heart.

And you know.

You’ve always known.

A/N: And with that, I bid you good night. Thanks for reading! 🥰

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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please I don’t even know what to say. this is so good.

🍓 Screwdriver 🍓

Summary: Kidnapped and missing the Winchesters.

Warnings: Torture, Injury, Hurt with minimal comfort.

---

"I'm a cowboy!" You sang out, your voice strained and tired "On a steel horse I ride!"

You dangled from your restraints, the metal handcuffs digging into your wrists, tight. All you could focus on was the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth, your head pulsing.

"I'm wanted dead or alive! Wanted dead or alive!" You wanted to succumb to the unconsciousness, it would be so easy to relax back, let your eyes shut, sink into the black-

"I'm a cowboy! On a steel horse I ride!" You jolted yourself back awake. Having forgotten the verses hours ago, sometime between having your nose broken and the knife to your shoulder, you were stuck on repeating the chorus to keep yourself awake. You pictured it blasting out of the Impala, Deans voice loud over the music. Your hoarse voice was nothing compared to the way he used to sing it but it was the best you could manage.

You heard the lock on the door click and watched as it swung open wide. You sung out to the figure in the doorway. "I'm wanted dead or alive- dead or alive-"

The demon stood still, unfazed by your display of disruption. You looked down at the screwdriver in his hand, no doubt the next source of your pain.

"Do you like my singing?" You smiled at him, blood dripping out the corner of your mouth. He stepped before you, grabbing your jaw tight in his hand, pain radiating out. You coughed out a thick wad of bloody saliva, no longer able to keep up the pretense of apathy.

"You better shut up unless you're answering our questions." He pushed the screwdriver deep into the cut in your thigh and you let out an animalistic scream.

"I don't- I don't know what you're talking about." You panted, your face wincing in pain.

"You tell me where the Winchesters' bunker is, and I'll finally let you die." He twisted the screwdriver again, and black spots flooded your vision.

"I don't- I don't know any Winchester- or a damn bunker-"

"Stop lying to me-" he smiled a sadistic grin and pulled the screwdriver out, "I'm having far too much fun here."

The sound of wet blood hitting floor filled the room. "I'm a cowboy-"

He slammed his elbow into your temple, and you let your mind collapse.

Dean. His gorgeous green eyes looking back at you in the rearview mirror, the music blasting out on the speakers as the Impala sailed down the road. Bon Jovi could barely be heard over Dean's voice. He tapped his brothers shoulder in the passenger seat, coaxing him to join in the singing.

You sighed, letting the cold air hit you. This felt good, it was good to be back with them- why had you ever left.

But the pain you felt in your leg- where was that coming from. You looked down- no cuts in sight. And your head- god your head hurt. Copper. Copper filled your mouth. Thick. You tried to shout, get the boys' attention. But you couldn't. Something wasn't right.

You jolted awake, the tapping of blood on the ground had subsided, suggesting you'd been out a while.

You pulled you head up, eyes desperate to close again, focusing on the handcuffs above your head. You tugged at them, your bruised purple wrists worsening in pain, and let out a small yelp. If you could get them off- days you'd spent trying already- you could finally break free. At least then they'd have to kill you, you'd given up hope of full escape.

A man cried out from outside the door, what other poor soul had found their way in here.

You closed your eyes again, the pain filling your body too much to bare. You felt the agony from your swollen wrists radiating through you, through every muscle, every bone, every nerve. Your head hung low, your jaw feeling like it had been shattered into a million pieces, no longer real. Your voice was horse and meak, no louder than a whisper. "I'm... a cowboy..."

The door swung open, a man standing panting in the open space. You barely let your eyes open, not wanting to see what pain was about to be inflicted on you. You couldn't understand the image in front of you. It looked so normal. So familiar. So...

Sam.

He ran towards you, his face ragged with fear, immediately breaking you down from your binding and grabbing your body so he could lower you to the ground. You couldn't speak, you could barely even blink, all your emotions shown through the darting of your eyes across his face, trying to take in what was happening in front of you.

"...Dean..." you managed to croak out, not even truly understanding what you were saying, just knowing you had to say it.

"He's just outside, he's coming, we're here, we're here."

As if being manifested, Dean rushed in only moments later, sliding down next to you, his eyes immediately wet, his hands shaking as he went to cup your cheeks. You couldn't hear what the two men were saying, only watching as their mouths moved, muffled sounds coming out, clearly they could understand each other.

Then he looked back at you, carefully moving your hair out your face, his fingers pulling away covered in blood, "We've got you, darlin', we've got you."

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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Going back to my roots with this one ☝️

mercenary!mattheo confronts you, his partner and friend, after you both return from a mission where you refused to listen to him and things take a heated turn

c/w: 18+. piv, oral (female & male recieving), angry mattheo, slightly bitchy reader

wc: 2k

“What the fuck were you thinking.” Mattheo spits the second you close the door and you whirl around to face him wide eyed. “Do you have any idea how stupid it was running off like that? No back up and no clue if there were more of them lurking around. You’re lucky I followed.”

You frown, immediately defensive.

Unable to fight the bitter edge to your voice at the way he's berating you like a child. “I had it handled, Riddle. If I’d listened to you the targets would have got away and ran back back to their boss and we’d lose a chance at him again.” You huff.

He glowers at you, muscles in his jaw twitching in irritation whilst he paces the small living area of your shared apartment.

“No, if you’d listened to me I wouldn’t have had to save your ass because you can’t follow simple orders.” Mattheo sneers.

You lunge from your place leaning against your door frame, striding towards him until the heat of his skin mixes with your own as you jab a finger into his firm chest.

“Fucking watch it, Riddle.” You snarl, rage hot in your blood as he watches you - eyes glinting dark. Amused. “I did what I thought was best. You want to act like a spoilt little bitch because someone else got the lead on him, fine, but don’t blame me. As far as I’m concerned I was doing my job.”

Fire snaps in his eyes and then he’s glaring down at you once again. A small thrill racing down your spine when a small part of your brain whispers that you’ve never seen Mattheo this angry before. That you kind of like how it looks on him.

Dark curls in total disarray from where he’s tugged them in frustration, a light tremble to his hands as they clench into fists by his sides and when his voice comes out it isn’t warm like you’re used to. It’s dark. Rough. Honey oozing over so much fucking grit.

“You think this is because I didn’t get the lead?” He seethes, fists unclenching to wrap his fingers around your wrists. “You could’ve died.”

You bristle at his tone and attempt to snatch your wrists from his grasp, teeth bared when he holds firm.

“Maybe if I died you might finally get a partner you can actually keep up with.” You snap, inhaling sharply when he yanks you into his chest and lets go of one wrist to snatch at your chin, tilting your face to look up at him.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t die at all.”

“Oh like you give a shit! By the sounds of it I’m nothing more than a nuisance for you to babysit, you should be glad–mmph.”

Mattheo crashes his mouth to yours, effectively cutting off your bitter words as your eyes grow wide with shock. He pulls back lightly, eyes hot as he mutters against your mouth.

“Fuckin’ stubborn girl, you drive me insane.”

You growl, hand diving into the curls at the nape of his neck to yank him back towards you as you slam your mouth to his. The kiss frantic and rough - desperate to taste one another after years of holding back. His stubble scratches your skin as his tongue parts your lips to slide along your own and he groans into your mouth, hands latching at your hips.

You can’t get enough of how he feels. Your hands slipping beneath his shirt to stroke across warm skin - nails scraping down his stomach to pull a shuddering groan from his chest.

He wrenches his mouth away to press kisses along your jaw, nipping the curve of your neck.

“Mattheo–" you whimper,"please.”

“Fuck - the way you say my name. Tell me what you need.”

You pull his mouth back to yours, tangling your fingers through soft hair, words a rushed mumble against his lips.

“I need you.”

Dark eyes search yours for any sign of doubt or hesitancy, breath stuttering when he finds none. His hands sweep over your sides, reaching to grab handfuls of your ass as he smirks cheekily at you before gripping your thighs and you jump.

“Fuck.” Your head falls back against the door when he slots against you, hips rocking in a teasing rhythm.

“Does that feel good, angel?” He taunts, smug, before you reach down to grasp him through his jeans. He chokes on air as you palm at him and suck his bottom lip into your mouth, scoring the flesh between your teeth.

“You really shouldn’t tease me, baby” You whisper, releasing his lip with a sinful pop.

The room spins as Mattheo tears you away from the wall. Marches into your room before throwing you down onto the bed.

He’s on you in a heartbeat, sucking kisses in a searing hot trail down each newly revealed part of skin with every piece of clothing he rips from you. When he reaches your jeans, deft fingers slip the button open and drag the zipper down before he yanks them down your legs.

Mattheo’s eyes burn darker at the wet patch growing on the fabric of your underwear and you can’t tell if it’s a curse or a prayer flying from his lips when he tears them from your body and his eyes rake over you bared to him.

You tremble under the intensity of his warm gaze and he smiles at you gently, dropping careful kisses on your thighs as you sigh and card your hand through his dark curls. His stubble tickles the soft, tender skin and you squirm lightly, breath hitching, causing his heart to flip as he grins at you.

“You’re so perfect.” He whispers, pushing your legs apart so he can nestle between your thighs.

“Mattheo.” You breathe.

“Let me taste you. Please.”

You barely manage a nod before he dives in, dragging a hot, greedy line from your entrance to your clit. Fingers spreading you apart to gain better access. It has your hips bucking against his face as his tongue spears inside you and a strong arm wraps around your waist to drag you closer - pinning you to the bed and against his desperate mouth.

It’s so much.

Almost too much.

Pleasure shrieking through your veins and needy moans swelling in your throat. You shove a hand against your mouth to muffle your cries when he sucks your clit into his mouth and jolt when a large hand comes down on the flesh of your thigh.

A warning growl in the back of his throat that makes your eyes roll back. “Don’t you dare hide from me.” He rasps. “I want to hear you scream.”

You shudder before doing as he says.

And when you look down Mattheo’s gaze is already blazing into yours. Pupils blown wide, turning his eyes into endless pools of black. You hold his stare even when he slides his finger inside you, moaning as he curls and twists them until you're trembling in his hold.

Your lashes flutter as heat pulses in your lower belly, turning white-hot when he grins against your cunt. His fingers sinking into the meat of your thighs as he swirls his tongue before you feel the shock of teeth grazing your clit.

You shatter then, head thrown back to the mattress and a broken cry of his name shredding through your lungs. Convulsing beneath his hands and his mouth until the last echoes of release burn through you and you fall limp.

He kisses his way back up your body afterwards. Sinking into your embrace when you lazily throw your arms around his neck and draw him to your lips, your tongue sliding over his, goosebumps breaking out over your flesh at the taste of yourself.

Your head is swimming, filled with nothing but Mattheo’s presence as it engulfs you. The taste of him on your lips, his scent all over your skin and the hard, needy press of him hot against your thigh.

Suddenly it feels like a sin that he’s still fully clothed whilst you're naked and you say as much to Mattheo who without another word, offers himself to your mercy.

