#slash writing communities | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redlighttokyo · 2 years ago

Text

Cruel Summer

Chapter 12: The Great British Horror Show

Word Count: 2.3k

Cw/tw: heavy voyeurism, p in v, praise!kink, incest, military!kink, uniform!kink, size!kink, belly bulge, breeding!kink, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), mommy!kink/daddy!kink implied, sub!Brahms, sub!reader, dom!oc

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brahms seethed with rage; hands balled up into tight fists and face red with anger. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to be the one to pull those delicious sounds from you as the scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the hot summer night air. But there you were, folded in half with your knees touching your shoulders. Felix’s large hands pinning you down by your knees as he slammed himself into you over and over; earning the sweet moans and gasps and cries that were coming from you.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away. Brahms was addicted to you in every sense of the word. You were his first thought in the morning and last thought at night. Even when he was mad at you for breaking his rules, he couldn’t get enough of you. Always close behind. Always observing. One day he will show himself to you – you deserved to know of his presence. Even though you already knew he was there; he was just a ghost in a lonely mansion with only his niece to keep him company.

His niece. You were his niece. You were blood.

The mere thought of you being his niece excited him. His mother would never allow him to date anyone; even now that she’s gone. He didn’t want just anyone. He thought he wanted Greta, he really did. But when you stepped foot in Heelshire mansion five days ago, Brahms knew that you were the one he’d been waiting for. You were perfect. And to find out you were his long lost Evie; his heart couldn’t take it. He’d essentially moulded himself a place in your life from a young age. So maybe showing himself to you wouldn’t be that much of a shock because you already knew he was there.

Brahms’ icy gaze couldn’t be pried from the scene unfolding in front of him as he peered through the peephole. He couldn’t believe how bendy and durable you were. Felix was in no way small, or even average. No, he sported a long girthy dick that stretched you in ways Charlie could only dream of. You were taking Felix’s cock like a champ. And judging by the cock drunk expression that read pure untainted ecstasy and bliss that flushed your usually pale face, you loved every moment his cock was inside you.

Jealousy coursed through Brahms’ veins – he so desperately wanted to be the one mounted on top of you, pumping his own cock in and out of your gushing cunt like a man possessed. He laid claim to you the moment you stepped foot in the mansion five days ago. Felix is just a pest that needed to be gotten rid of.

“Mine,” Brahms hissed through gritted teeth as he watched you get plowed on his recently deceased parents’ bed. If that didn’t stir up so emotions for Brahms then nothing would faze him.

“That’s right, take this cock like a good girl,” Felix purred in your ear but loud enough Brahms could hear it from across the room. His brows furrowed in confusion; why did Felix just call you a good girl? He wasn’t wrong but Brahms had never heard someone say that during sex. Then again the only people he’s seen have sex were his parents a couple of times. Brahms learned real quick not to invade their bedroom.

Brahms’ jaw dropped when in return for calling you a good girl you let out a long, shaky moan. He took note that you liked that. He also took note of how your body reacted to every movement and purr of encouragement.

God you looked beautiful. You looked like an angel in his eyes. You always have. Which was why he nicknamed you Eve when you were little. Brahms had a lot of time to read; his mother suggested he read the Bible. Brahms plowed through the book in a week. That’s why he nicknamed you Eve. You were so pure and delicate. Even now, as you were getting railed in your dead grandparents‘ bed, Brahms thought you looked so pure and innocent.

Your dark hair was sprawled across the bed wildly. Your porcelain skin almost glowed in the dim light of the nightstand lamp. Besides the moth tattoo on your lower back, not a mark could be found on you. Your breasts bounced with every thrust as you clung onto Felix’s arms for dear life. Your knees were pinned against your shoulders, opening you up for his assault. The expression on your flushed face told him you had little to no brain function; you were cock drunk.

‘I should be the one to make her like this. It should be me,’ Brahms bitterly thought. His anger turned to rage. His entire body felt like it was set ablaze. Brahms couldn’t stop himself from raising his fists and slamming them against the wall as hard as he could without breaking the wall, causing a loud bang to sound through the house.

The choir of moans and praises, as well as the sound of skin slapping stopped. Brahms felt ice run through his veins when he realized what he’d done. He lowered his head in defeat, listening closely.

“What was that?” Felix’s voice broke the silence.

“Don’t know, don’t care. Keep going,” you ordered breathlessly. With that, Brahms lifted his head in disbelief and peered through the hole once again. No, he couldn’t have just heard you say that. You knew Brahms was there and you choose to ignore him? No one’s ever dared do that before. He couldn’t believe it.

