givemeth

[givemeth]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn���t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.”

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?” he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[givemeth]

sad man and his socks

[givemeth]

ꨄThe Girl Dad Chronicles — S.R

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

genre: fluff/ domestic comfort word count: 1,1k warnings: none!

summary: You asked for something low-maintenance. Spencer brought home something better—with a shell and sleepy eyes.

author’s note: wrote this because I miss my turtles I had back in 2016… I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions / feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨𓆉୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You and Spencer had talked, vaguely and often, about getting a pet. Something to take care of. Something that would be waiting at home when the world felt sharp and chaotic. But with your work schedules— 3 AM flights, last-minute debriefs, crime scenes—it never seemed practical. Dogs were too energetic, cats too proudly indifferent. You both needed something… simpler. Something softer and still.

So you shelved the idea, telling yourselves maybe one day, and apparently, for Spencer, that day was today.

You didn’t know anything had changed until you walked through the front door after an exhausting case and were greeted—not by Spencer, but by a quiet bubbling sound coming from the coffee table.

“What the—“

A glass tank sat beneath the window, lined with smooth river stones and a single, sleepy-looking turtle blinking slowly under a tiny basking light.

You blinked back at it.

“She’s still adjusting,” Spencer called from the kitchen. “Don’t look her directly in the eyes, she’s shy.”

You turned, stunned. “You—bought a turtle?”

“She found me,” he corrected, appearing in the doorway with two mugs of tea. “I was getting groceries. She was sitting in this sad little tank by the register, and—well, she looked like no one had ever told her she was brilliant.”

You stared at him.

He added quickly, “Her name is Mary Shelly. With one ‘e’ and two L’s. I thought it was fitting.”

Your lips twitched. “Because she has a shell.”

“And because you love Frankenstein,” he said, with that soft-eyed certainty that always made your chest ache. “Thought it might make you happy.”

You crouched in front of the tank, watching Mary Shelly stretch one tiny foot and blink as if in slow, careful approval. “She’s kind of perfect.”

Spencer settled beside you on the floor, knees bumping yours. “She listens better than most people. I told her about the whole cognitive interview process while setting up her tank.”

You glanced sideways. “And what did she think?”

“She blinked.”

You grinned. “A scholar.”

“She’s a Reid,” he said solemnly.

Later, you found yourself chopping vegetables in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair hastily pinned back. The familiar rhythm of dinner helped ground you again after a long day — knife against cutting board, pan warming slowly, the low hum of music playing a playlist you and Spencer shared.

Spencer drifted in behind you. “Are you using all of those?” he asked, nodding toward the neat pile of carrot tops and leafy ends you’d set aside.

“Planning to eat the stems now?” you teased without looking up.

“For Mary,” he said simply.

You paused for a beat, then smiled, pushing the little pile toward him with a flick of your wrist. “Knock yourself out, Dr. Doolittle.”

He took them gratefully and padded over to the tank like it was some sacred altar. “You’re going to love these,” he said to the turtle, crouching down so he was eye level with her.

You didn’t look, but you could hear it in his voice—the warmth, the affection, the care he didn’t always show people but had no trouble giving to a reptile with stubby legs and sleepy eyes. You peeked over your shoulder as he delicately placed the carrot tops inside, and Mary blinked once. Then twice.

“She blinked once. Then twice,” Spencer narrated reverently, still crouched by the tank. “That’s practically a standing ovation.”

You snorted gently, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Careful. She might start clapping next.”

Spencer turned, face lit with that quiet kind of joy that only ever peeked out in the safety of soft moments. “I think she likes me.”

You raised a brow. “I think she likes the food.”

“She’s a woman of refined taste,” he countered, rising to his feet and gently, gently reaching into the tank. “And I think she deserves a change of scenery.”

“Spence—”

“She needs enrichment.”

You didn’t argue—mostly because he was already setting her down carefully on the kitchen counter, just to the side where you’d finished prepping. Mary blinked slowly in her new surroundings, extending one tiny leg forward with dramatic determination before… slowly retracting it again and staying perfectly still.

Spencer gasped like she’d just performed a ballet solo. “Did you see that? She explored. That was exploration.”

You leaned against the counter, biting back a grin. “She took one step.”

“One meaningful step.”

Mary, as if to prove a point, took another slow-motion inch toward the pile of discarded cilantro stems, nosed them gently… and sneezed. Or, at least, made a noise that could’ve passed for a sneeze in turtle language.

Spencer lit up. “She rejected it. She has preferences.”

“She just dissed my cilantro.”

He turned to you, eyes shining. “She’s got taste.”

You laughed softly, folding your arms as you watched the two of them. Spencer’s gaze hadn’t left the turtle. He crouched again, chin practically resting on the edge of the counter as he murmured, “Don’t worry. Next time I’ll bring you dandelion greens. Or zucchini. Something bold.”

You pressed your shoulder gently to his. “You know you’re not actually her dad, right?”

“She lives under my roof,” he said, with a mock-stern expression. “She eats my food. I think that counts.”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re a girl dad now.”

Spencer blinked, then looked down at Mary like the concept had just been officially handed to him on government letterhead. Slowly, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth—wry and deeply fond. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

You chuckled, nudging him gently with your elbow. “Next thing I know, you’ll be making her a tiny science fair project and showing up to parent-teacher conferences.”

“If she ever enrolls, she’s going to have the most thorough book reports the class has ever seen,” he said solemnly. “She’ll be banned for making the other turtles look bad.”

As if on cue, the turtle lifted her head and extended her neck toward Spencer’s voice, blinking in slow, sage approval before nosing a small piece of carrot closer to him like an offering.

Spencer gasped quietly, placing a hand over his heart. “She gave me something. That was a gift.”

“She’s bonding with you.”

“We’re imprinting,” he whispered, still awed.

You giggled. “Spence, she isn’t a duck.”

“She doesn’t know that,” he whispered back.

And then, without even thinking, he reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side as if that was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t resist—just leaned your head against his shoulder and watched the turtle blink once more like she approved of this too.

“She’s gonna be spoiled, isn’t she?” you murmured.

“Well… how is that a bad thing?” Spencer laughed softly, kissing your cheek.

Thank you for reading! ♥︎𓆉

[givemeth]

TLOU behind the scenes from David Higgins

[givemeth]

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 didn’t even bother taking 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…)

“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

[givemeth]

no bark, all bite | aaron hotchner x reader

nsfw, mdni 

summary: you can’t help but bite Aaron when he wears a short sleeve shirt. 

word count: 1.8k

cw: smut, biting (all aaron receiving), unprotected sex, f!reader, holy moly his arms in that gif

based on this post by @l1v1ngz0mb1e

It had been difficult to get used to seeing Aaron out of his suits. Not in a bad way, not at all. But it was difficult to behave yourself when he wore those polo shirts that revealed just enough of his biceps to make your mouth water. 

That’s not to say his suits didn’t reveal a lot. You’d noticed recently his button ups clung to him tighter than usual. A good girlfriend would buy him a size up, but you wouldn’t dream of it. You enjoyed it too much when he’d take off his suit jacket and you could see the seams practically bursting as his muscles flexed beneath his shirts. 

But it was even better when you could see the skin, the veins, the hair on his arms. It was the complete picture, all that you imagined when his long sleeves were covering him. And somehow, it felt even more erotic to get a glimpse of him from beneath a short sleeve shirt than to actually see him shirtless. 

He truly was very distracting. Every day, you wondered how any of his coworkers were able to get anything done while he was around. 

And here you are again, trying to focus on the task at hand while all you can think about is his arms. It was a Friday night, Jack was at a sleepover, and Aaron had invited you over. You’d had dinner at his house, simply enjoying the company, and forcing yourself to not stare at his biceps. 

Your dinners at home are always casual, as Aaron wants to get out of his suits as much as he can and wear something more comfortable. 

(You can relate to wanting to get him out of his suits, although in a different way.) 

Tonight, he answered the door in track pants and a t-shirt. When he opened it, you instantly knew you’d have trouble keeping your eyes off of him. But you smile as normally as possible, setting the wine down on the counter. 

Once your hands are free, he wraps you in a hug, and you can’t help but focus on the strength of his arms around you. You can feel his muscles squeezing your sides, and you almost feel bad that you’re objectifying so hard. You know the tight hug is simply his way of comforting himself, releasing the stress of his job, but it almost makes your eyes roll back as you feel how tight his grip is.

He pulls back, his hands on your shoulders, leaving his biceps right in your sight line. He says something you don’t even hear, and when you nod mindlessly, he leads you to the table. 

You eat dinner, listening to him talk about work. And every time he takes a sip of his water, the sleeve of his shirt pulls up, giving you an even better view. You manage to focus on his stories, even though half your brain power is being used to keep your eyes from drifting. 

After dinner, you end up on the couch, sitting side by side. You might have eaten already, but the sight of him in that shirt is making you want something else to chew on.  His arm wraps around you as he nuzzles into your neck. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, kissing your pulse point gently. 

“Missed you, too,” you say, your hands moving to squeeze his arm. Your grip tightens as he continues to trail kisses along your neck, until he pulls back. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but you lean forward, taking his bicep in between your teeth and biting down before he can speak. 

“Hey!”

You pull back, a grin on your face. “Got you.”

“What was that for?”

Your index finger rubs circles onto the area with the small indents that are slowly disappearing. “You just looked… biteable.”

He raises an eyebrow in fake indignation. “Biteable?” 

You nod, pushing his sleeve up more to bite him again, this time probably harder than you should. 

He hisses softly, staring down at the way his arm turns red in the shape of your teeth as you pull away. 

You almost tell him he’s asking for it with the shirt he’s got on, dressed like an absolute whore in that gray t-shirt, but get distracted by the skin he’s showing. 

You take his wrists, pulling his arm up to your mouth. You bite his upper arm again, then move down, biting from his bicep to his forearms. Each time, you nip a bit harder, slowly getting addicted to the feeling of his skin pulling between your jaws. 

You take extra care when you reach that vein on his forearm, tracing it with your tongue before taking it in your mouth, gnawing on him like a puppy with its favorite chew toy. 

“Stop that,” he says with no real fire behind his words. It’s what he always says when he wants something but is too embarrassed to admit it’s turning him on— as if you can’t feel the hardness forming beneath his pants. 

“No,” you say, eliciting a small laugh from Aaron. 

You nip at his neck, getting him right in that spot you know he likes, so he doesn’t argue when you slip his shirt off and push him down on the couch. 

You graze your teeth from his collarbone to his chest, biting on the flesh of his peck. He gives a groan in response as you lick the spot to soothe it. 

He nearly whines your name as you slide off his pants, then take his underwear off. When you gaze down at him, it becomes clear he’s enjoying it more than he lets on. 

“I just want to nibble on you,” you say as you nip at his hip bone.

“I thought you said you were full after dinner,” Aaron says breathlessly, a hand tangling in your hair. 

“You’re my dessert.”

You bite his thigh, hard enough that you know it’ll leave a mark tomorrow. The supple flesh of his thighs squeeze between your teeth, and you feel the dampness pooling in your underwear as you taste his skin. 

“Baby,” he says, gently tugging on your hair to get you to look at him. 

“Yeah?”

“You’re being a tease.”

You giggle, taking your shirt off. His large hands immediately go to your back, unhooking your bra. He pulls you into a deep kiss, and you unzip your jeans as he tongue slips into your mouth. When he pulls back, you capture his bottom lip between your teeth, letting it pull before you release him. 

You hurriedly slip your pants off, straddling him. “You just look delicious. I could eat you up.”

He gives a chuckle, hands going to your hips. “My little vampire.”

You smile in response, shifting above his length, grasping the base of it and guiding yourself down. 

You both tilt your heads back as you slowly sink onto him, breaths becoming more rapid. 

Once he bottoms out, you lean down, giving his neck a love bite. When you pull back, it’s clear that you’ve bitten him hard enough that he’ll have to hope there’s no case over the weekend to give the bruise time to heal before he has to face his coworkers again. 

He gives your hip two gentle taps, signaling you to start moving before he does it himself. You take the cue, slowly riding him. It’s not lost on you that his muscles flex every time your walls flutter. In fact, you make a point to deliberately squeeze him, just like your teeth were squeezing him earlier. 

Usually, you’re watching his face, focused on the way his eyelids flutter. But tonight, you can’t tear your eyes away from the way his biceps flex as he grips your hips, the movement of the muscles emphasizing the bite marks you’ve littered along his body. 