He sucks in a sharp breath when you rise to your knees and shove him on his back, moving to straddle his hips as you slowly push his shirt, gentle hands mapping over every inch of tanned skin you can reach. Marvelling at the soft warmth of him as your mouth slips across his chest, down his stomach whilst your fingers glide down his arms.

It makes him dizzy to be treated with such tenderness, his heart thumping wildly in his chest as the touch of your lips brand him again and again. Gulping when you slither down his body to drag them rid him of the rest of his clothes.

He smiles slightly, a little flush with pride, when your movements slow to take him in. Eyes rounding and the sweep of your tongue over your lower lip to wet it as you softly hum his name.

“You’re so fucking pretty.” You murmur and he swallows hard, pink briefly dusting high on his cheeks.

His thighs quake when your nails scrape across the tender skin and you can no longer resist the urge to lower yourself to where he aches for you. To lick a slow stripe up his length before taking him in your mouth.

Your tongue swirls around him and his hips cant, the muscles of his thighs shuddering beneath your palms. Fingers stroking him through the need that burns fierce in his gut as he watches with a wrecked groan as you swallow him down.

It’s with more restraint than he’d ever care to admit that he tangles his fingers in your hair to pull you off rather than further against his hips - to go against the urge to rock into the warm suction of your mouth when you begin building a dizzying rhythm.

“I’m not going to last if you keep that up, angel.” He pants. “Need to be inside you now.”

Impatient hands grasp at your arms to drag you up his body and you jerk when his cock slides through the seam of your pussy as you straddle him.

Mattheos breath catches when he stares up at you, eyes hooded and jaw a little slack. Smoothing his touch over your soft skin before he cups the weight of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples to draw a sweet sigh from you.

“Always knew you’d look good up there.” He grins and the sound is like warm honey drizzled over your heart. Making you go liquid soft for him.

Leaning down ever so slowly, your hand comes to lightly grasp his jaw.

“Not as good as you look beneath me, Riddle.” You purr as your lips brush against his, almost collapsing against his chest when he yanks you closer to deepen the kiss.

You reach between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his cock to lead him to your entrance. There’s a moment, a soft pause where you watch each other with heaving chests and parted lip. And then you slowly sink down to the hilt.

“Fuck.”

He fills you so completely that your mouth drops open on a breathless moan. Awestruck at the way nothing has ever felt so right as he does, thick and heavy as he rests inside you, and you wonder if this is how it feels for someone to brand themselves on you. To carve you out so specifically that only they could ever fit you again.

A firm hand squeezes your hip, and you quickly snap out of the euphoric daze - glancing down to find Mattheo’s pleading eyes on yours. Begging you to move soon as the muscles in his jaw and neck strain with the effort of holding back.

You rise up, eyes fluttering closed as the new position has him sliding in deeper and slowly, you begin rolling your hips, lifting off his length that little bit further each time only to quickly drop back down.

The drag of him has your nails scraping down his chest and he hisses before thrusting sharply into you, knocking a hoarse cry from your lungs as the head of his cock spears against something cataclysmic.

And Mattheo immediately wants more of that sound, chasing it with relentless determination as he plants his feet and thrusts up hard. One hand drifting away from your breast, slipping low until there’s the delicious press of his fingers at your clit, drawing tight circles in time with each snap of hips.

“Mattheo–” You whimper. “Oh my god.”

Your second climax feels like an impending storm. It gathers energy, chaotic and devastating - brewing to an almost suffocating degree before it strikes without warning. Snatching the breath from your lungs before you even know that you're breaking, shuddering apart as it rages within you.

Your arms buckle and then Mattheo’s are wrapping around you the minute you collapse into his chest, his mouth hot against your temple as he makes soft, soothing sounds. Pressing sweet words of praise into your skin as you gasp whilst his pace quickens and grows jagged. Desperate.

You feel it when he reaches his end. Feel him grow even harder inside you, pulsing, and then there’s a rush of warmth as his lips slide carelessly over your cheek. Parting against your skin with a strangled groan of your name.

Neither of you move for what feels like an age, tangled together as you catch your breath and steal slow kisses. Smiles soft and almost giddy against each other’s mouths. It makes you sigh happily, melting into his warmth when he pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a kiss to your nose and then your forehead where a light frown appears the moment you allow your mind to drift.

“What happens now?” You whisper to him quietly, flushing when he draws back just enough to look at you properly and trails gentle fingers over your cheek.

“Now we sleep for a bit, today has been stressful.” He murmurs tiredly before something wicked sparks in his eyes. “And when we wake up, I’m going to make you cum on my fingers and my mouth before I fuck you again. Then we make a plan to hunt that fucker down, together.”

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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JESUS CHRIST OH LORD HAVE MERCY

thinking about dean winchester shoving your thighs apart like he’s mad at them for being in the way.

his mouth’s on you in an instant, no teasing—just a hot, desperate tongue working you open. he’s starving, moaning into your pussy like it’s the only thing that matters.

“fuck, baby,” he growls, lips sucking on your clit, tongue flicking fast and messy. “been thinkin’ about this for days. want you to soak my face.”

he spits on your cunt and spreads the saliva with his thumb, making everything slicker, wetter. his mouth’s back on you, harder and faster with no mercy.

“ride my face,” he mutters. “give it to me.”

fingers slide into you before you can answer—thick, calloused digits pushing deep, hitting that spot that makes your body jerk. your hips roll up into his mouth, nails dragging down the sheets.

“good girl,” he praises, his breath hot. “this pussy’s made for me.”

your legs start to shake, stomach tightening, and when you finally come, it’s loud and messy. thighs clamped around his head, shaking as you flood his mouth. he doesn’t stop. he keeps sucking, keeps fucking you with his fingers, making you feel it all.

he grabs your thighs and pulls you back down. “nuh-uh. i’m not done. don’t even try to run from me.”

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 2 months ago

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OH MY GOOODDDDD PLEASE MERCYYY

𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧?

ʚɞ pairing: sam winchester x angel!reader ʚɞ warnings: sexual content (loss of virginity, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex f!receiving), foul language, corruption kink if you squint. soft dom!sammy. set in season 5. sammy feeling guilty about starting the apocalypse. some pining and yearning. there may be some inaccuracies 'cause it's been a while since i last watched an episode from this season. 18+ only! ʚɞ word count: 2.9k

“𝘪𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦. 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺. 𝘪 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺.” —𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯, 𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘵

you’ve heard about him. the destined boy king of hell. the one who freed lucifer from his cage. the boy with demon blood in his system.

your brothers and sisters talk about him, their whispers filling your ears with stories of someone you’ve never even met. they all reduce him to an atrocity. they call him cursed.

castiel calls on you for help in the search for god. you don’t understand why he’s so bent on helping these humans. your siblings have always looked down on them. such lowly beings, they say. mortals.

there’s a glow around you that’s blinding when you land on earth. that’s when you see him, across the room, for the first time.

sam winchester.

for a man who’s supposed to be an abomination, lucifer’s vessel in the prophecy… he’s beautiful. you remember that lucifer was once an angel too, just like you. zachariah’s voice rings in your head: he’s evil. he’s bad. he’s human. your loyalty lies with heaven, and to allow yourself to be softened by such a creature is just as bad as ripping out your own grace. just like anna.

still, you find beauty in all your father’s creations. angels aren’t supposed to feel these things about humans either, but there’s something about them that fascinates you. you see the way sam and dean roar in their endless arguments. the way they kick and scream at each other—mostly dean—but it’s not out of hatred. it’s out of love. the deep bond they share. and castiel… he seems to have fallen in love with their humanity too.

you see it in sam. how he’s wracked with guilt over breaking the final seal. how he lets himself get fooled by a demon, despite everyone’s warnings. you see him throw himself into danger more times than you can count, desperately trying to prove to himself and to his brother that he’ll make things right.

once, when he was critically injured, you were going to use your powers to heal him. his shirt stained with blood, groaning in pain. you told yourself it’s just your vessel that feels sad for him, not you. you extended your hand, reaching out to him, but he backed away. he wouldn't let you touch him.

“what’s wrong?” you asked, tilting your head, trying to make sense of it.

another groan spilled from his lips. “i-i’m fine…” he said, making an attempt to stand, only for him to stumble.

your lips set in a thin line at that. “you’re not fine, sam. why won’t you let me help you?”

he leaned his head against the wall, panting, clearly far too injured to keep fighting the other angels inside the warehouse. “i… i don’t know.”

a loud bang echoed from within, loud enough for you to hear from where you were, and your sense of urgency spikes. castiel and dean were still inside, and they clearly needed help.

“please, sam. let me heal you,” you begged. and when he met your gaze, there’s an emotion in his eyes you don’t quite understand yet, but later come to realize was guilt.

there’s a small pause, a beat of hidden self-flagellation. but he finally nodded, offering his silent consent. you reached for the wounded area, finally touching his skin. and it felt like lightning had struck you. his wounds closed. the blood vanished. he’s whole again. but the feeling stays with you.

you shared a glance, and your heart skips a beat in your chest for the first time. it’s deep, electric, and undeniable.

it's damning.

then you hear another thud from inside. the moment ends like a record scratching.

your entire belief system shakes from there. you and sam can’t stand to be in a room together after that. it feels like drowning, slipping in a river of doom. you throw all your thoughts and feelings inside a vault, locking it and hurling it into an endless ocean of sinful temptation, afraid to be crucified for them.

one night, when it’s just the two of you alone, it’s the most difficult fight you’ve imagined. it’s quiet and peaceful, a rarity since you first came down to earth. but you're burning.

he can’t look at you, can’t meet your eyes, and it drives you mad. you should be preparing for his demise, ready to betray him, to go to battle for heaven… but you ache for his touch again. it’s unbearable, and all you want is to feel alive.

a noise outside breaks the silence, threatening. you reach for the angel blade on the table. it seems like he has the same instinct because when your fingers touch, you both flinch. he clears his throat and grabs a different weapon instead.

the sound doesn’t come again, so he takes a quick look out the windows, making a round through the space like the warrior he was raised to be.

he finds nothing.

the clock ticks. it’s close to midnight, and dean and cas still aren’t back yet.

you don’t mean to stare at him. there’s just something about the way he’s sitting there, bathed in low light, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, that holds your gaze captive. his eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, burdened by too many sleepless nights. then he finally looks at you.

“you should leave,” he says, cutting through the silence.

there's a flicker of sadness that passes through you at his words. “do you want me to?”

he shakes his head, knocking back the clear glass and downing the whiskey in one go. “i don’t. i’m just—”

“just what, sam?” you ask, and he winces at the provocation in your tone.

he’s quiet for a moment, bowing his head, a stark contrast to how tall and unshakable he usually stands in battle. “i’m afraid of doing something i’m not supposed to.”

you let the words settle between you, soft and heavy.

“and what is it you’re afraid of doing?” you ask quietly.

his jaw tightens, shoulders coiling with tension. his hands curl into fists at his sides. he looks away again, and it kills you. you pad across the room. he rises before you reach him.