Without a second thought, you and Felix went back to it. Brahms could only stare in awe. He didn’t know what else to do. He’s made himself known to you and you voted against his protest with that knowing. Only one person’s ever done that; Haydn. During one of your visits with your grandparents your dad figured out that Brahms was still lurking in the mansion as a spirit. But one day when you were two your dad cut Brahms’ music time short because you were getting fussy and tired. Brahms retaliated not letting your dad sleep that night.

But there you were, defying his rules and protests. Brahms was furious as he plotted revenge.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pry his eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of him. You and Felix had swapped positions; you were now on top, bouncing on his cock like a pro.

Mindlessly, Brahms’ hand snaked down the wall to the hem of his trousers. Fingers dancing over the hem until they unfastened the button effortlessly. He dragged the zipper down to the end of its track before fishing into his trousers – freeing his erect cock. Brahms shivered at the contact despite his skin feeling like it was on fire. A quivering whimper escaped his lips as he began to stroke his shaft.

Not once did Brahms’ gaze waiver from you. You looked so determined but at the same time so cock drunk. You appeared to be barely conscious as you rode Felix. Brahms tried to keep in time with you as you bounced and rode him – imagining it was him who was under you getting the best fuck of his life.

Brahms’ hand worked his shaft as his imagination ran wild with aid from the scene in front of him. His heart felt like it was about to explode out of his chest as a wonderful electric sensation radiated from his crotch.

“Fuck, Ev. Good girl,” Felix moaned unevenly with his hands on your hips, guiding you up and down his length. His words pulled a high pitch moan from you. Your beautiful blue eyes rolled in pleasure; sometimes crisscrossing.

“Good girl,” Brahms repeated in a raspy whisper.

Then something caught his eye. He couldn’t help but notice the disappearing and reappearing bulge in your lower stomach. Brahms examined it closely, trying to figure out what it was. He’s never seen you with a bump in your lower belly that magically disappears and reappears.

That’s when it struck him; he knew what that bulge was. It was Felix’s cock inside you. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He’s never seen such a provocative sight in his life; he swore his soul left his body for a moment and he got to experience pure, unaltered heavenly bliss for a fraction of a second.

Brahms’ hip stuttered into his fist as a shaky moan passed his lips. His eyes fluttered as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through his body; radiating from his groin. Brahms was roughly the same size, maybe a little more girthy, as Felix which meant that when Brahms has you on top of him he’ll be able to see his own cock poke through your belly.

His hips stuttered again at the thought; his grip tightening slightly and his hand working his shaft in time with your thrusts. In his doped out mind he believed he was actually fucking you. His steel blue eyes never leaving your form.

“I’m gonna cum,” you declared between pants. Brahms staggered back a bit in awe. He knew boys climaxed but he didn’t know girls could too. Why didn’t his dad tell him this when they had the puberty talk? His dad told him that in order to make a baby or just wants to get off, a guy needs to orgasm; said absolutely nothing about women being able to orgasm too.

After a split second to recover, Brahms was back to peeking through the five pence sized hole.

You were still rhythmically riding him; your moans came out as high pitch squeals. Felix had his hands on your hips, guiding you up and down and singing you praises such as:

“You’re such a good girl.”

“Such a good little cum slut.”

“Be a good girl and cum on daddy’s cock. I know you want to.”

Brahms studied what got you off; he noticed you liked to be called nice names, and mean names as well. You wanted roughness to complement your sweetness. You were quite the paradox. Unlike Greta or any of the other nannies before you. You were very vocal about your wants and needs, and desires. He’s never met someone quite like you before. You puzzled him greatly.

“I’m cumming!” You cried before a loud squeal passed your lips; followed by a slurry of curses. You lifted yourself off of Felix as you gushed all over his lower half. Felix’s hand left your twitching hip to rub your cunt as the clear fluid gushed out of you.

Brahms’ eyes were wide as he watched you. He just learned that woman can orgasm too and now he’s getting to see it in person. You made him want you even more now. He wanted you to squirt all over him as you came.

Brahms’ eyes rolled mindlessly as his own climax began to creep up on him. His hand went even faster; pumping his cock at a mind dizzying pace. He heard you instruct Felix to put it back in – it was followed by sloshing sound. His eyes snapped onto your form once again.

You had switched positions once again. This time you were laying on your front, facing Brahms’ direction. Your legs were closed and Felix was straddling your ass; thrusting his hips into yours.

Brahms watched as Felix reached down and wrapped his hand in your hair – pulling by the base of your hair. You were forced to look directly at Brahms; or at least that’s what he believed. You hazy blue eyes stared in his direction – he felt like you could see him instead of a blank space on the wall.