You place a hand on his chest for leverage, bouncing faster as his groans spur you on. You will always be grateful that he’s let loose with you, giving himself permission to be vocal beneath your touch. You reward his sounds with your own moans, desperate as you feel every inch of him filling you up. 

You get carried away as you gaze at his build, losing rhythm in your distracted state of mind. You don’t even notice his whimpers go from pleasured to depreciate until he can’t resist any longer and starts to buck up into you. 

“So good,” you whimper out. 

“I know,” he says, fingers digging into your hips. You know it’ll leave an imprint, but it’s only fair after what you've done to mark him up. 

He’s pressing into you deep enough that it reaches your brain, thoughts going blank as you mindlessly meet his thrusts. 

As he starts to lose control of his hips, your walls clamp around him, coaxing him into filling you up. 

You’re back arches as you fall over the edge, the wetness of your release dripping down your thighs and onto his. 

The feeling of you coming around him has Aaron quickly following, his eyes glued to your chest as your back arches. His hips stutter as he gives one last deep thrust, painting your insides white. 

He gently pulls you down to rest on his chest, hugging you tightly to help you come down for your high. As he wraps his arms around you, your eyes are drawn to his muscles again, your hazy mind still having enough power to seek out his arms. 

You wrap your arms around his forearm, nuzzling into his upper arm. 

“You’re really obsessed with me tonight, aren’t you?” He says it teasingly, flexing as a half-joke. 

You take the opportunity to bite him again, not releasing him for a good few seconds. 

“Are you staying like that all night?”

You hum around him, opening your jaws even further to take more of him in your mouth. 

He laughs softly, patting your back. “You’ve gotta let me go eventually.”

You sigh around him, eventually releasing him and laying your cheek down on your chest, his peck right in view for you to admire the teeth marks you’d left. You trace it gently, proud of your work. 

“You know, it’s not nice to act like a teething puppy while your boyfriend is at your mercy.”

You giggle. “Then you shouldn’t be so biteable. I could chew on you all night.”

“You’re so cute I might let you.”

You snuggle even closer to him. “Besides, what’s so wrong about appreciating my big, strong man?”

Aaron rolls his eyes, even though he can’t help but blush at your words.

As he holds you tighter, you feel content, not even tempted to bite him as you watch his arms. At least, for now. And as Aaron falls asleep with you on top of him, he has a looming suspicion that his wake up call (and your breakfast) tomorrow will be the pressure of your teeth around his bare arm. 

[givemeth]

"Quiet Hours"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x Reader

Spencer wakes up with you in his arms—and quietly falls harder.

cw: none major fluff

wc: 819 ( short n sweet)

this is for those who voted this to number 1 in my poll :))

...

You’re lying side by side after a movie—some slow-moving foreign film Spencer had insisted was “essential viewing”—and at some point between the opening credits and the third impassioned monologue, your eyes had fluttered shut.

The warmth of his comforter, the soft rhythm of his voice as he translated in a whisper, the faint smell of clean laundry and old paper—all of it lulls you into sleep before you even realize what’s happening.

It’s not until 3:17 a.m. that Spencer stirs awake.

He blinks at the dim light filtering through his curtains and instinctively reaches for the book on his nightstand, only to freeze mid-movement when he feels it: your weight curled into his side, arm draped across his middle, your nose buried in the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

For a moment—maybe two—he just lies there, motionless and stiff, like his neurons are short-circuiting.

You're in his bed.

You’re asleep in his bed.

Your body is warm and soft against his, and there’s the faintest puff of your breath against his neck with every exhale.

Spencer’s heart starts beating faster.

Not in a panic, not like when he’s faced with danger or stress.

No—this is something gentler, but no less intense.

He’s just never had someone do this before. Fall asleep in his bed like they belonged there. Like he was the comforting one.

He wants to commit every detail to memory.

Not just the way you look—though he catalogues that, too—but the weight of you, the trust in your unconscious touch, the way your legs have tangled with his like it was instinctual.

But of course, this is Spencer Reid. So naturally, his brain kicks into full nerd mode.

“Studies show that physical touch, particularly during sleep, can improve emotional bonding and release oxytocin,” he murmurs softly to himself, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if it holds the peer-reviewed evidence.

You shift slightly, making a sleepy sound—something soft and content—and Spencer’s voice dies in his throat.

He glances down at you. The movement makes his arm brush your waist. You don’t wake. Instead, you snuggle closer.

Spencer’s breath catches.

Oh. Oh no.

He’s definitely not going back to sleep now.

Instead, he lies awake, completely overwhelmed by the chaos in his own head. He wants to touch you—gently, maybe wrap his arm around you, maybe tangle his fingers in your hair—but he doesn’t want to wake you or make things weird or overstep boundaries.

So he settles for stillness.

Still and quiet, except for the occasional twitch of his fingers, like they’re aching to move.

At some point, he starts tracing the ceiling tiles in his head and mentally reciting the Dewey Decimal System, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

You wake up around 8:00 a.m. to the smell of coffee and the gentle sound of pages turning.

Spencer is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back leaning against one of the bed’s many pillows—he has at least eight, in various sizes, none of them matching—and he’s got a hardcover in his lap. He looks up as you stir.

“Oh—um, good morning,” he says, instantly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep well?”

You smile sleepily, stretching under the covers. “I did. I hope it’s okay I passed out like that. Your bed is absurdly comfortable.”

He nods quickly.

“Yes. I mean, yes, it’s okay. I mean—of course it’s okay. You can sleep here anytime. If you want. Not like any time, I mean, I don’t want to assume you’d want to again but if you did, that would be statistically… I mean—” He cuts himself off with a tight-lipped smile and a visible cringe. “Sorry. Talking too much.”

You giggle, sitting up, the covers still pooled around your waist. “I liked it. You talking, I mean.”

He glances at you, then away, ears a soft shade of pink.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “Also, uh… you were very cuddly in your sleep.”

You blink, surprised—and then you laugh.

"Was I?”

He nods, looking flustered but determined to be honest. “Yeah. You, um, wrapped around me. Like a koala.”

You snort. “Well, you’re warm. And safe. You make a good tree.”

Spencer’s laugh is quiet, but genuine.

“I didn’t mind,” he adds after a second, voice soft. “Actually, I… liked it. A lot.”

You reach for his hand over the duvet. He lets you take it.

“Next time,” you say, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “you’re allowed to cuddle back.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Next time?”

“Unless you don’t want a next time.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he looks at you—really looks—and there’s something marveling in his expression, like you’ve handed him the moon and told him he could keep it.

“I want,” he says simply.

You lean forward, kiss his cheek.

He doesn’t stop smiling all day.

[givemeth]

WHAT HE KNOWS.

summary: Spencer wouldn’t go as far as saying he was inexperienced. He’d had sex before. But to say he knew what he liked? To say he was confident in bed? That would be a lie. What he knew, though, was that he liked when you rode him.

pairing: spencer reid x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.8k words. submissive Spencer. soft teasing. nipple play (reader receiving). soft dirty-talk. cowgirl position. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. gentle sex. praise.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @museboos, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

Spencer wouldn’t go as far as saying he was inexperienced. He’d had sex before. Technically. There’d been a handful of times scattered across his twenties—some sweet, some awkward, none particularly bad. But to say he knew what he liked? To say he was confident in bed?

That would be a lie.

But there was one thing—one constant in the scattered, breathless memories that clung to him like cotton stuck to damp skin. One moment that came back to him when his mind wandered in the quietest hours of the night:

It was you. Above him. Hands pressed to his chest, hair falling forward, your hips rolling slow and steady. Spencer remembered the way his fingers trembled against your thighs, the way you cooed his name like a secret no one else could know. The pressure. The control. The softness of your lips as they brushed his cheek and whispered, “Doing so good for me, baby.”

That’s what he knew.

That when you rode him, when he gave everything over to you—he came undone in the most beautiful way.

He wasn’t sure how to ask for it tonight. You were curled up with him on the couch, reading something old and worn. His hand rested over your thigh, tracing slow circles with his thumb, barely skimming under the hem of your sleep shorts. Your skin was warm beneath his touch, smooth and soft, and he swore he could feel your pulse when his fingers stilled just shy of your inner thigh.

“Spence,” you murmured, glancing down at him from over your book, “you’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Mmm. Dangerous,” you teased, brushing your fingers into his curls. He leaned into it instantly, like a plant craving sunlight. “Thinking about anything in particular?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “You.”

You smiled, slow and knowing, setting your book aside. “Yeah?” He swallowed thickly and shifted to face you more fully, thumb still grazing your leg. “There’s something I like. A lot. When we… y’know.”

“You’re gonna have to use your words, sweetheart.” You teased, leaning in, brushing your nose against his jaw. “C’mon. Tell me.”

His ears were flushed red now. You felt the heat radiating off him, the way his breath hitched when you kissed just below his ear. But he answered. Carefully. Quietly.

“When you’re on top. Riding me.”

Your hand froze against his chest. You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

Spencer nodded again, and this time his hand tightened around your thigh. “You… You take your time with me. You know how to make it last. I like that.”

You felt the shift in the air between you—slow-burning tension simmering just below the surface. You swung one leg over his lap until you were straddling him, soft cotton of your sleep shorts brushing against his sweats. He was already half-hard beneath you, and he gasped the moment you rocked forward.

“You could’ve just said you wanted me to ride you, baby.”

“I didn’t wanna be—forward,” he breathed, hands trembling where they settled on your waist.

“You’re allowed to ask for what you want,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, “especially when you’re this sweet about it.”

You tilted your hips again, and Spencer whimpered. It was high, involuntary—like the sound had surprised him. You swallowed it with a kiss, lips melting over his until his hands fisted in the back of your shirt.

He always kissed like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. It was soft, deep, a little messy—like he’d never learned to pace himself when it came to your mouth. You could feel his hips twitching beneath you, his need pulsing through the thin layer of clothing between you.

“Let’s get this off,” you murmured against his lips, tugging at his tee.

He lifted his arms wordlessly and let you strip it away. Pale skin flushed pink, chest rising and falling with uneven breath. His hands rested against your thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them—like he was afraid to touch you too much, or not enough.

You smiled, then reached down to pull your own shirt off. His eyes widened when he saw you were bare underneath—no bra, nothing at all. Spencer stared for a beat too long, lips parting like he’d never seen you topless before, even though he had. Countless times.

But something about tonight felt different. Slower. More reverent.

You took one of his hands and brought it to your breast, letting him feel the way your nipple stiffened beneath his palm. He gasped again, and the sound made you clench. “Y-you’re so warm,” he whispered, thumb grazing your skin. “And soft. I… I always forget how soft.”

You leaned into his touch, arching just slightly. “You can touch me. Don’t be shy.”

“I’m not— I mean, I am,” he admitted, cheeks still flushed. “You just make me nervous sometimes. In a good way.”

That made your chest ache. “You don’t have to be nervous, baby. I love the way you touch me. Especially when you let go.” He nodded, still fidgeting, still flustered. You kissed the corner of his mouth again and reached down between you to tug at the waistband of his sweats.

“Want me to keep going?”

“Yes. Please.” His voice cracked.

You eased his sweats and briefs down enough to free his cock—already flushed and leaking at the tip. His hips bucked at the cool air, and you wrapped your hand gently around him, thumbing over the sensitive head until he was whining under his breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “Feels so good when you touch me.”

“You always say the nicest things,” you teased, leaning forward to kiss down his throat, over his collarbone, while your other hand slid under your shorts and panties, pushing them down your legs, letting them hang down your calves. You were soaked—slick and ready and aching for him like you had been thinking about riding him too.

When you lined him up with your entrance and sank down, slow and steady, Spencer choked on a gasp and held your hips like his life depended on it.

“Holy shit— You feel—” His head tipped back. “So tight, so warm, I—God—”

You braced your hands on his chest and rocked gently once you were fully seated. It was slow. Deep. The kind of rhythm that built from the inside out, made his whole body tense under yours. “That’s it, baby,” you whispered, hips rolling, your voice sweet and breathy. “You like this?”

He nodded furiously. “Yes—yes—don’t stop, please—”

You moved slowly. Intentionally. Rocking your hips in a deep, lazy grind while Spencer clung to your waist like he was scared you might disappear if he let go. His eyes fluttered open just enough to watch you—watch the way your face twisted in pleasure, the way your chest heaved with each motion, nipples pebbled in the low light of your bedroom.