“sam,” you whisper. you notice the way he shudders when you say his name. “please.”

he sees it. the pain in your eyes, the want etched in every part of you. he knows. you need him just as much as he needs you.

“i can’t,” he chokes, “i don’t deserve you. not after what i did.”

something in your vessel’s chest flutters. “what makes you say that?”

“because,” he croaks, “because i’m a freak. i’ll only ruin you.”

you hear it in his voice. he’s breaking. he’s terrified. you feel the eyes of the angels above on your back, but you don’t care. not as you stand in front of him, begging. he sees the glow in your eyes, the look of desire wrapped in such innocence, grace shining off you like a nightlight. and he feels himself slipping further.

“sam winchester,” you say, slow and deliberate, “you torture yourself like you’re beyond salvation. but i’ve seen your soul. you’re not damned.”

he bites out a bitter laugh. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“maybe,” you reply, “but i choose you anyway.”

and that’s all it takes.

your back softly crashes into the wall as he kisses you, unusual for someone so large. his hands grip your waist, and you take him in. you taste the whiskey, the sweat, the heat. in all your years of existence, he’s the most heavenly thing you’ve ever seen.

it’s absurd. an angel falling for a human. but it’s real.

“tell me to stop,” he breathes against your lips, his hands gliding down to your hips, fingers ghosting over the button of your jeans. “you’re supposed to be better than this.” he breaks the kiss to meet your eyes. desire burns in his gaze, but even with the warning, you can’t seem to utter the words.

not when it feels like fire beneath your skin. not when his fingers slip inside your cotton underwear and your eyes roll back from the heat of his touch.

“sam,” you moan, his name falling from your lips like the most sacred prayer. his mouth finds your neck and it makes you cry with relief. he lifts you gently, your legs wrapping around his waist as he guides you toward the couch.

his kisses are soft and slow at first. your hands tangle in his hair as he sucks a mark into your collarbone, an imprint of him that'll stay even after the moment's over. he helps you sit up, then kneels in front of you, looking up like he’s begging for forgiveness.

“can i taste you, angel?” he asks, voice low and rough with longing.

you don’t fully understand the weight of the question, but you find yourself nodding, an ache in your lower region that's begging to be taken care of. and it’s not just permission. it’s surrender.

it's falling from grace.

he peels off the articles of clothing unhurriedly. once you're fully bare in front of him, he takes a moment to roam his eyes over you— not in a lewd manner, but like he's memorizing every inch of you. he parts your legs, leaving a delicate kiss on the inside of your thigh. he notes the way it makes you tremble, and he leaves a few more just to revel in your dreamy sighs.

there's a wet patch on the white fabric that makes his eyes darken, a sick and twisted emotion coiling inside him that makes his cock stir in his jeans. there's practically a halo on your head, and all he can think about is ruining you in every way possible, the image of you undone in his arms making an indentation.

“sammy, please,” you whisper, a glossy look in your eyes that's pleading. he thinks about teasing you more just to hear you say his name again, but his mouth is already watering when your arousal wafts under his nose. and he's pulling the cotton off, slipping them down your legs, and diving in between your folds, exploring every crevice of your sex and lapping up your juices until he's drowned in them.

your moans sound like the greatest record of all time in his ears. he swirls his tongue around, figuring out how you like to be touched. he takes a minute to pull back, your silken desire dripping from his mouth. he puts two of his fingers in his mouth, coating them with his saliva before pulling them out to glaze them with your liquid arousal, flicking over your sensitive nub.

the sound that pulls from you makes him grin from ear to ear, triumphant, and he does it again just to drink in your every reaction. he watches how his movements make your clit pulse, the dampness pooling between your legs almost hypnotizing him.

“sam,” you whimper, the ache becoming unbearable, and his stare sinks into yours, tender and brimming with a certain kind of hunger.

“you're so wet for me, sweetheart,” he comments, truly in awe. it's nothing he hasn't seen before. though, he's been surrounded by so many demons that the sight of an angel dripping with such need for him is astonishing.

“is that good?”

he chuckles at your words. “yes, angel. a very good thing.”

you feel his tongue return to your folds, this time more covetous. your hips buck onto his face instinctively, and he groans in delight when he realizes that you're riding his face. it's not long before you're on the brink of ecstasy, his name falling from your lips like a litany of prayers.

still falling from the heights of pleasure, you reach out for him.

“wow,” you breathe out blissfully, “that was amazing.”

he smirks lazily at that, laying a chaste kiss on your lips, where you can slightly taste yourself off of him. you've heard rumors about the act, how people down on earth condemn its sinfulness, which you never understood. now that you do, you come to appreciate the beauty of it.

“can you do that again?”

a light laugh falls from him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “i can make you feel that way again... but i'll do something different.”

“okay,” you say quickly. again, you don't fully understand the weight of what you're agreeing to just yet. it's your body that's left reeling and chasing the high again.

he pauses for a second, almost hesitating. “it might... it might hurt a little,” he warns, “only at first. then it'll get better.”

your eyes widen, torn for a moment. he sees the uncertainty on your face, and he presses a kiss to the side of your mouth. “i promise it'll feel good, angel. i'll take care of you.”

his sweet reassurance makes you nod, and you pull him closer, your arms reaching for his shirt to tug it off. you fiddle with the buckle of his belt, and he shakes off his pants along with his briefs. you take a good look at his manhood, a shiver running down your spine. your bare back hits the cushions, and he hovers on top of you, your mouths smashing together in slow, romantic burning.

he widens your legs, lining himself up to your entrance, and pushes the tip in. a hiss escapes you when his head stretches you open, and his lips claim yours to muffle the sounds you make. he wasn't lying when he said it was going to be painful, but he whispers such sweet and encouraging words that helps you relax when he thrusts himself fully in.

you don't know when the pain turns into pleasure, but when it does—oh god, does it drive you wild. he cages you between his arms, locking you in such a tight embrace that makes your whole body feels ablaze. his tongue slips between your lips to swallow your moans, his teeth nibbling on the soft flesh, which makes you cry out for him again in the hush of night.

his thrusts grow more fervent, your nails dragging down a long line on his back, leaving your own mark on him. when he realizes what you've done, his gaze turns savage, flaring with unrestrained emotion, and he’s gone.

“fuck,” he grunts out, hips snapping at an increased speed, wilder and more erratic. “my sweet angel. taking me so well. like you're made just for me.”

there's an unfamiliar sensation bubbling in the pit of your stomach, one that’s different from what you felt previously. this one feels like it’s blooming inside of you, begging to burst. you find yourself clawing at the skin of his shoulders, and it triggers something primal inside him. “s-sammy...”

“never letting you go after this,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “you're mine. all mine, baby. no one's ever gonna make you feel this way but me.”

your breath hitches at his words, the pleasure becoming too much. the sensation of his cock pounding deep makes his name echo in your mind, and you're addicted. he feels like the worst drug to get hooked on.

the ripples of pleasure hit you unexpectedly, your body shuddering and crashing, crying out his name. you're crumbling underneath him. his gaze burns through you as he watches you come undone, his own release following suit, shooting through you like heroin.

he slips out of you gently once your breathing steadies. your gazes meet, and you feel both grounded and lit up, like the world has shifted beneath you. you curl up in his arms, naked bodies warm and slick with the afterglow. your head rests on his bare chest, the steady thrum of his heart beating under your ear. if this is the way it feels to be loved by him, then it's definitely worth falling from the light for.

you've completely plunged yourself into disgrace.

“i shouldn’t want this,” he murmurs.

you shift in his hold, tilting your head to look up at him. “why do you keep saying that?” your voice is soft but laced with confusion, almost hurt, especially after everything he said earlier.

“you’re too good for me,” he admits, the words falling heavy and soaked with guilt.

you sit up slowly, his arms slipping away from your body. “i don’t understand.”

he sees the change in you then, the flicker of something raw and real. the look in your eyes is no longer as robotic and detached. it’s almost human.

“sam,” you say, “i chose this. i choose you.”

“you shouldn’t.” he mutters, voice cracking, “i’m not worthy.”

you frown, and before you can utter another word, he pulls you in for a deep kiss, one that feels like both an apology and a promise. he clutches you tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. part of him, the broken part, thinks about clipping your wings just to keep you here. to make sure you stay. but the part that still hopes (and remains reasonable) knows he can’t.

still, he makes a silent vow. that he’ll try. he’ll make it right, not just to prove something to himself, or to his brother. but for you. he wants you to know you didn’t fall for nothing. that you didn’t give up heaven for the man who let lucifer walk free, but for the man who fought to be better. for the man who finally turned his wrongs right.

author’s message: FINALLY. i’d been wanting to write a fic to this song. the thought of writing for an angel!reader lowkey intimidated me because i have not once listened to a single thing in church despite a very christian upbringing. still, i couldn’t find another storyline as perfect as this. lets just ignore who the original muse of the song is (love his music tho!) and pretends its about the love of my life, sam fucking wincheeks

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 3 months ago

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I COULDNT HAVE SAID IT BETTER. BARK BARK WOOF

sam was all wide eyed as he watched you climb on top of him. the hunt had gone completely south and caused him to get all bruised up; in your mind that meant it was time to take care of him.

"baby? what's all this, I'm fine really honey.." he murmured softly, his large hand sprawling against the small of your back.

yet he didn't protest when your hand came and gently tugged down his boxers. he didn't complain when you shuffled your shorts off and pulled your already soaked panties to the side—instead he stared, his free hand coming to grip your thigh, his thumb moving to rub soft circles on your clit.

the action pulled a whine from you, bucking your hips into his hand to somehow get more of the addicting pleasure.

"s-sam 'm supposed to be taking care of you.." you babbled as he added more pressure, his middle and ring finger plunging into your dripping cunt.

his tip was flushed a pink color and was leaking pre-cum, he was getting off on watching your tough and dominant act wither away as he toyed with your pretty pussy.

"shhh, it's okay sweet girl..sammy's gonna make you feel real good—" he cooed as he sped up, his fingers curling deep inside hitting that spongy spot that made you moan out his name.

"c'mon baby girl let go for me, make a mess on my fingers." he pleaded as his eyes bore into yours: the look, the pleasure, the overwhelming feelings crashed over you as you came.

his fingers were dripping with your arousal and cum, your body reacted and you whined as he slipped them out. he shushed you as he replaced his digits with his dick, bottoming out inside you as he let himself go—filling you with his warm seed.

you laid on his lap, head resting on his shoulder as he rubbed your back. sam planted soft kisses on your head as he whispered into your ear about how much he loved you, and about how well you take him. his cock stayed borrowed inside you, keeping his cum from slipping out.

just how he wanted.

sunny yaps! I've been seeing A LOT of sam edits and well he's been inside my brain because i need this man so bad.. like you don't understand, hes so BARK BARK WOOF—whatt who said that 😼

special tags! @bluemerakis @littlesoulshine @h8aaz @bruisedfig @liiiilsss @fuckedupfate @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ® 𓂃 do not repost or copy my works without permission!!