“Fill me with your cum.” Your voice came out in a high pitched, breathless way. Brahms’ heart palpitated and his hips jerked and twitched into his hand. He had to look away from you so he could keep it together – he didn’t want to orgasm yet. He wanted to relish in the sight of you getting fucked from behind.

You were barely conscious; not in the least bit coherent. Blush gathered in your cheeks, dusting them a dusty rose colour. Your swollen red lips were parted slightly as your icy blue eyes were half closed. You were a moaning and squealing mess.

The sounds of sloshing skin hitting skin and the smell of sex hung heavy in the night air. Brahms was finding it hard to focus – his body so desperately craved a release but he wanted to savor this.

The jealousy, the rage, the horniness; it all pulsed through his veins like magma in a volcano. The heat from the day almost felt cool against his ablaze skin. Sweat seeped through his white wife beater as it made many rivers down his body. His breath was fast and shallow – barely getting any oxygen to his hazy brain.

He could feel his climax building; egging him to go faster than he already was. It was creeping up on him quickly. He was so desperate for release – especially after watching you get yours. There were a few things Brahms was; the main thing is needy. Brahms was very needy and greedy. He was a spoiled little boy with a silver spoon in his mouth. He couldn’t get enough of a good thing. And right now you were the centre of his focus. He needed you. He wanted nothing but for you to touch him forever.

Brahms’ mind couldn’t help but wander; imagining how you must feel. Soft. Warm. Wet. You must feel like heaven.

That was the final string holding Brahms back from his climax snapped. His entire body shook violently as thick, white ropes of cum coated his hand and the wall directly in front of him. He had to bite his knuckles to prevent the loud moan from gaining your attention. Brahms didn’t even notice that Felix was currently filling you with his cum as he reached his orgasm.

Brahms’ mind completely blacked out. It was overrun with chemicals that sent him into a tizzy. Brahms’ body went limp; plummeting him to the floor between the walls with a loud thump.

“What was that?”

210 notes · View notes

therightbeaches · 5 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 ⋆ 𝐚. 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

synopsis: following a near-encounter with death, your not-quite-boyfriend slash boss takes it upon himself to take care of you. [5.7k] contents: fem!bau!reader, reader was mentioned to be hurt but no gory descriptions about what happened, but theres semi-graphic (?) descriptions of hypothetical injury, first kiss, soft hotch, this is fully self-indulgent fluff (forgive me) a/n: i've never written for criminal minds before and i am rather nervous so please dont criticize too harshly :') + i tried to not make him too ooc (not sure how well that worked out.) i also beg for one-shot requests because i love writing them :p reblogs and comments are more than appreciated ♡ i hope you enjoy!

Sense by sense you come to.

Taste. On your tongue lingers the metallic taste of blood. It coats your throat thick like petroleum jelly. The aftertaste of artificial sweetener. Saccharine.

Smell. It’s sterile, alcohol swabs. Dully sweet like laundry. Coffee and creamer. So good and warm it’s nauseating.

Hearing. Steady beeping somewhere from your right. The rustle of fabric. Birdsong bleeds through thick walls. A phone rings, shrill and stark amongst the dull hustle and bustle outside of your room, and a woman speaks unintelligibly.

Touch. A pinprick tag itches against the back of your neck. Scratchy cotton sheets and a gauzy blanket and a too-flat pillow. Then a slow-burning hurt that climbs through your limbs like being devoured by flame, and you think that if you didn’t already meet your end then this must be what it’s like.

Your eyes blink open. The fluorescent lights above are too bright for you to see anything. Metal clinks as someone opens the curtains, then, Aaron’s face comes into your view in a hazy blur. He has a big bandage on his left cheek and prominent dark circles but otherwise looks well enough.

“Hello,” he says, and a warm paper cup of coffee is pushed into your stiff hands. “How do you feel?”

“Bad.”

“I know. I’m sorry. How much does it hurt?”

“Um... a six and a half. I mostly feel really out of it.”

“They’ve given you as much painkillers as they can. I bet that the brain fog will lift once you have something solid to eat.”

You push yourself up slowly as he edges into focus. In one hand he has a black duffel bag with your old shirt’s dirty sleeve hanging out of the zipper top, white fabric stained rust-brown with dirt and old blood. In the other, a thick manila folder with a seal adorning the front and his pen shoved into the crease.

There’s a strange silence then; strange within itself and strange in the fact that, with him, silence is never strange. His lips twitch downwards: he can feel it too. Then he inhales sharply as though it stings to speak.

“You were more than brave out there. You saved Julia’s life.”

“Thank you. That’s what I wanted to do.”