“Y-you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “When you’re like this. When you’re on me.”

You cupped his face with one hand, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. “You like watching?” His lips parted, but the only sound that came out was a whimper.

“Tell me, baby. Use your words.”

“I l-love it,” he choked. “I love how you ride me. You feel so good. I don’t— I don’t want it to stop.”

“You don’t have to worry,” you murmured, circling your hips just so. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not done yet.” He groaned, the kind of sound that came from somewhere low in his chest, desperate and strangled. You could feel how close he was already—how every little shift of your body made his cock twitch inside you.

But you weren’t rushing. Not tonight. Not when he’d asked so sweetly, so shyly, for something that made him feel this good.

“You wanna help me take this off?” you asked softly, guiding his hands up your sides and down your thighs, toward the hem of your sleep shorts still bunched around your legs.

He nodded and helped you tug them down gently, before throwing them out of the way. Your thighs spread wider now, letting you sink down further on his cock, and he swore under his breath when your hips met his again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—so deep,” he gasped, his hands coming up to cup your breasts now. “Can I touch here too?”

“Of course, baby, go on,” you breathed, leaning forward just enough for him to mouth at one of your nipples.

He was slow with it. Shy. His tongue flicked experimentally across the stiff peak, and your breath caught in your throat. Then he did it again. And again. “Just like that,” you praised, threading your fingers into his curls. “You’re doing so good, Spencer.”

He moaned against your chest, lips wrapping around your nipple now, sucking just gently enough to make your back arch. Your rhythm faltered for a moment, hips stuttering, thighs shaking.

“Oh—fuck,” you gasped. “Baby, that feels so good.”

“I like making you feel good,” he said, moving to your other nipple now. “You always take care of me. I wanna do that for you too.”

“You are, sweetheart,” you whispered, kissing his temple. “You always do.”

You started moving again, this time a little more deliberately—grinding down in slow, wet circles that made him whimper into your skin. You could feel how close he was already, his hips twitching up helplessly, breath ragged.

“Don’t hold back,” you told him, voice low and steady. “Let me see everything. Let me hear you.” Spencer’s eyes met yours again; glassy, wide, overwhelmed. “I’m—gonna come—I can’t—”

You slowed your hips instantly, hovering at the base of his cock, squeezing around him just enough to make him shudder.

“Breathe,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss him slow. “Not yet. I want you to last for me.” He nodded frantically, trying to hold himself still beneath you, cock twitching inside you with every breath.

“Can I—” He swallowed. “Can I make you come more than once?”

“God, yes,” you breathed. “You can make me come as many times as my body can handle.” He whimpered, nearly sobbed. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Yeah? You wanna be good and let me ruin myself on you a little?”

“Yes. Please. Please—”

You rolled your hips again, slow and steady, tightening around him just to watch him fall apart. “You’re so sweet when you beg, baby,” you murmured, voice going soft. “Look at you—so flushed, so needy. I’ve barely even started.”

“I c-can’t take it,” he moaned, grabbing at your waist. “You’re gonna make me—fuck—”

You rocked down hard once, just enough to press your clit flush to his pelvis. The friction had you gasping too, body jolting from the jolt of it. You chased that again, this time slower, dragging your clit against him while his cock filled you perfectly.

“I wanna feel you come first,” he whispered, voice high and desperate. “Wanna feel you shaking on me.”

“You’re gonna,” you promised, breathing heavier now. “You feel so good, Spencer. So deep. I’m already close.” You took one of his hands and guided it to your chest again, pressing his palm flat over your breast. “Keep touching me here. Nice and soft.”

He obeyed instantly, thumb grazing over your nipple again while you rode him—deliberate, focused, slow grinding that had both of you unraveling by the second.

When your orgasm hit, it was warm and slow-spreading—like honey flooding your chest, heat blooming from your core. You gasped his name, hips rolling through it, thighs shaking as you pulsed around his cock. Spencer was a mess underneath you. His mouth open, chest heaving, face twisted in awe and disbelief as he felt your pussy clench around him over and over again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I could die like this.”

You smiled through your orgasm, cupping his face again. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You didn’t get off him right away.

Even after your orgasm crested and ebbed, even after your thighs twitched from the aftershocks, you stayed seated on his cock—still pulsing around him, still impossibly wet. Spencer was gasping beneath you. Eyes dazed, mouth parted, cheeks burning. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself—only that he wanted to give you everything.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing the hair from his damp forehead.

He nodded shakily. “Y-yeah. More than okay.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other, just slow enough to make his eyes flutter. “You’re still so hard inside me, baby.”

“I— I can’t help it,” he admitted, voice breaking. “You feel too good. It’s like—my body doesn’t want to stop.”

A quiet laugh slipped from you. “That’s exactly what I want.”

You rolled your hips again, gentle but full, grinding down with purpose. Spencer whimpered, fists tightening in the couch beside him. “I’m sensitive,” he said, as if you hadn’t already guessed. “But I want it. I want to feel everything.”

“I’ll take care of you,” you promised, voice soft, firm. “Just breathe for me, yeah?”

You leaned back enough to sit upright on him again, letting gravity do the work—his cock hitting that deep spot that made your breath hitch. He was pulsing inside you, twitching with every movement. Your own body was still greedy, slick and hot and aching for more.

You started riding him again—slow, deliberate, dragging your clit against him with every grind. You were chasing that second orgasm, but you were chasing his even more.

Spencer was completely undone beneath you. “F-fuck, please,” he stammered. “It’s so much—I feel everything—”

“Shh,” you cooed, grinding just a little harder. “Let it happen. Let me make you feel good.”

“You’re gonna make me come,” he gasped, voice raw. “I— I can’t stop it—”

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered. “I wanna feel you come inside me, Spencer. I wanna feel how good you feel when you let go.” His whole body shuddered beneath you, and then he was moaning; loud, shameless, desperate, as his hips jerked up into you.

“Fucking hell—yes—”

You could feel the warmth of it as he came, thick and deep inside you, cock throbbing hard as he filled you. He trembled through it, chest rising in panicked little bursts, hands grabbing at your hips like he needed to hold on to something real.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not quite yet.

Even as he came, even as he whimpered your name in a choked voice, you rocked gently on him—slow and teasing, coaxing every last pulse out of him. “Too much,” he breathed, dizzy. “Too much, it’s— God, you’re gonna kill me.”

“You said you wanted to feel everything,” you teased, your own breath hitching again. “You can take it. You’re doing so good.”

He moaned weakly, nearly slurred. “I can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

You cupped his face again, leaned in to kiss him sweet and slow. “You can. You do. I love you like this.”

He whimpered, lifting his hips weakly into yours. “I want you to come again.”

“I will,” you promised, riding him slowly, deeper, already feeling that telltale pull tightening again. “You’re gonna make me come just like this. With your cock still buried inside me, all wet and soft and leaking—”

Spencer whined.

You reached between your legs and started circling your clit, using his body and your own rhythm to chase your second high. Spencer’s hands ghosted over your thighs, trying to help, trying to touch, even though he was wrecked. His eyes never left your face—watching, hungry, reverent.

“Come for me again,” he begged. “Please. I wanna feel you squeeze me.”

That did it.

Your body shook as the second orgasm rushed through you—harsher this time, quicker, your hips faltering as you rode it out. You were gasping his name over and over, hands gripping his shoulders, thighs trembling so hard you nearly collapsed onto his chest.

Spencer caught you in an instant, wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight against him.

You both stayed like that for a long while. Sweaty, trembling, still joined. His cock eventually softened inside you, but neither of you were in a rush to move. He kissed your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the corner of your mouth.

“Are you okay?” he whispered. You nodded, chest still heaving. “More than okay.”

He smiled, cheeks still pink. “That was the best I’ve ever felt in my life.”

You laughed against his cheek. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” he said sincerely, voice low and earnest. “You make it better every time.” You kissed him slow—messy, deep, lingering. Then you whispered against his lips, “Next time, I’ll keep you begging even longer.” Spencer groaned softly, burying his face in your neck.

“I’m not going to survive you,” he mumbled.

And he sounded like he didn’t mind one bit.

[givemeth]

barefinger. - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: marriage, emotional intimacy, small moment turned meaningful, Pedro noticing everything, hurt/comfort, very soft ending

---

You’re in the kitchen when he notices.

It’s nothing big — just you reaching for a mug in the cabinet, light spilling through the window onto your hands. But Pedro’s eyes lock on the bare space where your wedding ring usually sits.

And his whole body stills.

It’s not accusation that flashes through him. Not jealousy. Just… quiet confusion. A thump in his chest. A tiny, sharp ache he wasn’t ready for.

“Where’s your ring?” he asks softly.

You turn, startled, not even realizing he’d come in. You blink at him, look down at your hand, then wince a little. “Shit. I forgot to put it back on.”

His eyebrows crease. “Why’d you take it off?”

You set the mug down and walk toward him, suddenly aware of how big this feels — even if it wasn’t supposed to be.

“I was doing dishes earlier,” you say, gently. “Didn’t want to mess it up. I left it on the bathroom counter.”

He looks at you for a long second. Not angry. Just… feeling it. That quiet sting of your ring not being where it should be.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching for his hand. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” he murmurs, letting his fingers thread through yours. “I know, it’s just— I notice. I always notice.”

You press your forehead to his chest, and he wraps his arms around you without hesitation.

“I love that you wear it,” he says, voice low against your hair. “It makes me feel like… I don’t know. Like you’re choosing me. Every day.”

Your throat tightens. “I am choosing you. Every day. Even without the ring.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I still like seeing it.”

You nod, hugging him tighter. “I’ll go get it.”

He stops you for a second, tilting your chin up.

“You don’t have to. Not right now. Just… let me hold you for a bit.”

So you do. Standing barefoot in the kitchen, arms wrapped around each other, coffee forgotten.

And later — when you go to brush your teeth — you slip the ring back onto your finger. Not because he asked. Because you want him to notice again.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

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[givemeth]

hey babe can I request Hotch with a reader girlfriend who’s desperately shy? early seasons hotch please when he’s still smiley (maybe still has Jack tho), i would love to see how he treats a long term girlfriend in your eyes one who he’s just completely gone for 

fem, 0.9k

You should know better than to come to work without venturing up to Aaron’s private office, but you’re late coming in and there’s a ton of stuff to do and he’s supposed to pretend that he cares when you turn in your work late. You log in and start going through things slowly. There are a few emails to respond to, some queries, a consult request Aaron himself has forwarded with a note —your expertise is required. 

You wiggle your mouse to wake the screen. You hadn’t realised you’d gotten stuck until it was dark. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” someone murmurs, tipping your head back to kiss your cheek, “where have you been?” 

He speaks quietly, no one else can hear him, but he enthuses his tone with so much love that you can’t decide between laughter or tears. You turn breathless instead, a thumb against your throat as Aaron’s loving questioning continues, “I thought we talked about this, hmm? You coming up to see me? How else am I supposed to know that you’re here?” 

There’s no Emily sitting at the desk opposite yours. No Spencer adjacent, no Derek to the right. It explains why he’s butter soft, but not his worry. 

“I was nearly late. I’m sorry.” 

He starts to kiss you gently, quietly, his lips tracking over the side of your cheek and pressing in as he goes until his nose is against your temple. “Don’t be sorry, I just wanted to see you.” He holds you to him. “I missed you.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, wishing you were brave enough to tack handsome, or love on the end. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I thought maybe you were still stressed about Emily.” 

Aaron pulls away, giving you your first proper look at him that morning. He’s as handsome as ever. It makes your chest spike with anxiety. You worry all the time that you’ll lose him; the thought that he might realise all the things you’re missing and break things off is a constant at the back of your mind. It only ever goes quiet when he’s kissing you. “Prentiss has done well so far,” he says. “I’m not happy to have things rearranged above my head, but I have no problem with Emily. Now, how was your morning?” 

“It was fine.” 

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You close your eyes and lift your chin. Ever your prince, Aaron squeezes your cheek gently and leans in to kiss you, far warmer than you’re expecting, his thumb rubbing over your cheek with a reverence he couldn't fake if he wanted to. 