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 3 months ago

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oh I’m fiending for this one

POSITIONS — aaron hotchner x derek morgan

In which two FBI agents ask you to reenact a crime scene with them, and you find yourselves in a very interesting position.

genre smut (18+) cw porn with plot, crime scene inaccuracies, early seasons hotch & morgan (just pretend hotch isn't married), reader grew up/lives in paris, reader has a dad, some spanking, threesome in eiffel tower position: blowjob and p in v, semi public sex, creampie wc 4,9k a/n i’m really curious to know who you guys would prefer to have in front and who in back in this position. i think i went with the general consensus, read to find out ;) kink: threesome “eiffel tower”

If there’s one thing significant about Paris, it’s the Eiffel Tower.

Ever since you were a little girl, you had a deep fascination with the monument. Maybe that had to do with the fact that your father was the owner of a well-established restaurant inside of the tower. You grew up with all sorts of magical stories about the place, and once you reached the age of twelve, your dad let you work with him on the weekends and during the holidays.

The experiences you’ve had as a teen were just as amazing as you predicted them to be. The crew had taken you in like you were just as much their blood-related kid — which was necessary considering your dad didn’t have the time to treat you like his. Instead, he saw you as a colleague, counted on you as a colleague, and honestly, feeling useful and needed was the sentiment that made the experience as special as it was.

Growing up came with more tasks and responsibilities, and you handled them well. So well that you decided that this is what you wanted to do for the rest of your life: follow in your father’s footsteps and inherit the business one day.

It sounded all fun and games, until your father had reached an age where he had to take some steps back, work more from home instead of being at the restaurant all day, every day.

That’s where you came in the picture. It had taken you years of hard work (yes, the boss might be your dad but he didn’t play favorites) when you finally received the title of manager.

It was another fancy term that hid hours of stress and sleep deprivation, because now, being the head responsible, you could not fuck up.

But you did.

Hard.

Certain mistakes were to be expected: getting into an argument with a customer, dropping a new set of plates, adding the wrong date of a large booking in the calendar. But accidentally hiring a hit woman who got two of your star customers killed off was a rather large fuck up.

It wasn’t your fault; it was the sentence you’ve been repeating like a mantra for the past week. The popularity of the restaurant has blown up since you became manager. You had made some stylistic choices in both the interior and the menu that attracted a bunch of new customers. So many that the workload became overbearing, there was no other choice than to start hiring new employees.

The woman you had hired seemed the perfect match. Her resume was impressive — something you later found out was completely made up (you had no time to double-check, okay?) — and most important of all, she was available right away.

With full faith, you had let her take the night shift, giving her the responsibility of closing the place after hours. That following morning you received a call from your coworker at 5AM. You were certain it was something bad (having warned everyone that you’re not a morning person and you’re only available for emergencies), though what you didn’t expect was to hear how your star customers — two successful businessmen who had been dining at the restaurant — were brutally murdered, shot by a bullet through their heads, the new employee having fled the crime scene.

So, here you were, having to deal with the consequences of your actions. The FBI was alarmed and on their way, and you got ready as fast as you could before heading over to the restaurant.

-`♡´-

“It’s fine, Alain,” you repeat with a sigh, rubbing your temples in frustration.

Alain, the coworker who had informed you and the police, was running around in circles, absolutely freaked out. You couldn’t blame him; he was the one who found the bodies and who instructed the forensics and medics when they had arrived.

“Just… slow down, okay?” you remind him. “Can you please talk to the other agents outside? I’ll handle the ones that will investigate the scene.”

He swallowed, eyes still wide in adrenaline and anxiety, but eventually gave you a stern nod and a “Yes, boss,” before walking out.

You tried keeping calm as you took your place behind the reception, keeping your mind from wandering to all the cruelties of what had happened and of what will happen once your father is informed of the events.

You didn’t need to distract yourself for long, because the sounds of footsteps and muffled muttering entered the room.

Two neatly dressed men appeared in your periphery. Just by their walks, you could tell that they meant business. Their faces too were etched in serious determination. You predicted the one on the left to be around your age, the one on the right a couple of years older than you, but still young. They were attractive. Too attractive for your liking.

“Are you the owner?” The agent on the right asked you.

You wished you could respond to that with a “Well yes, indeed I am”, but lying to the cops after a murder had taken place didn’t seem like the smartest idea. “I’m the manager,” you eventually answer.

The man nods, reaching his hand out toward you. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he tilts his head to the man beside him, “and this is my colleague, Special Agent Derek Morgan.”

As a manager, you’ve shaken many hands in your life; a handshake could tell a lot about a person, but all this handshake did was make your brain short-circuit. You felt a tingle in your stomach as Aaron’s large palm made contact with yours. His grip was firm, but you could tell that he was holding back, careful not to bruise you, although you wouldn’t have minded that. Looking up through your lashes, you caught his dark colored eyes already focused on you. He brushed his thumb over your skin, ever so light, but you noticed the action came with a small gleam in his eyes.

The other agent, Morgan, cleared his throat. “The bodies were found by that window?”

His question snapped you out of whatever mental fantasy you had found yourself in. To your dismay, Aaron let go of your hand, the intertwining of your fingers breaking as your hand fell to your side, palm still clammy as a reminder of his touch.

Awkwardly you scratched the back of your neck, following his gaze to the window and trying not to comment on the way Derek’s lip curled as he patted Aaron on the back, oblivious to you catching on.

“Uh, yeah. My colleague told me it happened right here,” you explain, pointing toward the glass wall just a few feet away.

“Mind if we take a look?”

“No, not at all,” you say in quick permission. “Go ahead.”

The second they turned their backs to you, you allowed yourself to take in a deep breath. It truly was comedic how, out of every event this morning, a polite handshake was the thing that seemed to have the most effect on you.

Maybe you were more touch-deprived than you thought you were. It made sense, honestly. It was another reason why you were on the hunt for new employees: needing more personal time, sexual time included.

You watched the two males from a distance, hands gripped tight around the wooden desk, like you were trying to keep some sexual beast from escaping out of you.

“Hey!” You scoffed when Derek wiped his gloved thumb over the window. Those were cleaned just two days ago!

He turns his head to you, brows furrowed in question. “Have these holes always been in here?”

Have these holes always been in here? You repeat in your hand with a mocking tone. Of course there haven’t been holes in the windows; this is a well-established restaurant!

You spoke up, your tone sounding softer than it was intended. “What do you mean?”

Aaron made a gesture with his hand, asking you to come over, and you did your best to not imagine what it’s like if he curled his fingers like that in a different situation.

You patted your clammy hands on your pants, straightened your back, and walked over to them.

The moment you stood in front of the window, you noticed it: there were two clean, bullet-sized holes at varying heights, around three feet away from each other. You let your hand ghost over the window, feeling a slight breeze coming from outside.

“See this?” Derek circles the hole with his thumb — an act that your mind is also turning dirty. “You can tell that the shot is fired from outside.”

“Did they do it from the roof of that apartment?”

The observation seemed simple to you; the beige-colored apartment building facing the restaurant had the perfect viewpoint to aim directly at the window where you stood. But apparently you had said something genius, because Derek’s brows raised and Aaron’s eyes glazed over you with a look full of surprise and pride.

He nods. “That could be it. I’ll call Garcia.”

You had no clue who Garcia was, only that the call was so urgent that Aaron took large strides to the other side of the room, leaving you and Agent Morgan alone.

“You shouldn’t have touched the glass,” you muttered. It was very nitpicky, you were aware, but something in you pulled you to Derek Morgan — to the both of them, for that matter — that made you want to speak to him, no matter the subject.

He chuckled, moving his eyebrows in an expressive way. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

You kept your voice steady, wanting to radiate confidence. “I got them cleaned two days ago.”

That made him laugh even more. “You got them cleaned?” He shook his head in slight disbelief, still smirking. “You didn’t even clean them yourself, princess. You have no right to complain.”

The nickname easily rolled off of his tongue, and you could imagine you not being the first person receiving the pet name. Still your stomach fluttered.

He leaned closer to you, and you almost jumped when his muscled arm grazed yours. “Do you like being called princess?”

You scoffed a laugh, not showing the effect his words had on you. “What? You’re a mind reader?”

“I’m a profiler, princess, I work at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.”

Ah.

Just when you were about to tease him back, the now familiar clicking of Aaron’s dress shoes filled the room.

“You were right,” he started, announcing his presence. “We knew she was a hit woman, but Garcia found out she never works alone. We’re assuming she had two sharpshooters with her who shot the men from the apartment building when she gave the sign.”

The two agents eye each other, then the window, conspiratorially.

“She had to have lured them to the window somehow.” Morgan analyzes, observing the ground he’s standing on. “She must’ve stood in the middle, one sharpshooter taking a victim each.”

Hotch is quiet for a moment, taking his words in. “There’s a lot of space in between them.”

“Maybe she wasn’t standing.”

You don’t know what possessed you to speak up again. You have no experience in the field; hell, you don’t even have enough free time to watch any crime shows.

“I’m sorry, I won’t interrupt anymore.”

“Do you think she was lying down?” Aaron asks you. Nothing about his looks or tone told you that he was joking. He was serious. He genuinely wanted to hear your opinion.

Still, you rub your neck, scared to say something stupid. “Uh, I don’t know. It just makes more sense, also with her height and stuff.”

“Was your coworker a flirt?”

Aaron and you tilt your face to Derek. As Aaron tries to figure out what the logic behind the question was, you think back on your coworker, and suddenly puzzle pieces start to connect.

“She hasn’t worked here for long, but she’s always been a bit flirty with them. The uh, the victims.”

Derek nods, shaking his head, his tongue poking into his cheek to hold back his sly grin. “This might sound crazy.”

A breathy chuckle escapes you. He cannot be thinking the same thing as you are.

Aaron is the only one not catching on, blinking between you guys. “What is it?”

-`♡´-

That’s how you found yourself balancing on the soles of your feet while Aaron stood behind you, his hands holding your hips steady while you had your back bent with your own hands clawed around Derek’s thighs as he towered over you.

And to not leave any details behind: Aaron was slowly rubbing the head of his cock along the swollen lips of your pussy, while your tongue was toying and teasing the lines along Derek’s length.

Okay, it didn’t happen that fast. You were desperate, but you still had some manners.

Derek was quick to find out that the unsub had used sex to lure the men to the window. It was because of a mutual effort that you figured out the position: Eiffel Tower.

It was ironic, sure, the Eiffel Tower sex position in the Eiffel Tower itself. You had stupidly laughed about it and had tried to mimic the position to Aaron with your hands. But instead of joining you in your joking, his expression remained neutral. He had considered your words… and it sounded plausible to him.

First you had watched as Aaron and Derek stood on the spots where the victims had stood last night. They spoke to themselves, pretending to be them in this strange sort of role play of the dead, trying to get a glimpse of whatever the victims and the unsub must’ve been thinking at the time.

It was Derek who had called you over. His voice sounded casual, strictly business, as he asked you for your help. As if reenacting a sexual position with two federal agents was the usual procedure.