Your tone must not be convincing enough because he puts the bag down and curls his fingers around the half-rails of your bed, reinforces the idea with a pointed look and sighs, “I’m being serious. We wouldn’t have made it in time to help her without your courage.”

“Thank you,” you say again, milder this time.

He doesn’t say anything further. He doesn’t need to. The sort of unspoken communication that blossoms with time and effort; he looks out for you, and in turn you look out for him. It’s the same for the rest of the team, of course, but it’s no coincidence that you’re the one he always picks to watch his six in the field. And, again, he needn’t speak for you to know. Perhaps born from the innate desire to wane the burn of vulnerability; words stamped across his skin invisible to the untrained eye.

It’s different this time, though. He’s leaving not because he wants to — rather, he has to, stolen away from you as you were him by your profession (a whole thirty-six hours he had to spend without you around to nag him, what a tragedy it was!) You’d expected him to come just to leave since the moment you saw him, but perhaps foolishly, you’d clung to a shard of hope that’d cut up and bloodied your palms. You rub them together self-consciously.

He waves the folder in the air unenthusiastically and, despite him knowing you’ve already put the pieces together, voices it anyway.

“I can’t really stay for long,” he says simply.

“Where are you going?”

A prompt, disguised by niceties in typical fashion, though entirely unnecessary with him: when will I be able to see you again?

He sucks on his teeth and flips the folder open. “Albany. I think a day or two at most and we’ll be back.” He spares the details of the case lest you worry yourself to your grave. Your recent brush with death has already been nearly too much for the team to handle.

You don’t mean to slip into the habit of doubting him, not Aaron, who knows better than to lie to you because always he’ll splinter, crack, then crumble into a fine powder under the weight of your gaze. He’s smart, so smart, and so perceptive and by God if you know anything, you know him — down to the lines of his fingerprints and each individual eyelash across his waterlines, and you know now that something is troubling him.

“What is it?” you ask.

His brows crease in the center like you’ve said something offensive. “What is what?”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m not,” he says, sounding like he’s sulking.

He knows something that you don’t and he doesn’t want to tell you — evident through the bob of his Adam’s apple with a thick swallow, the whitening of his knuckles around the bed’s guard rails. You give your cup a perfunctory squeeze and the plastic lid pops off and skitters to the ground.

There’s another silence wherein you wait, he waits too, staring at you dumbly. An eternity passes till he brushes his thumb over the length of your forearm, elbow to wrist, then traces the ridges of your knuckles before letting his arm drop limply to his side. He looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot and draws the blue privacy curtains around your bed to enforce extra precaution.

“I was just worried,” he finally says, his voice lowered. “I still am, honestly. You know, seeing you like… this.” Like, sick and weak, strung up with IVs like a puppet and unable to move without strain. “And I don’t want to leave you,” he adds as an afterthought.

In the presence of other agents, doctors, strangers, he’s a professional. He knows how to keep things curt and platonic, but when it’s just you and him, I missed you, I was worried about you, I need you around, I can’t lose you.

The way he speaks to you makes you feel something. He worries about you every moment you’re on the field. He frets over you when you’re ill, misses you when you’re apart, thinks about you all the time. Long ago you’d passed the threshold between mere team members to friends, and now, you’re touching base with what’s next. Beyond friends. Borderline lovers. Whatever that could mean for you. And the vulnerability in his voice strikes you, making him sound so small, so pained by your pain.

“You don’t need to worry,” you say, hoping to soothe his qualms. “I feel alright.”

“I can’t help it. I thought... I don’t know what I thought.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” is your light response, then a switch of the topic, and you ask again, “Will you tell me about the case?”

He puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder, then it moves to push your hair out of your eyes. Lingers in a soft caress on your cheek and your palm fits over the back of it when you lift your hand to cover his.

“Like I said, I think it’ll only be a couple days. Don’t stress yourself out over it. I want you to focus on getting better, alright?”

“Can you call me?” you ask.

“Every chance I get.”

And, trapped in the makeshift prison of your hospital bed, you can only croak out a weak goodbye that scratches your throat as you watch him leave.

⊹₊ 𐙚

It’s been a week since they discharged you from the hospital, assigned a lot of rest and fluids. Seldom a word from Aaron, though, and you, too, are beginning to fret just like he had over you. Your cuticles are peeled from existence, you’ve bit your nails too short and raw and red, your lips are chapped to the point your mouth tastes of metal more often than not.

Penelope has been more than kind and has kept you company in your too-empty apartment, even bringing over the case file and a grainy image of the evidence board sent over by the rest of the team for your viewing pleasure. You didn’t have much of value to add and ended up feeling more useless than you were to begin with.