[givemeth]

Silly Socks

Summary: Spencer never takes his mismatched socks off. Not even in bed. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) penetrative sex, reverse cowgirl position

Author’s Note: Just a fun little drabble because sex sometimes can be a little goofy (:

Word count: 500

Masterlist

Spencer was deep inside you as you rocked your hips against his, trying to adjust the angle to reach your climax. He was lying on his back, staring up at you with the utmost adoration in his eyes as you rode him with motions so precise it almost drove him insane. 

Leaning back, you tried but failed to get the right amount of pressure against your sweet spot. 

“You okay?” Spencer breathed as his palms brushed over your hips. 

Your movements came to halt as you softly spoke, “Is it okay if I turn around? I think that angle would feel better for me.”

“Of course,” he cooed.

You smirked at him as you noticed how much he had to hold back from infodumping about the advantages of the reverse cowgirl position. Silently you thanked him for not taking you out of your current headspace. Leaning down, you placed one last soft kiss on his lips before you lifted your hips to turn around on top of him. 

“I hope you enjoy the view,” you snickered as you felt his hands caressing the curve of your backside. 

“God, you’re absolutely perfect,” he sighed as he squeezed your soft flesh. 

With closed eyes you sank down on him again, slightly leaning back until you finally had the angle you were longing for. Slowly, you rocked your hips against his as the pressure inside you built in the best way possible. 

Then, you opened your eyes just long enough to realize you didn’t have the same kind of view your boyfriend currently enjoyed. 

Seeing Spencer’s mismatched socks, one purple with colorful dinosaur shapes on them and the other blue with dark anchors, let a genuine laugh escape your throat. Your own giggles took you out of the moment, so you stopped moving. 

“What is it?” Spencer asked with a breathy voice. 

You turned your head until you could see his face from the corner of your eyes. “Sorry, I forgot that you never take your socks off. They are so silly.” 

Spencer wiggled his toes for a moment. “Why would I take them off? They bring me good luck!”

“You’re already inside of me, how much more luck do you need?” You snickered. 

You felt his cock twitch inside you. “That only proves my point,” he chuckled. 

After a moment of silence, he said, “I can take them off if it bothers you.”

“No it’s fine. I just usually don’t directly look at them during sex.” 

“Maybe I should get socks that are sexy instead of silly,” Spencer joked. 

His words made you laugh again. “You’ll definitely need luck with that.” 

Slowly, you started moving again. It only took a few more moments until your bantering was replaced by sighs and moans falling from your lips as you chased that delicious high. When you finally fell over the edge, Spencer followed you into the sensation of pure bliss - proving yet again how lucky he was (even though his socks probably had nothing to do with that). 

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment if you want me to keep writing more stories!

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[givemeth]

hi! i absolutely love your writing and saw you’re currently writing for aaron hotchner 👀

i was wondering if you could write about reader trying to hide something from aaron cause they know aaron would make a big deal but to bad aaron is literally chief profiler and is also really protective of reader so he makes sure they are taken care of and just overall hurt comfort (maybe lots of kisses)

i hope you are happy and healthy ❤️

thank you, lovely! & thanks for indulging my current hyper fixation! now that I'm rereading your request I'm wondering if I misinterpreted it 🤔 but if you had something else/something specific in mind, I'd have no issues receiving more hotch requests 😉

Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader who he catches 'lying' [1.5k words]

CW: period fic, talk about menstruating, soft Hotch, fluff

You feel horrid for the way you cringe when you hear the two quick raps at your door, signifying Aaron’s arrival. You’re happy to see him, a piece of you slotting into place knowing that he’s standing on the other side of the door, but this date has come either a day early or a day late on your monthly calendar. 

It’s silly, really, for him to knock seeing as he has a key and he’s used it many-a-times since you’ve given it to him. Yet, he’s first and foremost a gentleman; work had kept him away for six days, he spent the next two with his son, and tonight was for you. 

And when Aaron Hotchner asked for a date, it was a date. 

This fact is solidified when you open the door to see him dressed sharply yet far more casual than he goes to the office – a button up and slacks but no tie and a few buttons undone – and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. 

“Hi, honey.” He greets quickly, moving the flowers to one hand so he can pull you in with his other and press a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

You realize that’s him signifying that he’s already onto you, and you’re kicking yourself that you might’ve given yourself away without having even said anything yet.

“No! No, no; you’re right on time, handsome.” 

His lips turn up as you lean in for another kiss, and you’re convinced you’re in the clear. “I’ll just put these in some water, and then we can go?”

“Take your time.” He tells you with a pat to your hip, and you go about fixing a vase up for them. 

“How was the case?”

Aaron hums the way he does, and even though your back is to him as you fuss, you can see him in your mind's eye resting his hip against your circular table, arms crossed as he watches you work. “Long.”

You nod in agreement. “It felt like forever.” 

You have the flowers primped and pretty in the vase, sighing as you turn to place them on the table Aaron’s leaning against.

The table Aaron had been leaning against; as it is, you nearly end up dumping the vase and its flowers down his front, had he not been ready for you to spin right into him.

“Oh! Aaron, I-” 

“Is everything okay?” The sentence comes softly, patiently; the amount of care laced through his words is a physical entity in the room. You try not to buckle under the weight of it.

“Better now that you’re here.” You smile up at him after he’s placed the vase on the table, leaning heavily against his chest. His lips look as though they want to smile, but his eyes remain discerning. 

“Something’s wrong.” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” You counter quickly – too quickly –  leaning up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his chin. 

“You’re lying.” 

Now, it’s important to note that it isn’t said in accusation, but rather is obviously simply a deduction he’s made from whatever many clues you’ve given him since he walked in. 

But knowing that doesn’t stop the defensive indignation that bubbles up in your chest.

“I’m not lying.” 

He’s shaking his head immediately, backtracking. “No, honey, I’m sorry. I know you’re not, I shouldn’t have worded it like that. I don’t think you’re lying to me, but I do think you’re trying to hide something from me.”

And isn’t that still lying? But really, all you hear is the words honey, and I’m sorry and you’re putty in his hands. 

“Tell me what’s going on, sweetheart.” He murmurs into the crown of your head, hands interlocking at the small of your back as he sways the two of you gently back and forth. You want to cry. 

“Nothing’s going on.” You mumble; pathetic even to your own ears. 

“Why don’t we stay in tonight, hm? We ca-”

“No.” You’re horrified, standing up so quickly you nearly clock his nose with your head. “Aaron no, we’ve waited nine days for this. We were looking forward to it.” 

You’re constantly blown away with how patient Aaron can be, he bends to meet your eye as his hands rub up and down your arms, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “We were looking forward to it.” He agrees. “But things and plans are allowed to change, hm?” 

“We should go.” You say with a shake of your head. Not exactly the most convincing argument, but it is your favourite restaurant, and Aaron had made reservations. 

“How about” Aaron starts, taking a few steps back to rest his hip on the table again, though his arms stay remain outstretched instead of crossing over his chest; fingers encapsulating yours gently between his own “you tell me what’s going on, and I can help you decide if we should go or not.”

You’re not going, both of you know that, but he has the grace to let you feel like he isn’t making a decision on your behalf. 

You feel like a teenager again, having to explain your period to another person; being embarrassed at having to explain your period to another person. Aaron knows you get periods – of course he does – but the two of you have been lucky that nothing has had to be said outright about it.

Until now. 

“It’s really not important enough to talk about.” You admit, struggling to look at him and instead focusing on the flowers sitting in the middle of your table. 

“It seems like it might be important.” He says softly; you don’t think you deserve his patience.

“It’s…” you almost lose your nerve, plowing through before you can think too much of it. “It’s just that I got my period this week and…and it’s-” you cringe “-it’s the heaviest day of my cycle so I’m…I’m just-”

“Uncomfortable.” He finishes for you, not a question but he seems upset on your behalf. You find yourself embarrassingly close to tears. 

“I just always feel so…gross on these days and nothing fits right and I'm bloated and I’m sweaty and I’m cranky.”

Aaron’s tsking interrupts your spiralling as he pulls you back into his chest. “Oh honey, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I don’t need you to be sorry.”

“No but I think you should feel lovely all of the time.” 

A surprised laugh bubbles out of you at that. “That’s not a very realistic wish to have, Hotchner.”

He scoffs at you. “I spend every day at work being reasonable and realistic; I should be given small windows to be unrealistic.”

“Okay.” You agree; your smile pressed into his cheek.

“Yeah? Thank you, honey.” 

You’re just about to close your eyes and melt into his embrace when he’s patting your hip and encouraging you off of him.

“Okay, you go get changed into something comfy and I’ll be back in thirty minutes or less.” 

“What? No. Why?” You start, following him towards the door. “Where are you going?”

“To the restaurant.” He explains plainly, face falling soft as he sees the brief look of hurt flash across your face. “I’m going to place an order for pickup; I’ll order your favourite, and I just want to stop at a store for a few other things. We’ll have a date night in.” 

“You don’t have to do all that.” You pout, the tears finally welling up along your waterline. 

“No, I don’t. But I’m lucky enough for the opportunity to.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” You’re quick to offer, hating the idea of having your poor abdomen smushed beneath a seatbelt. 

“I want you” he murmurs lowly as he brings his lips down to your forehead “to get into comfier clothes and be waiting for me on the couch. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You agree, though it comes out wet; bottom lip jutting out as you look up at him. You think you must look as pathetic as you feel, but Aaron merely smiles at you. 

“Don’t cry, honey.”

“But you’re just so wonderful.” You nearly whimper. “I don’t know what to do.”

He kisses your pout. “Just say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

His smile grows and he rewards you with another kiss. “Good girl. Comfy clothes, couch, and I’ll be back in thirty minutes or less, alright?”

You agree, because how could you not? Smiling at him as he closes the door behind him and taking another peak at the beautiful bouquet he’d gotten for you before you do as instructed, changing into comfier clothes.

Knowing Aaron, he’ll probably come back with another bouquet of flowers, just because he can. 

God, you love that man.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[givemeth]

Seared - Firefighter!Joel Miller x Reader

🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦

Pairing: firefighter!Joel Miller x Reader (modern AU)

Summary: You triage trauma. He runs headfirst into it. But nothing prepares either of you for what happens when restraint finally snaps.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Mutual pining. Rough, desperate oral (f!receiving). Semi-clothed sex. Overstimulation. Praise kink. Slight manhandling. Breathy filth. Joel is obsessed and possessive but soft where it counts.

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Firefighter Joel owns me. This is a slow, burning collapse into obsession, filth, and the softest kind of ruin. Blame the wall. Blame the pie. Blame him. (Also… the firefighter Joel pic??? Excuse me??)

🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦

You remember the first time you met Joel Miller like a scar—ugly, sharp, and still sensitive to the touch.

He came through the ER doors at a sprint, boots pounding tile, smoke curling off his jacket like he’d dragged the fire in with him.

There was blood. Soot. The sharp tang of scorched plastic. And a man—mid-twenties, barely conscious, bleeding fast from a shredded leg—half-slumped under Joel’s arm.

You were in the middle of a controlled chaos—three beds full, a psych hold screaming in bay six, and the urgent, endless ping of vitals slipping. But everything in you snapped to attention the second you saw that leg.

You were already moving.

“Over here!” you shouted, waving down the trauma team. “Get him on the table—move!”

Joel didn’t let go.

You grabbed for the gurney, but he was still holding him, like he didn’t trust you.

“I said I’ve got him—let go!”

He finally released his grip, and the rookie slumped into the arms of two med techs.

“Vitals are dropping,” someone called. “Pressure’s tanking.”

“Push fluids, get a line in—hang a unit, now!”

You were halfway through barking orders when you realized he was still there. Standing in the middle of the trauma bay like a goddamn statue. Covered in soot. Eyes locked on the kid being wheeled away.

You turned on him, voice sharp.

“Hey. Outside the bay. Now.”

He didn’t move. Not right away.

“I’m not leaving him.”

You stepped closer—just enough for him to register the authority in your voice.

“You’re in the way,” you said. Low. Firm. “You wanna help him? Let us do our jobs.”

His jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he might argue again. But then his eyes flicked to the team crowding the table, to the rookie fading fast on the monitor, and he backed up.

Just two steps.

You followed. Got him clear of the curtain.

“Are you hurt?”

He blinked. Like he hadn’t even noticed. Then looked down—blood soaked through the arm of his jacket.

“Split it on rebar,” he muttered. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” You gestured toward the empty cot behind you. “Sit. Jacket off.”