Not one to decline the commands of authority, you had given a tight-lipped smile, maneuvering yourself in between their broad bodies. Grateful that running around the restaurant on the daily had kept you some sort of flexible, you had bent your back, clawing onto Derek’s thighs to keep yourself steady.

It was only when you blinked up that you noticed how incredibly close your face was to the agent’s groin. “Oh, sorry,” you apologized in embarrassment, taking a small step back until you bumped your ass against the stiffening length in Aaron’s pants.

You stayed still, as if keeping quiet for the next moments would magically make everyone forget about what had just happened. What you had just felt.

Derek spoke up first, trying to lighten the mood by giving a low whistle. “Now this is a sight for sore eyes.”

Aaron cleared his throat, remembering what he was here for. “This could be the position.” His gaze flicked to the bullet holes in the glass that matched almost precisely with their heights. “A clear shot straight through their heads.”

Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t give you a Thank you for your help, we know enough. No, he stayed right in place. He even shuffled closer to you, the heat radiating off of him.

And then he pressed his hips forward. Just slightly. Just to let you feel him, to see what kind of reaction he could get out of you.

The air left your lungs in a quiet gasp, the action catching you off guard. You hadn’t even realized how turned on you were until you felt how damp your panties clung onto you now that his hips were pressed against yours.

Inevitably, you followed the gasp with a moan. A loud one at that, showing just how desperate you’d been for a single touch.

God, you were embarrassed. You wanted to dig a hole to crawl in and not get out for the foreseeable future. But apparently the agents didn’t share that same sentiment. To be more precise, Derek let out a groan in response, throwing his head back like he had been holding it in this whole time. As if his dirtiest dreams just came to life right in front of him.

You noticed his pants creasing around his crotch as his hardening cock filled out the fabric. Words only made things awkward, more difficult than they had to be, so you let your hands talk.

“That’s it, princess,” Derek sighed in pleasure as your fingers brushed over the thick outline of his length.

Some of your senses seemed to sharpen — finding yourself in some weird trance while you played with him, already fantasizing over how his cock would look and feel when there’d be no clothes separating you. Other thoughts (mainly worries) faded to the background in a blur. You didn’t — couldn’t — think about the fact that you were doing this in public. With one turn of your head, you’d be able to look out of the window and see the panoramic view of Paris, all of its citizens. But it didn’t matter to you. Neither did it matter that you were about to have sex at an active crime scene nor that a bunch of reporters were standing outside, eagerly waiting for the agents to leave the tower.

How could you worry about those things when you were squished in between two federal agents? Agents who are meant to protect you, and in this case, please you too.

Aaron held you steady by your upper thighs, enabling you to play with his colleague’s cock. You looked up at Derek with darkened irises full of lust, and it only took one nod from him to give you the go sign.

Hungrily, your hands fiddled with his slacks, grateful that he wasn’t wearing a belt so that you could pull them down with a single tug after undoing the button. Your heart hammered in your chest, breath heaving in anticipation as you sneaked your hands into his pants. A hum escaped you when you felt the muscles of Derek’s firm thighs.

Not only had your hands moved in greed. Simultaneously, Aaron’s strong, calloused fingers had slipped into the waistband of your pants, mirroring your movements. You stopped your own ministrations, facing Derek’s well-groomed v-line as you helped Aaron by stepping out of your pants, your underwear smoothly coming along.

“Shit, look at you,” Aaron praised in a husky voice.

There was no time to process his words as a sharp sting bloomed across the cheek of your ass. Then another. The delicious impact made you stumble forward, your nose brushing against Agent Morgan’s shaft that was still mostly covered by his boxers.

You surprised the both of them by being into it (very much so), placing a wet kiss on the exposed shaft, using your dominant hand to bunch the fabric down in a hurry until it pooled at his knees.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Derek breathed out, his hands finding your hair as you got to work, peppering kisses along his stiffening heavy length. “Come on, take it. It’s yours.”

Using only the tip of your tongue, you pushed the head of his cock up until it lay flat in your mouth. Then, trying to keep some composure, you carefully swallowed him inch by inch until he was comfortable filling your throat.

Behind you, Aaron had busied himself with taking off his pants, only catching your attention when his belt hit the floor with a loud clang. He had fisted his leaking cock in a tight grip, pumping himself a few times for good measure before aligning himself with your cunt. His arousal dripped onto your needy folds, adding to your slickness.

You moaned around Derek’s length, eyes watering from the ache in your jaw and the teasing pressure of Aaron’s cock against your swollen clit.

Aaron had set a steady pace, dragging his tip along your folds — occasionally slipping an inch into your entrance just to tease you — and you followed that rhythm by bobbing your head up and down, connecting the three of you in this filthy dance.

“Feel that?” Aaron hissed as he slipped his tip back in. “How she’s pulling me in?”

It truly was a challenge to communicate with someone when you had your mouth full of cock.

“Oh, she’s enjoying it,” Derek answered for you, hands tightening into your hair and tilting his head back to get a better view of his colleague’s cock disappearing into your pussy. “I think she wants some more, Hotch.”

Thank you.

“I know she wants it, Morgan. Her pussy’s begging me for it.” And with that, his thick girth slides into you. Not inch by inch like Derek’s had — no hesitation — just one smooth, long stroke until he bottomed out.

“Fuck!” you cried, sputtering for breath as your hand replaced your mouth on Derek’s length.

Your pussy clenched around him, swallowing him deeper until the rough hairs on his happy trail tickled your skin. Every sliver of your skin felt like it was on fire, your entire body charged with pure bliss as the hands of two men played with you.

“Don’t get distracted now,” Aaron spoke in a low tone, keeping his hands splayed out on your thighs, fingers digging into the plump flesh as he thrust himself into you.

The initial burning of being filled was quick to dissolve into pleasure. The girth of his length dragged along your inner walls, stretching you open with each push and pull of his hips.

Meanwhile, Derek was getting impatient. He lazily fisted his cock, now standing fully proud and erect, practically begging to enter your tight throat again.

He grazed your jaw with his knuckles, coaxing you to look up at him.

“Come get another taste, pretty girl,” he cooed, using the blunt head of his cock to paint your lips in a slick gloss.

“That’s it,” Aaron hummed in satisfaction, watching the scene unfold in front of him. “Now give him a little kiss.”

His words ignited a spark in you, the tingling sensation shooting directly to your core. You licked your lips, savoring the salty and inviting taste before parting your lips and taking him in. Your mouth happily welcomed him back, already used to his size as you explored his cock further with your tongue.

Aaron’s hands were exploring your body, not knowing where to settle his palms as they roamed from the soft skin of your stomach that hid beneath your blouse back to the plump swell of your ass as he continued fucking himself into you.

“Fucking perfect,” Aaron grunted. “Taking us like it’s nothing. Like you do it every day.”

If they only knew that you hadn’t gotten laid in months, that this is a result of the sheer desperation that had been building up.

“She needed this bad, Hotch,” the profiler in front of you spoke knowingly. His eyes found yours, cupping your jaw that held his heavy length inside of it. “I think we should give her a little more. You deserve that, don’t you, baby?”

Instead of nodding, you shook your head to take more of him in, licking a bold stripe to the underside of his cock to agree. Then you tightly clenched your walls, repeating the message to Aaron.

“Is that what you want, honey?”

Another clench.

“Alright, then,” he breathed, squeezing your ass. “You’ve asked for it.”

Suddenly his cock slipped out of you, leaving you painfully empty. But before you could whimper in complaint, he had dropped himself to his knees, fingers gripping your hips as he pulled you down with him, his cock entering you again in a single, smooth motion.

The hard floor bruised your knees, positioned in doggy, but with your upper body bent as you held onto Derek’s thigh. The Eiffel Tower now more reminiscent of the Tower of Pisa.

Aaron angled his cock into you so that his tip comfortably nuzzled into your G-spot, drawing a low whine from your mouth. Either Aaron was a great profiler in areas outside of crime too, or this man was very experienced — because he knew exactly how you liked it: lifting your hips up and down his cock, giving you full-body shudders with every thrust.

Derek’s cock hovered above your face, just inches away from your mouth. This time he didn’t have to ask, because in a second you had greedily wrapped your lips around him again, craving his taste after the momentary loss.

You wrapped your soft fingers around his shaft, stroking him with practiced ease, matching the movements of your head.

You knew you were done for when Aaron’s palm dragged from your lower stomach to your heat. His long fingers spread open your folds. Your clit was already throbbing, awaiting his touch. The little bud twitched when he pressed the pad of his finger against it, not even needing to circle it for you to start moaning out, the weight of the contact enough to drive you crazy.

“There she is,” Derek hummed, proudly watching you as you hollow your cheeks around him. “Still sucking me so good even when that tight pussy is getting used.”

You speed up the flicks of your wrist, pulling your mouth back to catch a deep breath. A moan leaves your lips just by seeing how the agent is hovering over you — his lip caught in between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes blinking tightly shut when you tease his slit with the tip of your tongue.

“Fuck, babygirl, you’re gonna make me come like that.” He hissed.

“That’s exactly what she wants, Derek,” Aaron grunts, fastening the drags of his finger over your clit while he moves his cock in and out of you in deep strokes.

“This sweet pussy is going to come all over me,” he continues, voice raspy. “She wants you to fill her mouth. Give her something back.”

Derek smirked. “I’ll give you what you want, but… ladies first.”

Hearing his words made you realize that you were subconsciously waiting for some sort of permission to let go. The second that Derek had finished his sentence, your legs started trembling. Aaron’s pace was relentless, marking you up from the inside. The head of his cock kissed your G-spot with every push of his hips, and you desperately clung onto the warm wave that was building deep in your stomach.

“Doing so good for us, you’re almost there.” Aaron praised you. “Let us fill you up, honey, give you what you deserve. All you have to do is let go.”

A cry tore from your lips as your walls broke down. All of your muscles spasmed, hit by one aftershock after the other.

Your orgasm tipped Derek over the edge, palms holding your head steady as he spilled into your mouth.

Aaron placed his hands in the air in surrender, watching in awe as your body shook and pulsed around him. How the muscles in Morgan’s pelvis clenched as he shot his warm release down your throat.

Your cunt was gripping him so tightly. Fucking weeping for more.

And Aaron gave it to you.

A loud, guttural moan echoed through the restaurant as his hips stuttered, painting your walls white.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” Derek breathed out, head thrown back with a lazy grin.

Derek’s cock slipped out of your mouth, traces of your saliva and his cum dripping off his half-hard length.

“You got a lil something—“ His thumb brushed some slick off of your chin before pushing the digit into your mouth. You licked his thumb clean with a flick of your tongue, moaning as you did so.

When he removed his finger, you allowed yourself to lean back into Aaron’s chest. Collapse, more like. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, and you took comfort in the way his cock softened inside of you.

Not as fazed as you are, Derek pulled his pants back up. He shoved his cock into his boxers, not minding the wet stain that he left on them.

“The bodies must be at the morgue right now. I’ll meet Spencer there.”

Only now did your mind feel clear enough to realize the gravity of the situation.

It became even more clear when Aaron gently pushed you off of him, taking your hand to lift you up. Then he repeated Derek’s acts by dressing himself.