Now, your gaze is trained on the toes of your too-big socks. A seam is misaligned along the top and the heel has pulled up to the back of your ankle. And you think of him. He’s all you can think about as of late. Feels something like nausea crawling up your throat to think of something happening to him.

Nervous. On edge. Sick with worry. He said one or two days. It’s been six and counting, who knows what could have happened to him out there, he was being secretive about it and he’s never secretive with you. Not you, why wouldn’t he tell you what was happening? Why wouldn’t he let on any details about the case? What if he’d anticipated getting hurt or —

You don’t dare entertain the thought. The only reason you’d imagined it up in the first place is because it happened to you. In the end, you’re still very much human no matter how much bureaucratic authority you have. That’s to say, you’re very much flesh and blood and bone, and from the safety of your apartment Aaron is even more so when he’s out on the field. Flesh can be cut, torn apart, blood can spill unstoppably like a faucet, bone can shatter into a million unfixable pieces. A bulletproof vest will do nothing against a knife jammed into his neck or a shotgun to the back of his head. You shudder and tug at your socks to un-bunch them from your heels.

In the middle of your bout of overthinking, the lock on your door clicks and turns and it swings open with a quiet creak. Aaron stands in the doorway, backlit by the dingy lights outside, akin to an angel with the cast of his hair and the contours of his face dipped in shadow.

“Hello? Honey, I have something for you,” is the first thing he says, the silhouette of his arm twisted to hide something behind his back. From his other hand dangles his go-bag, which falls to the floor of your living room with a dull thud. He peels out of his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair.

The relief chokes you. Strangles you till you’re blue in the face. You’re struck speechless and can only watch as he pushes the door closed behind him and tosses the keys into the catchall on the hall table, toes off his shoes, then comes over to sit with you on the couch. Plastic crinkles behind his back as he moves closer.

“I’ve got something,” he says again. “A present for you.”

“Aaron-”

“Before you say I didn’t need to, I wanted to,” he interjects, waving a hand to stop you. “I saw them while I was out and thought of you.”

“The anticipation is killing me.”

All turbulent emotions vanish like morning dew on a sunny afternoon, your heart thrumming hard against the confinement of your ribs. You let yourself think it’s only because you’re just excited to see him in good spirits, certainly not because he places a hand on your knee and squeezes lightly, or looks at you with poorly-concealed adoration in his gaze, or the knowledge of the fact he thinks of you often enough to go out of his way to get you something nice.

From behind his back, he produces a bouquet of pink roses wrapped neatly in a matching shade of cellophane with a flourish and you nearly fall to the ground. He’s brought you flowers. Roses. He saw roses while he was out and they made him think of you, and that thought alone nearly has you knocked out cold.

You’re able to mutter his name before you reach for his shoulders for a hug, and he lets out a small huff as he’s pushed down to lay back on the couch with your arms around him.

“Consider this my apology for being too busy to call,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” you say, breathless. “Consider your apology accepted.”

His free hand rubs up and down your back, lingering flush to the space between your shoulder blades to press you close to his chest. “How have you been?”

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah? Has Garcia been taking good care of you?”

You nod into his shoulder. “You know her.”

“That I do. Do you have a vase that I can put your flowers in?”

“There’s one in the kitchen cabinet.”

But he doesn’t yet stand to retrieve it, too engrossed in the warmth of your hug. This is not how a boss acts with his subordinate. Not even how a friend would act. If he were just a friend he wouldn’t come to you first, because your space is his space, and he wouldn’t have brought you a really nice bouquet, and he wouldn’t find such comfort in your embrace and the smell of your perfume that he goes slack under you. Him and you, always, together.

A moment passes and he shifts out from beneath you. You watch him get up with remorse, his hand holding onto yours till the distance draws his fingers away.

“You know,” he begins, rummaging around in your cabinets to find the aforementioned vase, “I’ve been honing in on my cooking skills.”

“That so?” you ask from the sofa, jelly-limbed with your neck craned to watch him.

“I can make stir fry if you want dinner.” His arm retracts from the cabinet, hand around the neck of your vase.

So he cooks for you. Insists upon it, even. Even though the hospital cleared you fine to go home and you feel more or less well, he insists on taking care of you. You let him. Maybe for his peace of mind. A chance to take care of you just like you’ve taken care of him countless times before. You won’t pretend to not like having him dote on you.

The roses sit between you, lit by warm candlelight because the overhead light buzzes too loud and the bulb flickers when you turn it on. It’s sweet and it’s romantic, shit, you really shouldn’t be getting so personally involved with your boss. The no-fraternization rules implemented by the Bureau higher-ups have been hammered into your skull since the day you joined, yet just look at you. Too late for go-backs now.