He moved stiffly. Shoulders tight, face unreadable.

You grabbed gloves and gauze, snapped a packet of sterile saline, and started cleaning the wound without waiting for permission.

“You always this friendly?” He asked, voice low and flat.

“You always this dramatic?”

That got a huff of a laugh. Not quite a real one.

You wrapped his forearm in silence. Neat, quick, no-nonsense.

When you were done, you looked him in the eye and said, “You’re good to go.”

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t even nod.

Just stood. Walked out the same way he came in—like a storm that hadn’t finished.

And now, he’s back.

You smell him before you see him.

Burned plastic. Charred wood. Sweat and smoke and the unmistakable sharpness of blood just beginning to dry. The scent curls into the trauma bay like a warning, coiling around your ribs before he even rounds the corner.

Your shoulders stiffen on instinct.

You don’t have to look up. You already know.

Joel fucking Miller.

And then—there he is.

Framed in the doorway like he owns it. Same goddamn turnout jacket, open at the chest, the collar dark with soot. There’s blood trickling from his temple, a slow, lazy curl down the side of his face. His shirt’s torn, streaked black with ash and sweat, clinging to the wide line of his chest like it’s holding on for dear life. He’s favoring one side—ribs, probably—but not enough to admit anything’s wrong.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and pretend your pulse doesn’t jump.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says, voice low and dry, like he already knows the answer.

You don’t look up from the chart. “Tell me you didn’t come in here without a run sheet. Again.”

That huff of a laugh. Deep. Rough. The one that always sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You look up slowly, eyes locking on his like a scope lining up a target.

“Miller,” you say flatly.

“That’s my name,” he says with a nod and a crooked little smirk that makes you want to wipe it off his face with a suture needle.

“What happened this time?” You ask, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Fall into a bonfire? Wrestle a flaming raccoon? Light yourself on fire for the insurance money?”

“Roof collapse.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Took a wrong step. Got lucky.”

You eye the way he’s holding his side. The way his jaw’s set too tight, like he’s trying not to breathe too deep. “Define lucky.”

“Didn’t die.”

“Not yet.”

You jerk your chin toward the nearest cot. “Shirt off. Sit down. Try not to bleed on anything important.”

He walks past you—slow, deliberate—and when he passes, your shoulder brushes his chest. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off him, to catch the scent of ash still clinging to his skin.

He eases himself onto the edge of the gurney with a grunt, then peels off his jacket. You hear the rip of Velcro. The shift of heavy fabric. And then, finally, the sound of him hissing through his teeth as he drags the ruined shirt up over his head and lets it fall.

You glance at him.

Big mistake.

There’s a deep bruise blossoming across his ribs—angry, purple, the kind that tells you he probably cracked something and refused to admit it. There’s soot along his collarbone, streaking down over muscle and tension. A cut over his temple, still bleeding. And somehow—somehow—he looks smug about all of it.

“You got a habit of showing up looking like a cautionary tale,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic.

“You got a habit of pretending that doesn’t bother you,” he fires back.

You dab the cloth to the cut on his brow a little harder than necessary.

He flinches.

“Sadist,” he mutters under his breath.

“I told you last time,” you say. “If you keep playing with fire, it’s gonna bite you back.”

“Fire doesn’t bite,” he says, eyes on yours. “It burns.”

You pause.

Only for a second. But it’s enough.

That look in his eyes—you hate it. The way it lingers. The way it makes your stomach tighten and your hands move too fast, like you’re trying to outrun it.

“You need X-rays,” you mutter. “I’m calling imaging.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Same difference.”

You swear softly under your breath and tape gauze into place with more force than is strictly necessary.

“You gonna keep playing nurse or are you gonna lecture me?” He asks, watching you like a man tracking movement in a fire.

You throw the soiled gauze in the bin. “You wouldn’t listen either way.”

“You don’t know what I’d do.”

Your head snaps up.

For a second, neither of you speak. The hum of fluorescent lights. The beep of distant monitors. The faint hiss of a blood pressure cuff inflating somewhere down the hall.

You meet his gaze and there it is.

That thing you don’t talk about. That static in the air when he walks in. That spark between teeth and tongue, between every insult and half-smile. That thread pulled so tight, it’s one breath away from snapping.

But you don’t say it.

You just strip your gloves off, toss them, and step back.

“You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung,” you say. “Go to X-ray. Now.”

He stands, slow. His bare chest rises and falls—slow, even, careful.

He reaches for his shirt.

You stop him with one sharp look. “I’ll get you something clean,” you mutter. “Yours smells like arson.”

He smirks. “Like you’d know what arson smells like.”

“Like you wouldn’t be the one who set it.”

He starts to laugh—then winces, one hand going to his ribs.

You don’t smile—you want to, but you don’t.

He grabs his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. “You know my name yet?”

You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure I had to write it on your discharge forms five times.”

He leans just slightly toward you. Enough that his voice brushes the shell of your ear.

“Use it sometime, sweetheart.”

You don’t watch him walk out, but you hear his boots on the tile, and you feel the heat long after he’s gone.

***

It’s almost midnight when he walks in again.

The trauma bay is quiet. Lights dimmed. Monitors muted. You’re charting under fluorescent hum, legs aching, your scrub top sticking to your back from twelve straight hours of triage, blood, and bullshit.

You don’t expect anyone to come through those doors this late—at least, not on foot.

But there he is: Joel Miller.

Still in uniform pants, but the jacket’s gone. His shirt’s rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked with soot and dried blood. His left hand is wrapped in what looks like a torn kitchen towel, soaked red through the middle.

No escort. No gurney. No paperwork.

Just him.

And that look he always wears when he knows damn well he shouldn’t be here.

You don’t speak at first. Just stare across the bay at him like you’re deciding if it’s worth the breath.

Finally: “Dispatch didn’t bring you in.”

“Nope.”

“Not logged on the board.”

“Nope.”

You sigh, setting your chart aside. “So this is a social call.”

He lifts the bloodied hand slightly. “Brought you somethin’.”

You push up from your stool and nod toward the exam table. “You’re lucky it’s a slow night.”

“Figured you’d still be here.”

The words aren’t soft—but they land that way.

You pretend not to hear them. “Let me guess,” you mutter, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Glass? Metal? Or did you try to punch your way through a flaming wall this time?”

He sits down with a grunt. “Wasn’t flaming. Just hot.”

You give him a flat look.

He shrugs.

You take the towel from his hand carefully, peeling it back from the raw mess underneath. Deep gash across the palm. Jagged. Ugly. No active bleeding now, but definitely a few foreign bodies buried in the flesh.

“You didn’t clean this.”

“I rinsed it.”

You shoot him a look.

“With hose water,” he adds.

You sigh again, louder this time, and begin gathering supplies. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it. Barely.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Just watches as you roll a tray over and start flushing the wound.

The room is quiet—just the hiss of saline, the clink of metal tools, the drag of your breath through your nose.

“You didn’t have to come here,” you say eventually. “Could’ve hit urgent care.”

“They’re closed.”

You glance up. “There are twenty-four-hour clinics.”

“Didn’t want to wait around.”

You pause. Eyes narrow slightly. “So you came here. After hours. Alone. No radio call.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “And?”

Your hands still for just a moment. You look back down. “You always show up broken, you know that?”

“And you always fix me.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before. You keep working—removing the last shard, checking the depth. He doesn’t flinch once. Just watches you, quiet, eyes steady on your face like he’s trying to read something you haven’t written down.

“You need a few sutures,” you say.

“I figured.”

You reach for the lidocaine. “This’ll sting.”

He doesn’t react to the needle. Not the pinch. Not the pull of thread through skin. Not even when you apply pressure to knot it off.

But when your fingers brush the edge of his wrist to adjust the angle, you feel it—that little shift in the air. The tightening of his jaw. The way his thumb twitches.

It lingers.

You finish the final suture and cut the thread. “All done.”

You reach for the bandages, wrapping his hand gently, clean and tight.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Just flexes his fingers once, testing.

“Thanks,” he says.

You look up at him. “Don’t make a habit of this,” you say.

He tilts his head. “Of what? Injuring myself?”

You shake your head. “Coming here when you don’t have to.”

His eyes stay on yours, heavy and direct.

“I did have to.”

And that—that’s the part you don’t have a comeback for.

So you toss your gloves, wash your hands, and turn away before he can see the way your throat tightens.

***

They pull you from the ER just after 3 a.m.

You’re halfway through a stale protein bar when the call comes in—mass casualty, three-alarm fire, structure collapse at a chemical warehouse near the river. EMS is spread thin. Triage is failing on scene. Your charge nurse tosses you a trauma pack and tells you to suit up.

No time to argue. No time to think. You grab your gloves, your gear, your clipboard full of vitals and field protocols. The medic van is already idling at the curb when you climb in. You barely feel the bump of tires hitting potholes. Barely register the sirens howling through the dark.

You don’t realize what you’re walking into until you see the sky.

It isn’t black, it’s orange.

The fire’s still active when you arrive.

Smoke curls into the clouds like something alive. Flames flicker from broken windows. The air is thick—acrid, chemical, heavy enough to choke on. You can taste it on your tongue before you even step out of the van. It burns low in your throat, settles in your lungs like ash.

The street is chaos. Water spraying from hoses. Lights bouncing off metal and glass. Firefighters moving fast, shouting over radios and wind. The sound of cracking steel echoes from somewhere behind the wall of smoke. You can feel the heat radiating off the pavement, even through your boots.

You barely have time to assess your surroundings before the shouting starts.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

The voice cuts through the noise like a knife. Familiar. Rough-edged. Furious. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

Joel.

His boots hit the ground hard as he storms toward you. Helmet pushed back, jacket unzipped, eyes locked on you like you’re the fire he’s supposed to put out.

He looks worse than usual—smeared in soot, sweat clinging to his collar, black streaks along the curve of his jaw. His mouth is a hard, angry line.

You square your shoulders. “Nice to see you too.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he snaps. “This is a live zone.”

You shift the trauma pack on your shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, well. Sucks for both of us.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“This isn’t the ER,” he bites. “You don’t have gear, you don’t have certification—”

“And you don’t have enough medics. That’s why I’m here.”

He stops, just in front of you. Not touching. But close enough that you feel the heat coming off his gear. Close enough to see the soot melting into the lines around his eyes.

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying not to lose it.

“You think this is some kind of field trip?”

You glare at him. “I think people are dying. And if you’re gonna waste your time barking at me instead of letting me help, you can answer to the guy bleeding out behind the truck.”

His nostrils flare but before he can speak again, someone shouts across the lot.

“Three pulled from the northwest corridor—one unconscious, two ambulatory. We need help over here!”

Joel looks toward the smoke—then back at you. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. He just turns and starts running, boots hitting the ground hard and fast. You hesitate for only a second before following.

The scene is chaos.

There’s debris scattered across the asphalt—metal, splinters of glass, a half-melted helmet. The west wall of the warehouse is blackened and skeletal, like something chewed through it from the inside. You can hear the building groaning with every gust of wind.

Joel leads you past a downed ladder, ducking under fallen conduit, motioning for you to keep low. You ignore the sting in your throat. Ignore the sweat already slicking the back of your neck.

Two firefighters are kneeling near the edge of the perimeter, their patients sprawled on burn sheets. One is a teenage girl, barely conscious. Another is coughing violently into a mask. The third is flat on his back, unmoving.

Joel drops to one knee beside him. You drop beside the girl.

She’s pale. Clammy. A nasty burn blooms across her arm, blistered and angry, skin peeling at the edges. Her respirations are shallow. You slip on gloves and call for fluids, reach for your saline, get a vitals check.

Your hands move on autopilot. Triage first. Airway. Burn dressing. You shout orders without thinking, and someone hands you the oxygen tank you asked for before your mouth finishes the sentence.

You hear Joel behind you, yelling for a C-collar. The edge in his voice cuts clean through the haze. He’s snapping orders, coordinating movement—controlling everything.

Except you.

When you reach for a roll of gauze from your kit, the strap on the bag snags. You lean harder, trying to twist free, and your boot slips—wet pavement, blood or water or oil, it doesn’t matter. Your balance goes.