Hurriedly you did the same, ignoring the warm semen that dripped down your thighs as you pulled your underwear up.

Aaron waited until you were done and then held out his hand, a white card seated between his thumb and pointer finger. “Thank you for your help. We’ll contact you when we know more about the case.”

-`♡´-

It was several days later when your phone rang.

It was a habit to pick up right away. As a manager, being the one all clients and establishments will reach out to.

“Hello?”

“It’s SSA Aaron Hotchner. We have an update on the case.”

“Oh,” you breathed out. Not your most clever response, but not yet having whipped your head around the fact of who’s on the other side of the line.

“Agent Morgan and I need to see you in private. Are you free tonight?”

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 3 months ago

Note

I wish there was an emoji for that orca meme where he waves his tongue and it’s been turned into like a fweaky thing. Yeah. That’s how I feel rn.

angsty request coming!!! hotch taking care of an overworked reader who hasn’t been sleeping!! maybe the team notices r has been a bit scattered or feverish and hotch steps in!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k Hotch knows, technically, that what he’s doing tonight is out of bounds. He just doesn’t care —can’t find it in himself to regret his actions as he shepherds you from the office and into his car. Doesn’t give your wide-eyed surprise any notice, doesn’t offer explanation as he takes you into the department store between the office and his apartment and tells you to choose.

“I don’t understand.”

He nods toward the lines of pointelle camisoles and shorts, gestures to the longer silken trousers, “Choose something to wear.”

You blink hotly. He’s flustered you, but that’s easy lately. “Do they have anything warmer?” you ask.

He takes your arm gently into his hand and turns you an inch, where the jersey material pajamas hang from the wall. There’s a nice brown coordinating set right in front of you. He guesses your size (he knows it from practice), pulling a hanger from up high to offer you. “Yes?” he asks.

“Why?”

“You’ll need them.”

You rub your face. “Okay, yeah. I like those ones.”

He folds them over his arm. He can feel you gaze on the side of his face as he takes you to the register and pays without giving the total any mind. Hotch doesn’t care how much anything costs, he only wants it to be soft. If it weren’t crossing a line, he would’ve found you new underwear, too.

He accepts the bag from the cashier and guides you out again. “Is there anything else you need?” he asks you.

“For what?”

“You aren’t going home.”

“I’m not?”

He shakes his head gently. He isn’t being intimidating, only straight forward. Hotch obviously isn’t in the business of kidnapping women, especially coworkers, friends, he just knows now that this won’t be solved without some tough love. “You’re staying with me, if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?”

Lethargic, you follow him to the car and get back in the front seat. He turns the heated seats on and watches you sink into the leather, clearly pleased, tired eyes slipping closed every now and then in the ensuing silence.

Regretfully, you startle as he parks, roused from whatever hooks that had finally managed to hold you. Heat, he thinks, is key here.

“I’m making oatmeal and cocoa,” he says as he opens the door, waiting for you to follow suit before he continues, “and you can go and get changed. You know where my room is?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, good. You can make yourself comfortable there.”

“In your room?”

He sends you a loving and agitated look over the door. Really? it says. You and Hotch have been trapped in an excitable will-they won’t-they situation for months, and he’d think by now the obvious answer to it all is we most certainly will. “Honey, yes. Unless you’d be more comfortable in Jack’s?”

“Does he still have the race car bed?”

“Afraid so.”

You hum, and lead the way to the house. Hotch hands you his keys, something in his chest tightly squeezed to see you turn the house key in the lock, to let yourself in, and to hold out your hand expectantly for the department bag. You head to his room like you do it everyday. Hotch resists the urge to call you back and kiss you with your jaw held in his hand —it’s not the point.

He gets a strange pang a few minutes later, stirring the pot of easy-sachet oatmeal, a rare pang of regret. Perhaps he’s being too headstrong, letting his worry guide him like this, pushing you to come home with him and to sleep in his bed. You might be at the same level as he is, but it still feels a little like pulling Spencer home with him and demanding he dress and eat as Hotch likes.

I’ll apologise, he thinks, setting your oatmeal and cocoa on a tray, conscious of the sun setting outside, night swiftly falling. If he really is going to say sorry and have you go home, you’ll be disrupted again. There’s a possibility Hotch has made this ten times worse.

He climbs the stairs and finds you laying on his side of the bed with your nose turned into his pillow, a damp sheen to your skin. You’ve washed your face, and changed into the new pajamas, just a little too big for you where you’ve curled around your hands.

“Honey?” he asks softly.

“Sorry,” you say, twice as quietly as he had, “just, it smells so nice in here.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ll move.”

“Just sit up,” he says, thinking of you in the office with your jittering and your glass-eyed stare. “I’ve brought you something.”

You nod heavily and do as he’s asked, again. He sets the tray on your lap and you look up at him. It’s the look that does it, really. The half circles under your eyes are nothing to him beyond proof that you aren’t sleeping, the bloodshot in your sclera, it’s all inconsequential. What floors him is the unquestioning trust to be found when you look at him. He doesn't kid himself when he thinks that this could lend itself to love.

“You know why I’ve asked you to come home with me?” he asks carefully.

“I worried you.”

He puts the tray in your waiting lap, gracing your chin with a quick stroke underneath, feather-light. “I haven’t abused my power?”

“Buying me new clothes and making me dinner?” you ask softly, evident delight on your face as you notice the squares of chocolate that have begun to melt into your oatmeal.

“Forcing you home with me and sequestering you in my bedroom.”

“It’s not how I thought it would happen,” you confess, gathering a heaping mountain of oatmeal onto your spoon, “not the first time, at least. I guess I should worry you more often.”

“No,” he says, holding your chin between his fingers until you meet his serious gaze. “You shouldn’t.”

Your eyebrows do something he can’t name, but there’s a word for what it inspires in his chest. “I won’t,” you promise.

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 3 months ago

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can y’all tell I’m back in my criminal minds phase?

Sleeping Beauty (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Nobody look @ me this is the filthiest thing I've ever written I need to go take a cold shower

Summary: With the demanding jobs you both work, you and Hotch see each other more often when one of you is asleep. An idea pops into your head.

Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only etc, somnophilia (if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to scroll bc it's the entirety of this fic lmao), angst if you squint, established relationship, consent/ground rules are established before anything happens, fingering, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex (don't be like them), mentions of phone sex, dirty talk, Hotch is just pussy-whipped as y'all say

WC: 3.8k bc I clearly have no self-control

It started as a joke. Mostly.

Both of your jobs are demanding — you and Hotch knew this from the start. It was first date material, after all. The usual, surface-level questions including So, what do you do for work?

He told you later that he thought about giving you a vague answer, so as to not scare you away. But you had opened up first, said that your job at the courthouse meant your hours were long and somewhat unpredictable, no matter how hard everyone tried to stick to the 8 to 5 routine. There were nights you wouldn’t leave your desk until nearly eight. Hotch’s chest had tightened at that, even on the first date, the idea of you overworking yourself, but he’s no better.

You told him some nights it was a miracle if you got home before ten; he joked with you and said it was a miracle he made it home some nights at all.

It was like everything opened up from there. There was no pressure. If one of you had to stay late, it didn’t really matter, because the other probably had to as well. If one of you had to cancel or postpone dinner plans, it was fine, because nine times out of ten, the other was already on their way to calling for the same reason.

It always makes the two of you laugh. The phone call the afternoon of the dinner plans, you laughing as you answer the phone to say, “Let me guess, raincheck?” His soft laughter, but apologetic all the same, “We just got called to New York.” And you expected it, so you said it was fine, right before your boss came knocking on your door, a frantic look in his eyes. “And I’m being summoned. Be safe in New York.” And Aaron’s ever-present gentlemanliness, “I’ll text you when I can. Go show them how it’s done.” You were grinning as you hung up, turning to your boss with an extra boost of confidence. “What do we have?”

As one can expect, this schedule, this careful dance the two of you have, means that nights together are rare, and the sex is, unfortunately, just as rare. Not that the two of you haven’t found other means— who knew Aaron’s dirty talk would somehow sound hotter through the phone when he’s timezones away, on a five minute break to call you and check in, and help you relax enough so you can sleep? But it’s not the same. It’s not the same as having him here.

And he is here, just not as often as you’d like, especially not when you’re awake. Ever since you started staying at his place — it’s closer to the courthouse, you tell yourself as an excuse, those five minutes make a big difference — you see him more often, but you mostly feel him. The dip of the mattress as he settles in to sleep beside you. The strong arm wrapping around your middle, pulling you toward him in his sleep, as if he needs to be certain you’re still there, even as he’s dreaming. The rustle of sheets as he scrambles to grab his phone to silence the incoming call, to get up and get dressed without waking you.

It’s just a fact. The two of you see each other more when you’re sleeping. Isn’t that crazy?

So, who can blame you, when one night, half-asleep, only woken by Aaron’s soft nuzzling into your neck, you say, “Keep going.”

He freezes, lips just barely hovering over your pulsepoint, the place he loves to suck on, nip at, because he loves all of the little sounds he can draw out of you.

When you’re awake.

“Honey,” he chuckles nervously, pulling back. “You’re asleep.”

“M’awake,” you protest, tossing your arms around him clumsily — as if that was going to prove your point.

He placates you with a soft kiss on your lips. “Sure, honey,” his laugh rumbles through his chest again as his hands smooth up your arms. “I believe you.”

“See?” you murmur, but your eyes are closed. There is no way you’ll remember this come morning. “You can keep going. Wanna feel you.”

He tenses. The idea is tempting, and that scares the shit out of him, which is exactly why his hands don’t move any lower than your arms. You’re practically asleep, for god’s sake. That’s taking advantage, and he will not be doing that.

“Maybe later,” he says gently, kissing your forehead this time. “I’m exhausted.”

You whine, but you bury your face in his chest, and your breathing slowly evens out.

He sighs, wrapping his arms around you, wondering what in the world he’s going to do with you.

+++

You do remember it. Aaron thought you wouldn’t, and for a couple days he was convinced that you didn’t, until a rare night when he returned home to find you already there.

“Half-day,” you explain with an easy smile, meeting him at the door for a kiss. “Well, kind of. I brought some work with me. You know how it is.”

You’re rambling and he knows it. You know it, too, but you can do nothing to stop it. He knows you need to talk to him about something, but you don’t want to admit it. He knows how you work.

Which infuriates you on a bad day. On a good day, it’s hot as hell.

Right now, it’s somehow a mix of both. All it takes is him sitting next to you on the couch, seemingly unbothered by your fidgeting, and one simple question.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Too many things,” you answer automatically, letting out a laugh and exhale at the same time. God, your chest feels so tight, and not in a good way. Since when are you this nervous to talk to Aaron? The man you’ve been seeing for well over a year now, the man who has been nothing but understanding with everything you’ve thrown his way, the man who is sitting right here with you, who knows exactly what your nervous rambling means and isn’t upset with you for it.

As if he can sense the anxiety rolling inside of you (and he can sense it), he reaches out to thread your fingers with his. “You can talk to me. Is it work?” You shake your head. “Is it us?”