Over the table, you say, “You can stay the night, if you want to.”

It’s not that you’re implying anything because you’re not, voice void of sexual innuendo. He doesn’t seem to take it in such a way anyway. His gaze meets yours and he draws closer with a hand curled like a cage atop yours.

“I will,” he replies. “If you want me to.”

“I do.”

He’s slept over before a secret half-a-dozen or so times, mostly on the couch. Only in your bed once. That one time was after you’d came home from a particularly bad case, and it was the second time you’d seen him as upset as he was. Beaten black and blue, scraped up worse than he’s ever been on the job. You’d diligently cleaned his wounds up (always too proud to sit in the back of an ambulance and let a professional take care of it), sat with him until he fell asleep, then you never spoke of it again.

Tonight he sleeps beside you. Blissfully unaware to the way you stare at his profile — the line of his nose, the mess of his hair where it’s fallen over his forehead, the way the light catches on his fluttering lashes and turns them a pale blue. The back of your knuckles run against his cheekbone. Tender, soft, so unlike most anything else he knows now.

He’s beautiful. All of you belongs to him.

You stir to Aaron’s heavy arm draped across your abdomen and crack one eye open to see him staring at you. The room is warm, sunshine spilling over his back to paint him shining gold, and the tip his of nose presses against your neck when he sees you’re awake. He must’ve gotten up before you woke because you can smell fresh-cut grass from the open window and the scent of coffee brewing floats in from the kitchen, and from outside you can hear the humming drone of a lawnmower, the song of morning birds chirping.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks, more a murmur than anything.

You shake your head no. A part of you — the small part that yearned for his care and attention long before now — is awestruck. You’ve got Aaron in your bed, the same Aaron who bleeds and hurts and fights beside you, the man who hadn’t wanted you on the team in the first place, and he’s touching you like you’re made of glass.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“I’m okay for now,” you reply.

“Are you sure, honey? I can cut up some fruit for you. You could do with some vitamins… maybe some sun, too.” Mournfully, he gets up from bed, leaving you with only the warmth of the sheets where he lay just a moment ago. You watch, blinking slow, breathing slow.

“I’m really fine,” you insist meekly, pulling the blankets up to your chin.

With hands planted on either side of your head, he leans back over you in bed, brows pulled in concern like you’re still bedridden in the hospital. His thumb ghosts over the delicate skin of your undereye, then lower, feather-light down the slope of your jaw and to where your collarbone peeks out from the neck of your shirt.

“I’ll bring you a bowl,” he says, disregarding the rejection.

And then he kisses you before he leaves to the kitchen. Nothing full-fledged, only a brief press of his lips to your cheek, but it renders a swell in your gut, too hot beneath your quilt, breathless like your heart is going to rip straight out of your chest and chase him down to kiss him again. The print of his lips burns white-hot. A brand on your skin.

He pauses in the threshold of your bedroom and looks back. “I’m sorry if that was… weird.”

“No! No, it wasn’t weird. I liked it, actually.”

“Oh, okay.”

Aaron fusses over you incessantly the entire day, from cutting your fruit up to holding your hand to help you to the couch, despite your insistence that you’re fully recovered. He isn’t so used to putting his feelings so brashly on display, but you’ve been walking this tightrope between friends and more for a while and it’s no secret he wants it. Wants you. Wants whatever you may have to offer. No matter if you’re well or not, he’ll want you.

“Thank you,” you say over lunch, picking idly at the tangerine he’d peeled for you. “For staying with me, I mean.”

He lifts his head. He’s opened the window above your sink, citing the lovely weather and your need for sunshine as his reasons for letting the bugs in, and it makes his eyes shine from his seat facing the sun.

You’re like a vampire, he had said. Don’t get me wrong, definitely a beautiful and kind one, but fresh air will do you good, then he’d laughed as he stood in the spill of warmth exuding from the open window.

In his hand is the other half of the tangerine, which he assiduously peels the spongy pith from and discards in a small heap atop your dining table.

“I hope you know that I don’t mind.” Aaron breathes out and hands you two slices stripped of their white viscera. “I like taking care of you. Every so often someone get hurts on the field and it never gets more comfortable to deal with. It makes me feel… good to be here with you.”

“That’s really nice of you to say.”

“It’s only the truth.”

You’ve been better for the greater part of a week and no longer need babying like you did at the start, you think, but withhold on commenting for fear that he thinks you don’t like having him around. You more than like it, really, and you like it even more when he leans over the table enticingly.

He’s smiling widely when he speaks. “And the company is the best part.”