You brace to hit the ground—but you don’t. A hand catches your arm, yanking you back with a force that knocks the breath from your chest. Fingers clamp around your sleeve, hard and unrelenting, like he’s trying to root you in place. Joel’s. You know it before you even look. His grip is tight—too tight—but you don’t pull away. Can’t. His other hand plants against his thigh to steady you both, his body a wall of heat and strength and barely leashed adrenaline. The contact isn’t gentle, but it’s not rough, either. Just solid. Certain. Grounding. Enough to remind you that he’s there. That he saw you stumble. That he didn’t hesitate. You freeze. The space between you crackles with something unspeakable—panic, fury, relief. He doesn’t say a word. Neither do you. The silence hangs heavy, full of everything you’re not ready to face.

Your pulse kicks against your throat.

“I’m fine,” you say quietly.

His fingers twitch once and then release. He steps back, not looking at you again.

A shout rises from behind the firetruck—another firefighter staggering through the smoke, half-dragging an unconscious man.

Joel is already moving.

You catch up just in time to see him ease the man down onto the pavement.

Mid-thirties. Heavy build. Covered in soot. No response to stimuli. Skin cool, lips gray.

Joel’s voice is tight. Controlled. Barely holding it together. “He’s not breathing.”

You’re already moving, dropping hard beside him, fingers searching for a pulse you know you won’t find. “No carotid. Start compressions.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t speak. Just drops to his knees, laces his fingers together, and starts compressions—fast, deep, brutal. Like he’s trying to beat the man back to life with his bare hands.

You kneel across from him, tearing open the airway bag with blood-slick gloves.

“Thirty compressions. One breath. Go.”

He nods, jaw clenched tight, and counts under his breath. Sweat slides down the side of his face, dripping from his temple, his focus unshakable. His shoulders rise and fall in rhythm, harsh and punishing.

You tilt the man’s head back. Seal your lips over his. Breathe.

Once.

Again.

Again.

One minute. Two. Time twists, folds in on itself. You lose track. There’s blood on your gloves now—thick and tacky—but you don’t know whose. Joel’s breathing hard, jaw flexing with every compression. His eyes never leave the man’s chest, like he’s willing it to rise on its own.

Then—

A sound. A shift. A cough.

Wet and rattling.

Both of you freeze.

Joel jerks back, bracing on his heels as the man gasps for breath, lungs struggling to remember how to work. You stare, stunned.

“Airway’s back,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He’s alive.

Because of both of you.

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just looks at you. And you look back.

Sirens wail in the distance. People are shouting. The air is thick with smoke and panic. But all of it dulls beneath the weight of that look. His face is filthy—soot-streaked, bloodied, bone-deep tired—but his eyes soften. Just a little. Like something inside him has cracked, and he hasn’t figured out how to put it back together yet.

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t need to.

***

You’re still awake when he knocks.

The shower didn’t help. Neither did the tea. You’ve tried cleaning, pacing, pulling the sheets back and getting into bed, then climbing right back out again. It’s like your body’s still at the scene, lungs full of smoke, hands stained with blood that isn’t yours. The adrenaline wore off, but the buzz underneath your skin hasn’t left.

The knock is soft. Measured.

You almost don’t answer.

But when you open the door, he’s there—shoulders tense, arms crossed, like he hasn’t moved since he watched that man start breathing again. Joel doesn’t look at you right away. He stares past you, like stepping inside might ruin something.

You don’t say a word. Just take a step back, and he follows without asking, crossing the threshold like the decision was made long before he got here. He doesn’t sit. Neither do you. The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence blooms between you—thick and awful, too loud in the quiet. You clear your throat, voice low. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

He sniffs, slow, rubs a hand along his jaw. “Yeah. Well.”

You watch him for a second. The way his mouth moves like he’s chewing on something, jaw tight, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Joel.”

His gaze snaps to yours.

You take a breath, arms folding over your chest. “If you came to tell me I shouldn’t have been there, save it.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m not gonna tell you that.”

“Then what?”

He stares at you for a long time. His voice is quiet when it comes.

“You almost fucking fell.”

You blink. “I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

You shake your head, exhausted. “I was fine. You caught me. We saved him. End of story.”

Joel’s mouth curves—not a smile. Something bitter. “You always say that. Like none of it sticks to you.”

You step closer. “You think it doesn’t?”

“I think you’d rather bleed out than admit something got to you.”

The words hit harder than they should. And maybe you’re too tired to deflect.

“Why do you care?” You whisper.

Joel doesn’t move.

So you step closer. “Why do you show up like this? Why do you follow me home and act like you're still mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“No?”

“I’m—”

He cuts himself off. Jaw flexing.

You press. “Then what? Because if you’ve got something to say, say it, Joel. Otherwise—”

He’s on you before you finish.

The kiss hits hard—open-mouthed, desperate, more teeth than tongue. His hands slide into your hair, tugging, tilting your head just enough for him to drink from your mouth like he’s been dying to.

You gasp against him, one hand fisting in his shirt. He groans when you pull him closer, his thigh sliding between yours. He walks you back until your spine hits the wall, and he keeps going—hip pressed to yours, his body radiating heat.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he mutters against your jaw, hands at your waist, voice cracked and hoarse. “I saw your foot slip and my fucking stomach dropped. You could’ve fell on a piece of metal, or been burned from some debris–”

You try to breathe, but it comes out a moan instead when he rocks into you, his thigh pressing where you need it most.

“I was fine.” You choke out, words getting stuck in your throat.

His hands slide under your shirt, rough palms on soft skin. He doesn’t ease into it—he grabs, pulls, peels fabric back until you’re gasping against the wall. His mouth is on your throat, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“I should leave,” he breathes.

“You won’t.”

He growls—growls, deep in his throat, his hand sliding your panties down, slow and rough, the drag of fabric scraping your thighs as he falls to his knees like gravity doesn’t give him a choice.

You gasp, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders for balance, your back pressed hard to the wall as he drags his mouth along your hip—hot breath, scratch of stubble, the wet swipe of his tongue just above the seam of your thigh.

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.

He doesn’t respond. Not with words.

He lifts your leg, flings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and pushes you open with both hands—his palms flat against the inside of your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. You feel exposed, helpless, trembling against the drywall while his mouth hovers just inches away.

Then he licks you.

A long, slow drag of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to your clit, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s been thinking about this for months and plans to memorize everything. Your hips jerk. He presses harder into you, anchoring you to the wall with his body, mouth sealing over your clit like he means it.

The moan that rips out of you is loud—sharp and raw and wet. He groans in return, the sound vibrating through your cunt as he works his tongue in circles, messy and open-mouthed, like he’s starved for it. His beard is already slick with you, the soft scrape of it catching as he drags his tongue lower again, flattening it against your entrance, then back up.

Your head thumps against the wall. You’re gripping his hair now, one hand tangled in the strands at the back of his neck, the other white-knuckling his shoulder.

“F–fuck, Joel—”

He moans again, louder this time, and moves one hand to your ass, grabbing a handful and using it to pull you harder against his mouth. He’s not slow now. He’s feasting—no rhythm, no restraint. Just sloppy, hungry licks and tight suction on your clit, like he wants to make you come so hard you forget what you were fighting about.

You cry out again, thighs shaking, the leg he’s holding twitching against his shoulder.

His eyes flick up, catch yours, and there’s something wild in them—something proud.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, voice wrecked from the inside of your thighs. “Let me taste you.”

He seals his mouth around your clit again and sucks—hard.

You come like he’s dragged it out of you.

Your legs threaten to give, hips stuttering forward as your entire body locks, spasms, shudders against his face. You choke out a noise that doesn’t sound like yours—high-pitched, desperate—and his grip only tightens, mouth still working you through it like he’s not done yet.

He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering—truly shaking—and trying to push his head away, thighs twitching from overstimulation.

Only then does he pull back, mouth swollen and wet, beard soaked with you.

You’re panting. Glowing. Wrecked.

He looks up at you from his knees, gaze heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.

“Turn around,” he growls.

You blink, still dangling from your high. “What?”

His hands move to your hips, already guiding you. “Get your ass up those stairs.”

“Joel—”

He stands in one smooth motion, towering over you, already hard beneath the press of his jeans. He kisses you—filthy, open-mouthed, wet with the taste of yourself—and you moan into him, dizzy.

Then his hands are on the backs of your thighs, and suddenly your feet are off the ground.

You yelp—latch onto his shoulders.

“You said I wouldn’t leave,” he murmurs, breath hot at your ear. “So now I’m staying. Upstairs.”

He carries you like you weigh nothing.

One hand under your thighs, the other on your back, his mouth at your neck as he takes the stairs two at a time. You cling to him, panting, already squirming in his grip. You feel his cock pressing into you—hard, thick, barely contained behind his zipper—and he grinds up into you once with a groan before tightening his hold.

You reach the top of the stairs. Your bedroom door hits the wall. The sheets haven’t even been pulled back.

He throws you onto the mattress like he’s waited forever to ruin you.

The second your back hits the mattress, he’s on you.

Joel doesn’t bother with your shirt—just yanks it up, shoves it over your chest until it’s bunched beneath your arms, and groans at the sight of you laid out for him. You’re already flushed, skin damp, your cunt slick and shining from what he just did to you against the wall. But that’s not enough for him. Not nearly.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost angry. “Fucking glowing. Can’t even sit still.”

You try to answer, but he’s already climbing over you, already grinding his hips down, and it’s the thick press of denim against your bare core that pulls a gasp from your lips. You’re soaked—dripping—and the friction makes you twitch.

He kisses you hard. Messy and breathless. His tongue slides against yours as he fists your bra and yanks it down to mouth at your tits, teeth dragging over one nipple while his hand works the other. You arch under him, panting, moaning, thighs falling open without shame.

Joel groans into your skin.

“Can feel your pussy through my jeans,” he mutters, grinding slow. “You gonna come again just like this? So fuckin’ needy you’ll soak me through?”

Your hips buck. You gasp—louder now. “Joel—please—”

That’s all it takes. He sits up, rough with the button on his jeans, yanking them down just far enough to free his cock.

And God. You see it for the first time—thick and flushed and dripping at the tip—and your cunt clenches so hard it hurts.

He catches the way your eyes go wide.

“What?” He says, almost smug through the grit of his voice. “Thought about this? Thought about what it’d feel like?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He grabs your thigh, pushes it open wider, and drags the head of his cock through your folds—slow and slick, gathering the mess between your legs like he owns it.

“‘Course you did,” he says, low. “Bet you’d touch yourself after work thinking about this. Thinking about me. Weren’t you?”

You nod, frantic, and he smirks—just a little.

Then he pushes in.

One slow, brutal thrust, stretching you wide, stealing the breath from your lungs. You gasp—high, broken—and his jaw goes tight.

“Jesus,” he grits. “Tight as fuck. Squeezin’ me like you’re not ready.”

He pulls back. Pushes deeper.

You arch, crying out, one hand slamming against the headboard for balance.

“Fuck, fuck—Joel—”

“You take it,” he growls. “You take it like it’s the only cock you’ve ever needed.”

He drives into you—again, again—hips slapping hard, rhythm quick and punishing. The sound of it fills the room. Skin on skin. The wet drag of your cunt every time he thrusts back in. Your breath stutters, sharp and wrecked, as your legs shake around him.

You’re already close again.

“Too much,” you gasp. “Joel—too—”

“No,” he demands, grabbing your jaw, holding your face still so you see him. “You can take it. You’re gonna fuckin’ come again. Look at how good you’re doin’.”

Your whole body trembles. You don’t just feel the build—you ache with it. It coils tight behind your ribs, in your spine, threatening to snap.

He sees it.

He wants it.

He leans in, his mouth right at your ear, voice low and rough:

“Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

You do.

You shatter—violently, with a gasp that turns into a sob, your body locking up around him as your orgasm takes you hard and deep. Your cunt clenches so tight around his cock it pulls a groan straight from his throat, and he fucks you through it—never stopping, not even when your legs shake and you beg with your eyes.

“Too much?” He asks again, tone softer now, taunting but fond. “Then why’s your pussy still begging for me?”

You moan, half-sobbing, and he melts for it—his hand sliding down between your legs to rub tight circles over your clit, still thrusting, still buried deep.

You jerk, try to twist away. “Joel—”

“One more,” he pants, voice tight. “You got one more for me. Wanna feel you fall apart while I come inside you.”

You’re crying out now—overwhelmed, skin buzzing, body wrung out and oversensitive—but you nod.

He keeps going. Gentle now, but deep, cock dragging slow and deliberate, fingers working your clit with practiced precision.