“Kind of.”

“Is it the other night?”

Your eyes blow wide, giving you away entirely. Your eyes snap to his. “Seriously? Three questions? That’s how long it took you?”

He chuckles. “It would’ve only taken one, but I didn’t want to assume.”

“Cocky motherfucker,” you mutter, which only makes him laugh more. This is good. Lightening the mood is good. You don’t need to be so on edge about this, about what is most likely about to be Rejection City Central. “Okay. So. Yes. The other night.”

He nods, waiting patiently for you to get your words together.

“I feel like it was…too much.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Too much?” Nothing happened. Do you think something happened?

“I feel like I pushed too far, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, we don’t have to harp on it anymore than this, I just— I felt like I was pushing you into doing something you don’t want to do. And I don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“Honey,” he stops you gently. “Hey, look at me.”

Slowly, you do, but there’s worry swimming in your eyes.

“What do you remember?” he asks. He knows how it sounds, cryptic and probably a little scary, but he needs to fully see where your head is.

“Um,” you hesitate, your eyes darting away again. “I remember asking you to keep going and you saying no. Because I was asleep.”

He nods. “Okay.” He pauses, gathering his words. “Honey, we’ve never talked about that before, about doing anything when either of us is sleeping—”

“We don’t have to do it,” you immediately interrupt, clearly still with the wrong idea in your head. “It’s weird, I get it—”

“It’s not weird, not to me,” Aaron says, remembering the way desire flared in him. He had secretly hoped you would still be awake that night, not because he wants you to deprive yourself of sleep, but because he wanted to have you. “And it’s especially not weird if it’s something you want, too.”

You pause, staring at him wide-eyed. “Wait. You. You’d want to?”

“Absolutely,” he says, trying not to sound so unbelievably wrecked just by the thought. “But I want us to talk about it first. Set ground rules. Figure things out first.” He pauses, squeezing your hand. “Believe me, I wanted to.”

Your lips part just a little in disbelief. “You did?”

He nods seriously. “Of course I did. Do you have any idea how good you look sleeping in one of my old shirts and nothing else?”

You smirk, a wicked look brewing in your eyes. “I have an idea.”

He pulls you over into his lap for a bruising kiss, one hand cradling your jaw. It’s intoxicating, his tongue on yours, all gasps and moans as he rocks your body against his.

“Wait,” you gasp, his lips chasing yours as you pull back. “I want to talk about it.”

“We will,” he bites out, just before he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. “But I want to taste you first.”

+++

You do talk about it. You lay the ground rules, for both of you.

Aaron orders a new pair of panties just for the occasion, so that when you wear them, it’s a signal. He can do what he wants. For him, it’s slightly different, since he always sleeps in boxers, so if he’s not wearing anything, that’s his signal. He wants to be woken up; you’re happy to be mostly asleep, though you know your body will wake you up and want to stay awake to drink him in.

And, of course, if when either of you wake up, if it’s too much and it needs to stop immediately, you have your safe words, but a simple no, stop will work given the added complication of being asleep.

It’s exhilarating, thinking about it. Planning everything out. Your body practically buzzes with need.

But you have no idea when it will happen. That’s the whole point, of course, but it’s complicated with your work schedules. The strange hours and days you both work has never pissed you off so badly as it does now.

It’s as if your schedules are mocking you. Every time it feels like there might be a night where something could happen, something comes up. Aaron is called away, a case goes sideways and delays his return, or you get slammed at work and don’t make it home in time before he’s called away, or you get home in such a bad mood that if he even tried to touch you, you might lay into him.

It just never seems to line up properly, none of it. You start to think it was foolish to want it so badly, that you should’ve known better with your schedules.

Especially because now, it’s quickly approaching week two of Aaron being away on a case in Florida, and week two of you practically living at his place since going back to your own apartment feels too empty.

You miss him. It’s an aching feeling, one you don’t get often because you two make things work, and because you’re usually too busy to feel it, but it’s here now. This is the second-longest case he’s been away on. And because the universe is torturing you, work is calm for the moment, so you don’t even have that as a distraction.

All you have are Aaron’s old law school t-shirts, a bed that still, miraculously, smells like him after a week of his absence, and a pair of lace panties that seem laughable as you pull them on.

You curl up against Aaron’s pillows, sighing deeply. When you close your eyes, it’s almost like he’s next to you.

+++

Hotch is bone-tired. It’s been a long time since a case has been this wild, full of this many twists, and dragging on so long that it’s starting to piss him off. All he wanted to do was finish this case quickly and get home to his girl, but the unsub had to drag things out. For a week and a half.

It’s so late when they get back to Virginia that he doesn’t bother texting you, not wanting to risk the sound waking you from your no-doubt peaceful slumber. He smiles faintly as he drives toward his apartment, thinking of you sleeping so softly, probably twisted in the sheets from how restless you get on your own.

God, he misses you.

He’s quiet as he unlocks the door and quickly silences the alarm. The apartment is dark as he sets his briefcase down on the couch, shrugging off his suit jacket as he heads down the hall. The door to his room is cracked just barely, and soft snores are coming from a lump in the middle of the bed.

He chuckles to himself as he enters, stealing a glance at you as he walks to his closet. He quickly undresses, not bothering to hang anything up until morning. Right now, he just wants to be next to you.

With just his boxers on, he heads back to the bed, lifting the sheet and— He freezes.

You’re in your usual pajamas: his shirt and your underwear. Except this time, it’s a very specific pair of underwear. A specific pair of lace panties that he remembers ordering, probably spending too much money on, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to be special. And they are.

And you’re wearing them.

He stands there like he’s seen a ghost, his brain momentarily short circuiting as he tries to compose himself. He swallows.

He’s only human. It’s been so long since he’s seen you, even longer since he’s touched you, or even got to hear you touch yourself. The case was too hectic for even your usual phone sex, and he didn’t realize how wild it was driving him until now.

He tosses the sheet back gently, watching as you curl further into his pillow, your body registering the sudden chill.

Slowly, he crawls over you, settling himself at the end of the bed. He can only imagine how crazed he looks right now, the way his eyes can’t leave your legs. He wants to drink you. Devour you in every way possible.

His movements are gentle, not wanting to wake you, not yet. You said you wouldn’t mind being asleep the entire time, but he wants to rouse you, wants you to really feel it even if for a moment, but not yet.

Right now, he stretches your legs out, turning you on your back. You make no noise other than a content sigh. He smirks as he spreads your legs, lowering his mouth to his favorite place.

He plans to take his time. He has all the time in the world, after all. You’re sleeping soundly.

He mouths at your core over your panties, just barely silencing his own groan. That would be something, waking you up because he can’t keep himself in line. He can already hear the playful annoyance in your sleep-filled voice if that were to happen.

Returning to his task, he drinks you in as he likes, smothering your inner thighs in kisses, even leaving a love bite or two there. It’s a private, guilty pleasure you both have. He loves to leave marks, you love to have marks. But you’re both adults and you absolutely cannot be caught with a hickey at the courthouse.

So, he leaves them here. In a place where only the two of you can see. It wakes something primal in him, seeing the little reddened marks where he’s irritated the skin enough for a bruise to form later. He smooths his thumb over the spot, pressing. If you were awake, that would earn him a little squeak. Right now, all he hears are your even breaths.

He hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them to the side, nearly cursing aloud at how beautiful you are. He has to take a moment, just admiring, his thumb gently stroking you, and already glistening. He pops the digit into his mouth, eyes rolling at the taste. You’re addicting like nothing he has ever known.

He tests the waters some more, blowing onto your core, watching in awe as your body reacts instinctively, even in your sleep. It’s mesmerizing.

He can’t wait any longer, so he doesn’t try. He surges forward, finally tasting you, finally lifting your legs to rest over his shoulders. He relaxes into his favorite place, sucking gently on your clit before dipping his tongue inside you. You don’t even shift in your sleep.

He wonders, then, if he can make you cum like this. In your sleep.

Suddenly, and albeit selfishly, he wants to try.

He takes his time inserting a finger into you, watching as you take him in so easily. He adds a second right away, knowing how much you hate it when he teases you with just one. Your walls clench around him, but your heat envelops him, and he’s dizzy with it.

He circles your clit with his tongue as he thrusts his fingers, curling just slightly until you clench, your body telling him he’s found what he was searching for. And he doesn’t relent, only massages that spot inside as his mouth works outside. He adds a third finger, your body welcoming the stretch, pulling him in.

You shift, and he comes up for air, watching your face, but you don’t wake. You melt into the pillows as his fingers continue their pace.

Relieved in some twisted way, he returns to sucking your clit, doubling down, forcing you toward that edge. He almost thinks it won’t happen, that there’s no possible way you’ll climax and not wake up, until he feels those tell-tale spasms, and he knows you’re close.

He groans into you, knowing how that sends you over when you’re awake, and it works even now. Your walls clench around him, spasming through the shocks of your orgasm, and he doesn’t stop, milking out every last bit, wanting to drown in the way you taste, the way your body relents.

You’re a dream. He presses a loving kiss to your inner thigh, disbelief in his every breath. Gently, he removes his fingers, and tugs your panties down, tossing them to the floor.

When he crawls back up the bed, you’re still sleeping soundly, but that won’t do.

He presses his erection into your hip, presses a kiss to your jaw, whispering, “Honey, I need you.”

+++

You’re floating on pure bliss. Dreams are rare these days, and dreams of Aaron are even rarer — which just feels rude, honestly. But this one. This one is the best you’ve ever had.

Only, you realize you aren’t dreaming at all. The sensations are real. The hot breath in your ear, the slick want between your thighs, the hard press of Aaron’s cock as he rocks against your hip.

But you’re so tired. You can’t bring your eyes to open. You barely have enough energy to turn toward him, to wrap an arm around his neck, toss your leg over his, pressing your core right against him. The growl he lets out is delicious.

The next thing you know, the boxers are no longer separating you, and the head of his cock is parting your lips.

You sigh in content as he thrusts into you, hitting you so deep, staying there just to grind his hips into yours.

“Missed you,” you murmur, hands clumsily tugging on his hair to pull his lips to yours. He goes without protest, licking into your mouth and you gasp in surprise, tasting yourself. “Did you…?”

He smirks against your lips. “Did you know you can have an orgasm in your sleep?”

Your eyes fly open at that, vision adjusting in the dark, but it’s easy to see the smug look on Aaron’s face. And then he pulls his hips back, slamming into you again and causing your eyes to roll back.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the words so gentle and soothing, a stark comparison to how brutal his pace and depth of his thrusts are. “Breathtaking. My sleeping beauty. Can you give me another one? Need to feel you again.”

You’re awake, but nowhere near alert enough to have any wits about you when he talks like that. You nod dumbly, rocking your hips in time with his, but your movements are sloppy, the pleasure rising at a blinding pace.

“Come on, honey,” he murmurs, capturing your lips again, his tongue searching for yours. “Just one more, then you can go back to sleep.”

Something about that does it for you. He thrusts as deep as he can go, and your body crashes, writhing against him as he holds you in place, grinding into you.