“Even if the company is a vampire?” You touch the side of his throat, flush over his jugular where a vampire might bite. His heart thrums hard beneath the pads of your fingers when you push down with the faintest pressure.

“Even so.”

⊹₊ 𐙚

“Can I see you in my office? There’s something that I want to talk to you about.”

You stand from your desk. Aaron — rather, Hotch, because you’re at work — has been staring at you through his window the entire morning like a reverse-scenario zoo animal in an enclosure. It’s been unsettling to feel someone’s eyes on you perpetually but you let it slide because you know he’s just worried. He made it very clear that he didn’t want you coming back to the office so soon, for worry you might bump a fading bruise on the exceedingly dangerous desks in the bullpen or injure your back further by sitting in the expensive, cushy roller chair.

It’s an overcast Monday in light of your sunny weekend. Aaron had messaged you at five-thirty in the morning, insisted heavily that if you intended on coming in today then it had better be with a warm coat on. You’d come to a tentative middle ground via a knit sweater that he likes because Emily runs cold and makes sure the whole office knows it (Seriously, you can’t remember the last time she’d allowed it to be less than the low eighties, and most of the team would rather bear the heat than listen to her gripe about how cold it is. Today, it’s freezing. The heat is broken and you figure you’ll have to deal with it once she comes in.)

He’s waiting for you when you step in and close the door behind you, drawing the blinds. “How are you?”

“I’m well. I’d be better if you’d stayed home to rest.”

“I promise I’m recovered enough for desk work, Aaron.”

He grumbles with no real upset and beckons for you to come around the other side of his desk. When you do and lean back with palms braced over the lip, a broad hand slips around your waist to touch your back. He drops it quickly. So unprofessional, you might tease, if you weren’t so pleased with the fact that he’s unabashedly touching you at work.

Something in the air has shifted. Following the night you spent together, it’s as if the spark between you has turned into a real firecracker, a sparkling dazzle of neon color and fizzling light. He’d left Saturday afternoon after a lot of coaxing that you’d be alright alone, made you promise you’d eat real food and not just cereal and frozen pizza and TV dinners. Most importantly, he wouldn’t leave without kissing you silly all over your cheeks and forehead and jaw. And when you’d anticipated the killing blow and closed your eyes and parted your lips, he’d bid you goodbye with an affectionate pat to your shoulder.

It was cruel, but you don’t mind waiting for a real kiss. The riper the fruit, the sweeter the juice, isn’t that what they say? This thing, for lack of a better word, with Aaron being as discernible as it is, is still relatively new. Not to mention he’s navigating romance for the first time again after Haley, so you’re more than willing to take it slow with him.

“What did you do over the rest of the weekend?” he asks conversationally.

“You know, the ushe.” You tuck your cold hands between your knees, press your lips together like you’re really devastated by the answer you’d come up with. “I laid around feeling sorry for myself, missing you…” you trail off, wistful.

“You poor thing,” Aaron responds sympathetically. “What can I do?”

You lean forward with a mock show of great sadness, though not without an underlying coquettish, hopeful demeanor. “The only thing that would make it all better is dinner later tonight with someone special.”

“What a coincidence. I was just thinking of asking my own someone special if she wanted to get takeout and spend the night at mine after work.”

It’s awful, the way he’s staring at you and beaming. Like you’re the one who hung all the stars in the sky, crafted the constellations just for him; like you control the tide of the ocean and the spin of the Earth; like you’re the light that makes the moon glow. Makes you want to grab him by his hand and bring him back to your place and never let him leave the comfort of your apartment. Keep him safe and warm and content.

You settle instead on smoothing his lapels down. He isn’t propositioning you when he asks you to stay over — never would he be so blatant, and you don’t think you’re quite involved enough yet for such a risqué offer to be on the table (though the notion has you imagining a torturous handful of things that you wouldn’t dream of telling him about.)

“Tell you what,” he begins. He moves his chair to be positioned in front of you. You have to look directly down to see him face-to-face. “We’ll pick up some dinner and we can watch whatever movie you like. Do you have your go-bag?”

“I do... and if I want to watch Mean Girls?”

“I’ll watch anything you want,” he supplies.

“Oh, how sweet are you?”

“Don’t tell anyone. My professional reputation would be ruined.”

Truth be told, there is a prominent lack of ‘professional reputation’ in Aaron’s department, at least within the team. He can pretend as much as he likes for as long as he likes but it’s their specialty to sniff out lies, pick up on secret cues, and of course they notice when he comes into the office with two cups of coffee instead of one, when he holds your hand to help you up the steps of the jet. You’ve received enough conspiratorial looks to know that they know.