You come again—this time silent, lips parted, tears sliding down your temple.

He groans when it hits you. Watches it take you. Then his rhythm falters, jaw clenching, breath turning ragged as he finally loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna come—inside—Jesus—”

He slams in one last time, burying himself deep with a grunt as he comes, cock twitching, hips grinding to a halt. His body shakes above yours, muscles locking, hands fisted tight in the sheets as he pulses inside you.

You feel full. Marked. Claimed.

It’s quiet for a long moment. The only sound is your breathing—his heavier than yours, both of you wrecked.

Then, finally, his weight sinks down, body folding over yours, face pressing into your neck.

You’re trembling. Sweating. Boneless.

But you feel his lips press once, gently, against your collarbone. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispers.

***

You’re not sure how long you lay there—still panting, the sheets twisted beneath you, sweat drying between your breasts—but at some point, you feel his breath slow. His hands soften.

And when he lifts his head, when his eyes finally meet yours, they’re different.

No edge. No fire. Just something warm and wrecked and reverent.

He swallows hard.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse, thumb brushing over the damp skin beneath your breast. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You expect him to leave the room, to tell you to meet him, to retreat into silence now that the heat’s gone.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts you gently—carefully—into his arms like you’re something breakable. His jeans are still hanging low on his hips, your shirt still bunched under your arms, but he moves like none of that matters. Like the only thing he cares about right now is you.

You don’t protest. You melt.

He carries you to the bathroom in silence, the sound of your slowed breath the only thing between you.

The light he switches on is dim. Warm. The water he runs is the perfect temperature. You barely have time to process the steam rising from the tub before his hands are on you again—pulling your shirt over your head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist as he slips off your bra.

“You okay?” He murmurs, soft as silk.

You nod.

He studies you. Then leans in and kisses your forehead—just a breath of contact, but enough to make your chest ache.

You step into the shower, and he follows.

His hands don’t grab this time. They glide. They trace your skin like they’re memorizing it. He starts with your shoulders, your arms, his palms broad and steady as the water pours down over both of you. He soaps you slowly—fingertips pressing gently into the knots along your spine, rinsing you like you’ve got all the time in the world.

When he moves to your hair, you sigh—deep, content, leaning into his touch without thinking. He lathers slowly, careful not to tug. His hands are strong, but tender. He massages your scalp, brushes suds away from your temples with his thumbs. Every once in a while, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, or the top of your spine, or the back of your neck. Not sexual. Just there. Grounding.

He rinses you. Kisses you again.

You turn, wet hair slicked back, face tilted up.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you in a way he hasn’t before. Like something cracked open back on that bed and he’s still trying to understand what came out.

Then he leans forward—foreheads touching, water dripping down your noses—and whispers, “You feel okay?”

You nod and whisper, “Yeah.”

And for the first time since he walked into your home, he smiles.

It’s small. Subtle. But real.

He kisses your mouth—slow and soft and utterly undesperate—and then towels you off with that same kind of devotion. Wraps you in one of your own oversized shirts. Lets his hands linger a little when he pulls the hem down over your thighs. Not greedy. Not teasing. Just… affectionate.

Then he lifts you again—easily, like you weigh nothing—and carries you to bed.

The sheets are still messy, still smell like sweat and sex, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lays you down gently, then slides in behind you, his arm curling around your waist like it belongs there. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm. His breath fans across the back of your neck.

You reach down and guide his hand up beneath your shirt, settling it over your ribs. His fingers flex just once—then go still.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You’re really staying?”

His arm tightens. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

And he means it.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing—slow and even, heart thrumming steady against your spine. His nose nuzzles into your shoulder, one thigh bracketing yours. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe tomorrow the world will come crashing in. Maybe it’ll all get complicated again.

But for now—

You’re full. You’re held. You’re his.

And nothing has ever felt so safe.

[givemeth]

omg i saw you reply to anon that said glasses spencer would have to take his glasses off when you make out with him…now i simply NEED a fic of this!! maybe something cute and bubbly, with reader giggling when spencer struggles to take it off and doesn’t know where to place his glasses after…write it only if you want to ofc!!

kisses — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: kissing ? a/n: hiii ! i hope you like this <3

“Oof.” You barely managed to brace yourself before Spencer buried his face into the crook of your neck, arms locking around your waist. His messenger bag thumped awkwardly against your hip, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Hello to you too,” you laughed, the sound muffled against his messy curls as you struggled to kick the door shut behind him. His grip was relentless, refusing to let you put even an inch of space between you.

“Missed you so much,” he mumbled. You grinned, running a hand through his hair. “Spence, it was paperwork day. You saw me less than nine hours ago.”

He pulled back just enough to pout at you, his big brown eyes unfairly pleading. “Mmm. Nine hours too long.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could tease him further, he was already tugging you back against him, his fingers splaying possessively over your hips. You helped him shrug off his jacket, then reached for his satchel, tossing it onto the nearby counter.

“How was work?” you asked, smoothing down his rumpled shirt.

“Fine,” he answered absently, but then his hands were framing your face, tilting your chin up as he leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your lips.

“Seriously,” he murmured between kisses, “I—” another peck “—missed—” another “—you—” and another “—so much.”

You couldn’t help but giggle as he scattered a dozen more quick, featherlight kisses across your mouth, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, each one punctuated by the faintest hint of coffee on his breath. “Spence,” you mumbled, catching his face between your palms to still him. “I told you not to have coffee this late.”

He grinned, unrepentant, before stealing another kiss. “You should know by now,” he whispered, squeezing your cheeks gently between his hands, “that I will never stop doing that.”

Spencer didn’t let up, lips chasing yours in quick, relentless pecks as you stumbled backward, laughing, until the back of your knees hit the couch. You fell onto the cushions, and he followed without hesitation, his body half-draped over yours. Only then did he finally slow down. His hands cradled your face as he shifted above you, his weight pressing you gently into the couch.

“Ouch,” you mumbled, pushing at his chest lightly.

He pulled back immediately, brows knitting together. “You okay?” His voice was distracted, like his brain was still half-lost in the haze of kissing you.

You rubbed the spot where the frames had pressed into your skin, giving him a look. “Please take your glasses off.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, though the sheepish grin tugging at his lips ruined the apology. He tried to sneak in another kiss while fumbling to remove them. The glasses slipped awkwardly, catching in his curls before he huffed in frustration, sitting back on his knees. You giggled when he struggled to unhook the thin wire frames from behind his ears.

“Stop laughing at me,” he grumbled, but there was no real irritation in it, just that adorable, scrunched-up pout you loved.

Finally freeing himself from them, he hovered over you, lips still brushing yours in distracted little kisses while his free hand, the one not tangled in your hair, held his glasses. You could practically feel the gears turning in his head: Can he make the throw to the coffee table? Will they survive the landing?

The answer was clearly no, because instead of tossing them, he just kept kissing you, his body shifting as he stretched toward the coffee table, still just out of reach. The movement dragged you with him, inch by inch, until you were dangerously close to sliding right off the couch.

“Spence,” you finally gasped, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

“Hm?” He chased your lips again, catching you in another lazy peck like he hadn’t even registered the warning.

You huffed a laugh against his mouth. “Just get off me and put them on the table.”

For a second, he looked genuinely torn, kissing you versus obeying basic physics, before sighing dramatically and rolling onto his knees. With another exaggerated sigh, he set his glasses down.Then he was on you again before you could tease him, his hands cradling your face. “Happy?” he murmured against your jaw.

You rolled your eyes but curled into him anyway. “Ecstatic.”

[givemeth]

hi fawn! happy summerween, would you mind a request for spencer?? if not, could i get ¹⁷⁾ tracing tanlines under a fingertip with him?

this was such a fun request to write! thank you for requesting

Spencer feels his heart in his throat as he watches you walk out of the water towards him. Your hips swish as you walk to him, you push your hair out of your face and smile when you catch his eye. 

Spencer’s hot instantly when you sit on his lap, soaking his thighs. 

“You won’t come in the water with me?” You ask, tipping your hips so you’re leaning into his chest. “The water’s cool.” 

Spencer smiles despite how hard his heart is hammering. 

His hand slips to the hem of your tankini, thumb stroking against your lower stomach. 

“I know, but I like it under the umbrella.” He manages to keep an even tone and is proud of himself for it.

You pout, eyelashes dripping salt water onto Spencer’s chest like tears. “But you’d look pretty with a tan.” 

Spencer chuckles, his fingers slipping further up your waist. He can see a tan forming on your shoulders already. His fingers are nimble as they slip under the strap, pressing into the tan to see if it stings. When you don’t hiss, Spencer kisses your jaw. 

“Not any prettier than you.” he murmurs, lips moving against your skin where he presses another few kisses. 

“You’re such a flirt.” you rake your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, making Spencer shiver. Goosebumps erupt along his arms fast, staying in place the longer you carry on stroking his neck. 

“You love it,” his lips meander to yours, kissing you sweetly before you can deny it- Spencer knows it would be a lie, anyway.

[givemeth]

La dolce vita

husband!harry castillo x wife!reader content warnings: none! summary: a random tuesday with your husband wc: 1.9k

masterlist.

The sun always hit your bedroom in gold.

Not the harsh kind that slapped you awake, but the soft, diffused kind that filtered through sheer curtains and painted warm streaks across expensive sheets. It crept along the marble floors, kissed the edge of the duvet, and finally reached the sliver of skin exposed where your shoulder slipped out of Harry’s t-shirt.

His t-shirt. Always his.

Harry was already awake, of course. He always was—one of those rare, infuriating men who didn’t seem to require more than five hours of sleep and somehow still looked like he walked out of a cologne ad. His arm was draped around your waist, thumb stroking lazy circles against your stomach.

He hadn’t moved for ten minutes. Not because he was particularly sentimental—though he'd deny being anything but—but because he liked mornings like this. Liked the way you curled into his chest in your sleep. Liked the quiet. Liked pretending you didn’t have anywhere to be.

But you had somewhere to be.

“Five more minutes,” you mumbled into his chest, voice thick with sleep. You hadn’t even opened your eyes yet, but your fingers tightened in his shirt like a warning. “Don’t tell me the time. Just… five more minutes.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “Didn’t say anything, sweetheart.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking about how cute you look when you threaten me before coffee.”

You groaned, half-heartedly elbowing him in the ribs.

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head, letting his lips linger in your hair. “You’ve got a call at nine,” he murmured. “That client with the launch disaster. You told me yesterday you needed at least thirty minutes to prep.”

Another groan. You pulled the duvet over your face.

“You’re supposed to be my husband,” you grumbled. “Not my calendar.”

“I can be both. Multifunctional.”

You peeked out from beneath the covers just enough to meet his eyes—sleepy, annoyed, affectionate. “Remind me why I married you?”

He smiled, the cocky little tilt of it almost too smug for six in the morning. “Because I make really good coffee. And you liked the view.”

“The penthouse view?”

“No,” he said, tapping your nose. “This view.” He motioned to himself.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered.

“I know.”

In the kitchen, sunlight gleamed off the marble counters. He poured two mugs—yours with oat milk and cinnamon, his black—and you padded in behind him, still dressed in one of his hoodies and soft pajama shorts. You were already scrolling through emails, fingers moving fast.

“Put that down for a second,” Harry said, sliding your mug across the counter. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You looked up, softening. “Sorry. My boss is being—”

“Kiss first. Crisis later.”

You rolled your eyes but crossed the kitchen anyway, placing your phone down beside the fruit bowl. He met you halfway, tugging you in by the waist.

“You’re clingy in the mornings,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Only with you.”

The kiss was slow, easy. Familiar in a way that still made your stomach flutter. His hands didn’t wander. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just wanted you close. That was the thing about Harry—he didn’t need you to do anything other than be.

“Okay,” you said, breathless when you pulled away. “Now I can save a client’s entire career with grace and caffeine.”

He smiled, leaning against the counter. “That’s my girl.”

As you disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for the day, Harry sipped his coffee and watched the light shift across the skyline. It never got old, this view.

But you were still his favorite one.

By 1:12 PM, your coffee had gone cold, your patience was thinner than the straps on your heels, and your inbox looked like it was actively trying to ruin your life.

Another email. Another “urgent” crisis. Another client who couldn’t keep their mouth shut.

You didn’t groan aloud, you were far too composed for that, but your eyes fluttered closed as you pinched the bridge of your nose and let out a quiet sigh.