“There you go, so beautiful, honey,” he guides you through it, soaking up all of your little breathy moans.

But like every time when you have an orgasm (or two) when you’re already on the verge of sleep, your eyes are struggling to stay open.

“Aaron…” you whine, clinging to him. “Keep going.”

“Oh, I will, honey,” he chuckles, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead before flipping you onto your back again, so he can hover over you. “You just sleep for me, okay?”

You nod, the action already taking too much of your energy as your eyelids slam closed and refuse to lift again. He moves inside you, slower now, just a gentle pace, lulling you back to sleep.

It doesn’t take long for him to spill inside of you, and you’re still somewhat conscious, given the happy little sigh he hears you let out when he cums inside you. You’ve always loved the feeling.

Feeling wrecked, he slowly peels himself off of you, heading into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. When he returns, you’re back on your side, hugging his pillow again. He shushes you with gentle praise while he cleans you up before tucking you back in.

After cleaning himself and slipping boxers back on, the exhaustion hits him in full force, and he sleeps soundly with you tucked into his chest, clinging to him like a koala.

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 3 months ago

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i love ur user name so fucking much

Right back at you <33

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 3 months ago

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Yeah, I’m coming! All over my screen. Catch! 🤗

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

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c0cksuck3rs4lif3 · 4 months ago

Text

OH MY LAWD PLEASE HAVE MERCY

Roses Behind Her Eyes [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader] **

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 1.9k|| AN: Some poetic smut because I felt like their first time wouldn't be entirely raunchy...but there is room for raunchy florist!reader requests Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, MDNI, tasteful smut, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, unprotected sex, first time together, spoilers to episode 100, mentions of scars, reader is a little insecure, fear of being perceived Summary: Big, expensive arrangements to make for the biggest days in your customers' lives? You never got nervous. About to have sex with Aaron Hotchner for the first time? Very nervous.

It hadn’t been the first date.

But it wasn’t too long after either.

A few dinners. A slow walk home after a stakeout-worthy lunch break. A lot of lingering eye contact, subtle touches, whispered remarks that walked a razor-thin line between charming and obscene.

You flirted with Aaron Hotchner like it was your job.

You did it at your shop.

Over the phone.

Across tables at dimly lit restaurants.

You even flirted with him once through a flower arrangement--

Note tucked in between white peonies and ranunculus that said: “If you were a flower, I’d press you in a book and never let you go.”

He never responded to it in writing.

But he did respond with a look the next time he saw you.

The kind that said, Be careful what you start.

You thought you were prepared.

(You weren’t.)

You weren’t prepared for how quiet and focused he became when he let himself want you--

How he listened when you spoke, watched you when you moved. How it felt to have all that slow-burn attention turned solely on you.

And now?

Now you were standing in his bedroom, a little out of breath, skin warm from being kissed too many times to count, and you realized with a jolt:

You were nervous.

You. Nervous.

Huge expensive arrangements to make on some of the biggest days of your customers' lives? All that pressure? Never a nerve in sight. Now…standing in front of a man who could just change your life? Nervous. Very…very nervous.

For a person who doesn’t get nervous.

Wow, you should mention it again. Nervous.

You hadn’t had sex in a long time--

Like…a really long time? Like, potentially re-virginized long time…

Not just physically, but intimately. This kind of real. This kind of weighted. All your playful confidence, your bold lines, your innuendos--

Those were second nature.

You wore flirtation like a second skin. But this?

This was Hotch.

Aaron.

Who was already halfway undressed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal that taut, defined chest you had definitely fantasized about more than once. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even hungry.

It was intentional.

And it was wrecking you.

You hovered awkwardly by the bed, arms still wrapped around yourself, unsure what to do with your hands--

You suddenly felt like you were nineteen all over again.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

Damn, profiler.

Why’d he have to be so good at his job?

Your brain raced and thought about all of your little imperfections. The softness your body had. It wasn’t toned or overly fit. The callouses your hands held from years of holding shears and being cut with thorns--

Being cut with thorns almost metaphorically, too.

Years and years of that.

You’d become a closed off version of yourself.

Hotch moved slowly toward you, still barefoot, his expression soft but attentive.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently.

You tried to play it off. “Are you complaining?”

“Not yet.”

You huffed out a laugh, but it didn’t land. Your eyes darted toward the bed again. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now.

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding.

“...Yeah. Just--” you breathed out. “It’s been…a while.”

His brows pulled slightly, but not with judgment.

“With someone I wanted like this, I mean,” you clarified quickly. “Someone I wasn’t just trying to...get through.”

Hotch’s hand curled around your waist gently, anchoring you. It almost shut off your thoughts. You could only feel his touch. It was confusing. The control freak in you wanted to scream. Run. Push him away.

You could become addicted to something that had this ability to shut off your worried mind. You could get used to having someone calm your thoughts and worries. They were always there and to feel them dissipate so…so naturally, it felt dangerous. Like you were playing with fire.

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to,” you said, surprising even yourself. “I talk a big game. I flirt like it’s a sport. But when it comes to this--actually being with someone--I freeze up. Like I’m supposed to be good at this just because I make innuendos for a living.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease.

He just stepped closer, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him seep into your skin.

“You don’t have to perform for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

You blinked fast.

His thumb stroked the curve of your hip through your dress. “You’re already here. That’s all I want.”

That broke something in you--

Something tight you didn’t realize you’d been holding in your chest.

You reached for him slowly, kissing him again. This time softer. Slower. Less trying to impress, more trying to feel.

And he met you there. Every second of it.

Maybe you could allow one night of this…this drug. One time couldn’t hurt? One time of just shutting off that brain of yours.

When he peeled your dress off, it wasn’t with a groan or a joke. It was reverent. Like he’d been dying to know what you looked like under the layers but didn’t want to rush a second of it. His fingers were warm and careful and steady--

Reassuring in a way that made you feel safe and desired.

And when he laid you down, he didn’t say anything poetic or raunchy.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

The reflection met back to you from him was one you didn’t recognize. It was at this moment when you realized maybe your self-esteem was past poor because when he looked at you, you thought he had to be looking at someone else. How could he look at you that way? You?

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was the only thing in the world he was sure of.

Certainty. Not a trace of hesitation.

And then he kissed you like he meant it.

Not just the kind of kiss that makes your stomach twist or your knees weak--

But the kind that says I see you. I want all of you. You’re safe with me.

You didn’t think much during that first time. You didn’t need to. Because every time doubt crept in, his hands were there. His voice was there. His eyes, grounding you back into your body.

It felt like second nature. You could think about all of the ways it was like a blooming flower, just knowing what to do without being told. But even now, there was no space for metaphors.

And when he finally had you beneath him, skin to skin, all pretense melted. The teasing. The armor. The curated confidence you wore like perfume--

Gone.

Out the window.

Down the street.

On a plane already halfway across the world.

Hotch touched you like you were breakable, but worshiped you like he’d been waiting his whole life to get it right. Every kiss was slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing over your jaw, your neck, your chest with devastating patience.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t with a sharp gasp or a rushed moan--

It was a breath. A grounding. A reverent exhale against your shoulder as your fingers curled into his back.

You clung to him, thighs wrapping around his waist instinctively, holding him close like your body knew how to do this even if your mind was still catching up.

And Hotch? He didn’t rush you. He didn’t take--

He gave.

Gave you time. Gave you softness. Gave you heat, slow and building, coaxing your nerves away with every deep, languid thrust that left you gasping and aching for more.

He knew exactly where to put his hands. How to angle your hips…how to hit the right spots.

You didn’t expect how vocal he was--

How he’d murmur things in your ear with that low, gravelly voice of his, wrecked by restraint.

“God, you feel good.”

Or, “You’re driving me crazy.”

And the one line you’d fall back on when the bed is too empty without him because, wow, it did something to you when he said this, “Don’t hide from me, baby--look at me.”

You did. You couldn’t not.

And when he groaned your name like a secret, hips stuttering, fingers tightening on your waist--

He could leave his hands thereforever.

It…it didn’t feel like sex.

It felt like letting go.

You weren’t graceful about it either--

Your back arched, legs trembling, head throw back when it finally crested. You tried to muffle the sounds in your throat, but he wasn’t having that. He kissed you through it, swallowed every whimper, told you not to hold back.

He wanted all of it.

All of you.

And by the time it was over, your heart was still racing, your body was humming, and all you could do was lay there--tangled in sheets and in him--wondering how the hell you were supposed to go back to normal after that.

He kissed your shoulder, then your cheek, “You okay?”

You nodded, chest full. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

And Hotch, steady as ever, whispered back, “Good.”

The room was still, the night hushed in that way only post-midnight could be. A car passed slowly outside, headlights momentarily flickering across the ceiling. You lay beside him, skin warm beneath the sheets, your heart finally beginning to beat like it belonged to you again.

Hotch was on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly against your hip. He looked more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.

You shifted onto your side, head on his shoulder, and let your hand drift across his chest, fingertips grazing slowly over skin that was far more defined than you'd expected. Then your touch stilled--

Pausing over a pale scar just beneath his left clavicle.

It wasn’t huge. But it was there. Clean, raised. Healed, but noticeable.

You traced it gently, and his breath hitched ever so slightly.

“Where’d this come from?” you asked softly.

Hotch hesitated for a second. “Work.”

You glanced up at him, expression curious but not prying. “That FBI is a dangerous line of work….”

You tried not to think about someone hurting him like that…you didn’t know him well enough to care for him that deeply. Not yet. You’re not sure if you could let yourself get to that point, so you pushed it down. That uneasy feeling.

He nodded once. “Sometimes.”

You hummed in response, fingers brushing lower across his ribs, then over his abdomen. “That explains the rest of this,” you said, a teasing note sneaking into your voice. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a body like this in a flower shop.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

You shifted a little, stretching your arm out between you, and he caught your wrist gently in his hand, turning it palm-up. His brow furrowed.

“These,” he murmured, thumb gliding across a small, white scar along the side of your forearm. “What happened here?”

You laughed quietly, slightly embarrassed. “Occupational…hazard.”

He looked confused.

“Being a florist,” you clarified with a little smile. “Thorns. Shears. Floral wire. Those centerpiece installations don’t build themselves, and rose stems are meaner than they look.”

His eyes flicked over your skin again, taking in the small marks. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“I try to keep the bloodshed off the showroom floor,” you said dryly.

Hotch smiled at that, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

You traced over the scar on his chest again, slower this time, a little more thoughtful. “I like that we both wear what we do.”

He turned his head to look at you fully.

You shrugged. “It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think? You protect people. I make things beautiful. Both jobs come with little reminders.”

Hotch leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“They suit you,” he murmured. “The marks. The job. All of it.”

Your lips curved upward, eyes fluttering closed as you settled closer into his side.

“Likewise,” you whispered. “Even if your work stories are definitely cooler.”

He huffed a laugh. “Debatable.”

And there, tangled in his sheets, your hands on each other’s skin--scars and softness and all--you felt more seen than you had in a long, long time.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue

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