You don’t suppose Aaron is your boyfriend. Your relationship with him is a nuanced thing. Becoming the brunt of office gossip is one thing, jeopardizing your careers is another — Strauss has her suspicions and there’s been, well… talk that stokes the (albeit small) kindling flame. It comes down to having a discussion that will remain on the back burner until the both of you can sit down and discuss the professional implications and the other difficult things that Aaron doesn’t want to talk about.

Dark has long since encompassed the Bureau by the time that he decides to be done working. You’ve been waiting on the couch in his office for the better part of the day, his suit jacket draped over your legs fashioned into an impromptu blanket. And then there’s the shuffling of loose-leaf paper shoved into folders, the scratch of his chair’s wheels as he pushes it in.

The toes of his shiny oxfords come into view and a kind hand pushes a loose lock of hair out of your face. “Are you ready?”

He wedges his hand beneath the small of your back to get you up. You’re tired from your day and limp when he encourages you to sit, but ultimately allow him to prop you up against the back of the couch. You take his hand to stand up when he offers it to you.

One and a half years ago, he wouldn’t dream of holding your hand. Wouldn’t even sit next to you in the conference room or on the jet, in fact. But Aaron didn’t really start liking liking you until eight months ago and didn’t tell you for even longer. It took him a long while to gather the courage to come out and just say it like any normal adult with feelings might do.

If you told your former self you’d wind up holding hands with Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner, going home to eat dinner with him and sleep in his bed, you’d have laughed in your own face. The most you’d ever let yourself indulge in such a fantasy prior to his grandiose confession of more than friendly feelings was maybe, just maybe, in an alternate timeline you’d met Aaron under different circumstances and it would have been history.

But you have him in this timeline. You have him picking up your dinner, driving you to his house, crouching down in front of you to undo the buckles keeping the straps of your kitten heels fastened around your ankles. He rubs your calf after tucking your shoes away before he stands and walks to the kitchen.

“What a long day,” he comments. He loosens the knot of his tie and looks over at you over his shoulder. “For you especially, I imagine. Does it get tiring, laying on the couch in my office?”

“Mhm,” you hum agreeably. “A very long day of very grueling paperwork. My boss can’t stop assigning me more and more when there are other agents who could share the workload.”

You know Aaron is smiling, even as he’s faced with his back to you. It’s clear in his voice. “Maybe your boss just thinks you’re very diligent and produce quality work.”

“That sounds to me a lot like favoritism, Hotchner.” You saunter up behind him, draping your arms around his waist. He tears apart the plastic bag holding your food then separates portions onto two ceramic plates.

“Uh-huh,” he says wryly. “You see, honey, favoritism would be more like if I let a member of my team quote unquote lay down to rest her eyes on my sofa instead of doing her work like I very kindly asked — oh wait, doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“So I am your favorite? Ooh, how scandalous. Imagine if word got out that you were picking favorites.”

“I must be doing something wrong if you have to ask.” Aaron turns and puts a hand on the back of your neck, scoffs, shakes his head good-naturedly. This mood he’s in, playful, teasing, is so rare, and you love it. “Do you ever see me letting Morgan take a nap during work hours?”

“Derek will nap regardless if you let him or not.”

(This is true. You’d caught him sleeping in the conference room once. He’d made you swear not to tell Aaron in exchange for vending machine money — and who were you to deny such a generous offer? Your silence was easily bought via chocolate bars.)

“In that case, I might have to give him a stern talking to.” His expression is grim.

“Oh, please don’t. He gave me money to buy candy from the machines if I swore not to tell you.”

Aaron is delighted by this answer. “But you’re telling me anyway?”

“Does that make me a bad friend?” you ask morosely.

“No, no. You’re the best friend. And an even better subordinate for ratting him out… it’s good to know where your loyalty lies.”

He’s laughing when he says it and then he isn’t laughing a mere moment later. Rather, he’s leaning in on a whim, eyes fluttering shut, a hand over the back of your neck, thumbs a whisper against the curve of your cheek. There’s a perceptible flash that travels like lighting up your spine — he’s going to kiss you for real this time, you know he is, and it’s something you’ve wanted for who-knows how long and it’s finally yours to have. To keep. And it’s not just about the kiss, is it? It’s about Aaron, like it most always is, and you thank your lucky stars one by one to have found a man like him and to be able to keep him.

But it’s over nearly as soon as it began. How torturous for it to end so quickly when you’ve dreamt of kissing him day and night. It’s only right for you to go for another and another and another, and yes, juice is always sweeter when the fruit has had time to ripen.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #my writing ᰔ

731 notes · View notes