Your phone buzzed again.

Harry: Look up.

You frowned, glancing toward the glass wall of your office—and there he was.

Leaning against the receptionist’s desk like he was posing for a GQ shoot, in dark sunglasses and an open-collared navy button-down. He spotted you instantly, gave a lazy two-finger wave, and smiled like he had all the time in the world.

Your heart did a quiet little flip.

The door creaked open. “Your husband’s here,” your assistant said with a barely concealed grin. “He says he’s kidnapping you for lunch. Or longer. Should I…block your calendar?”

You blinked. “He said what?”

And then Harry strolled in, sunglasses perched in his hair and dimples loaded.

“You look like you haven’t exhaled since breakfast,” he said, crossing the room and kissing your cheek like this was a normal Tuesday occurrence. “I’m stealing you. Just for a bit.”

“I have a call at two.”

“You rescheduled it,” he replied easily. “Well…I rescheduled it. Told your assistant to say you had a ‘husband-related emergency.’”

You stared at him, half-shocked, half-swooning. “You can’t just—”

“Sure I can,” he said, lacing your fingers with his. “Come on. Play hooky with me.”

"You're lucky you're so handsome."

And just like that, you were both gone.

You ate lunch at a quiet Italian spot in Tribeca, tucked away from the noise of midtown. Not your usual networking lunch. No name-dropping, no clients, no industry chatter. Just fresh pasta, house wine, and Harry’s fingers brushing yours every so often just to feel your skin.

You tried to keep your work brain on. You really did. But he had that smug grin and a soft thumb brushing your wrist and the audacity to say things like, “You always relax after the second glass.”

Which was true.

You finished your tiramisu and reached for your bag.

But Harry didn’t move. He just leaned back in his chair, sipping the rest of his espresso like you had nowhere to be.

“What?” you asked, brow raised.

“We’re not done yet.”

“Harry…”

“I’m not taking you back just yet,” he said, standing and offering you his hand. “We’re going shopping.”

You blinked. “Shopping?”

“You’ve been running on fumes for days. You need something pretty. Preferably several pretty things. Let me spoil you.”

You gave him a look. “You’re spoiling me just by pulling me out of work.”

“Then let me overdo it.”

Two boutiques and a perfume counter later, you were carrying three glossy bags and smelling faintly of jasmine and something citrusy and expensive.

Harry trailed beside you like it was the best afternoon he’d had in weeks—offering opinions on dresses, joking with sales associates, slipping a hand around your waist anytime you leaned in to look at jewelry.

“You are dangerous when you’re bored,” you muttered, stepping out of the third shop with a new silk blouse and slightly flushed cheeks.

“I’m extremely charming when I’m in love,” he corrected.

“You know you can’t buy me things every time I get stressed, right?”

“Can’t I?”

You swatted him with your bag. “You married a PR manager, not a runway model.”

He stepped in front of you then, palms gently framing your face.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I married you. And when the world burns you out, I get to remind you what you look like when you’re adored.”

Your breath hitched.

A pause. Then:

“You really want to go for a fourth store?” you asked, voice quieter now.

Harry grinned. “That depends. You want shoes or some new skincare?”

By the time he dropped you back off at your office, nearly two hours later, you were glowing. He kissed your cheek and helped you out of the car like he was still courting you.

You waved him off with a laugh and a roll of your eyes, but as you stepped into the elevator, your fingers still tingled where his had laced with yours.

And when your assistant looked up and saw your flushed face and full hands, she just smiled knowingly.

“Good lunch?”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah,” you said. “Best one I’ve had in a while.”

The penthouse smelled like garlic and butter by the time you kicked your heels off by the front door.

The lights were dimmed to a warm glow, jazz hummed softly from the speakers in the ceiling, and the windows spilled the city’s golden-hour skyline across the kitchen floor.

You padded in barefoot, one shopping bag still looped over your wrist. Harry stood at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan with the kind of easy confidence that made you want to melt into the marble countertops.

“You’re cooking?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, without turning. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“I’ve seen you try to use the microwave.”

“I said many. Not all.”

You laughed, walking over and setting the bag on the kitchen island. “What are we having?”

“Scallops. Fresh from that market you like. Some lemon pasta too. Thought I’d balance out all the luxury with something... handmade.”

“You mean ‘last-minute,’” you teased, sliding your arms around his waist from behind.

He tilted his head back just enough to rest it against yours. “Exactly.”

You stood like that for a minute. your cheek pressed to his shoulder blade, your arms warm around him, the quiet bubbling of garlic butter filling the space between.

“I could get used to this,” you murmured.

“I would hope you are,” he said. “This is the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Dinner was simple. And perfect.

The two of you sat at the long dining table that usually only saw use during holidays or when Harry’s clients came by for dinner parties. Tonight, there were no guests. Just candles flickering, the scent of lemon zest, two wine glasses, and the way Harry kept looking at you like you hung the moon.

You were halfway through your second helping when he leaned back in his chair, wine in hand, and said:

“Today was good.”

You smiled. “It really was.”

“I missed you.”

“I was right there this morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, tapping his glass. “But I missed you when you get to laugh and breathe and forget about everyone else’s fires for a second.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“You really are too good to me,” you said, quiet.

Harry reached across the table, linking his fingers with yours.

“I’m just trying to keep up with how good you are to me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him—this man who could ruin you with a smirk but still managed to love you in all the gentle, necessary ways.

“I love you,” you said finally, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Because I was thinking I could steal you again tomorrow.”

You laughed. “Harry.”

“Kidding. Kind of.”

You stood, collecting plates, but he was already on his feet before you could make it to the sink.

“I’ve got it,” he said, brushing your hip with his hand as he passed. “Go sit and relax for a while. I'll finish cleaning up here then I'll run a bath.”

You raised a brow. “You’re drawing me a bath and doing dishes?”

He gave you a wink. “Like I said, many talents.”

Later, you’d be wrapped in his arms again, your hair damp from the tub, skin warm and scented from rose oils he poured too much of into the water. You’d fall asleep with your head on his chest and your fingers curled against his heartbeat, wondering how a random Tuesday turned into your favorite kind of day.

And Harry?

Harry would kiss your temple in the dark and pull you closer, already planning what he’d do to spoil you next.

[givemeth]

What You Mean To Me

Pairing: Harry Castillo x F!Reader

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Harry thought he was incapable of love before you, but one morning with you in his shirt, taking you on the dining table and seeing the way you looked at him, has him confessing exactly how he feels about you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, *NO SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE*, the middle photo is just for the vibes. Swearing, smut: brief dirty talk, dry humping, unprotected p in v (wrap it up people), sex on the dining table, hair pulling, biting, I think that's it. Lots of fluff. Reader described with female anatomy, no use of y/n. Just the smallest hint of plot here, but it's mostly just smutty, fluffy (smuffy?) times.

A/N: I'm jumping on the Harry Castillo train and honestly I don't wanna get off (unless he's getting me off *clears throat* what?) This was just something I thought of when I was thinking back on the film, so I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading everyone! <3

Main Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was how comfortable you were.

As you cracked an eye open and looked around the room from your position on the bed, you almost didn’t want to leave it. You had practically sunk into the mattress, the sheets were silky soft compared to the ones you had at your own apartment, and the pillows were as light as air as you snuggled further into them. You turned onto your back and stared up at the ceiling, your hands running over the smooth fabric as you frowned, missing the person who had been there all night next to you. You sat up slowly, bringing your legs up as you held the sheet close to your body, a smile instantly spreading across your face when you saw a light blue shirt your boyfriend had left on the chair across from his bed for you. It had become more and more rare for him not to wake up next to you, a feeling you had gotten used to and which added to that comfort you had always craved, something that neither of you had really had before you started seeing each other.

Clearly there was something important to do with work that he had to take care of, but you also knew he could never resist you in his clothes.

Stretching your limbs, you dropped the sheet and got up from the bed, crossing the room and picking up the shirt. You brought the material up to your nose, humming softly as you could still smell a hint of his cologne under the detergent. You placed your arms through the sleeves and slipped your panties on underneath, buttoning the shirt as you walked out of the bedroom. The warm morning light greeted you as you walked down the hallway, blinking against the brightness as you reached the open plan living area. You heard Harry’s voice echo from the kitchen and through the hall, before he was behind you at the dining table, already set with breakfast for you. It was a sight you had gotten used to, but you did wish there was another place set next to yours which had become more of a regular occurrence in your relationship.

You bit your lip as he winked at you while on the phone, the steel coffee pot in hand as he poured some out in a glass mug for you. He placed the pot down and slowly made his way to you, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. Your hands slid up the front of his perfectly tailored navy blue suit, tugging at his tie as you stared up into his brown eyes. You gave him a pointed look, one that made him raise an eyebrow in question as he muttered something about some new partnership with a company. You slowly pushed yourself into him, lightly nipping along his jaw with a mischievous grin spreading across your lips as you saw his eyes flutter slightly.

He tried to give you his best stern look, a hint of annoyance behind his arousal as he shook his head in warning but he couldn’t hold it for long as you pecked his lips once, twice. Your fingers played with the knot of his tie, giving him a suggestive nod as you moved back towards the opposite end of the table, pushing yourself up onto it. You pulled him in by his tie, your other hand roaming down and unbuttoning his suit, going straight for his crisp, white shirt before you saw him close his eyes, throwing his head back in frustration.

“Let me call you back,” he groaned, hanging up on whoever he was talking to. He dropped the phone on the table, pulling your thighs around him and making you squeal as your arms wrapped around his neck. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“You just look really sexy when you’re all serious,” you replied, pushing his suit jacket off his shoulders and untucking his shirt, an urgency to your actions now that he was so close to you.

“And you…” he breathed, cupping your face in his large hands, his plump lips hovering over yours. “Look far too tempting like this, right before I have to leave.”

“I guess you’ll just have to stay,” you muttered before pulling him in for a searing kiss.

He growled into your mouth as you moaned softly, both of you slowly grinding against each other and feeling the bulge of his pants shift over your covered mound. You made quick work of pulling his tie free, opening the buttons of his shirt and pushing it off to join his jacket on the floor. You felt the familiar tug in your core, one that wrapped around your spine and radiated through your whole body as he pulled you close, his hips rocking against yours and making you gasp as you felt how hard he already was. He flicked open the first few buttons of the shirt you were wearing, his head instantly dipping down to kiss along the exposed skin of your chest. His touch ignited a fire through every cell of your being, your hand combing into his dark but greying curls and softly tugging him further into you. You moaned softly as his plush lips sealed around your nipple, licking and gently sucking before releasing with a wet pop.

“You’re going to have to explain to my mother why I’m late,” he stated, as he lifted each of your calves around his hips.

“Well, if we move this along then maybe I won’t have to,” you jested, wiggling your eyebrows.

You squealed with a giggle as he bit a little harder into your neck, a deep chuckle escaping him before he shifted closer and pressed up against you, thrusting down as your own hips lifted up to meet his. You could feel your wetness growing along the seam of your sex, with no doubt in your mind that it would seep through your panties and onto his slacks. Neither of you seemed to care however as you continued to grind against each other, your lips fused together in a fervent kiss.

“Harry, please,” you pleaded as you pulled away, your breathy timbre close to his ear.

“I know, gorgeous, I know,” he reassured you, kissing you once more.

His hands slid up your smooth thighs as he reached for your black, lace panties and pulled them aside to expose your glistening heat. He wasted no time with the belt, unbuckling it before unzipping his pants and freeing his hard shaft from the confines of his boxers. He took hold of it and tapped the head against your swollen nub a few times, eliciting a breathy whimper from you as you gripped his shoulders tight and waited for that inevitable, pleasurable breach. He lined himself to your entrance, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he pressed into you, completely sheathed by your walls. A husky groan left him as he felt you stretch around him, almost as if you had become accustomed to the girth of him, like he was always meant to be there. He rolled his hips back and forth slowly, knowing that you were still getting used to his size, however, but you had to admit you enjoyed the slight twinge that came with taking all of him. With a press of your foot into the back of his thigh and a whine into his mouth, it spurred him on to pick up the pace. His pelvis undulated in long, hard thrusts which were enough to satisfy how deep you wanted him, while still keeping you on the edge from the leisured rhythm.

You moaned wantonly, your fingernails biting into his skin as you shifted up to meet his hips, but as one hand landed on your left and the other wrapped around your back to hold you close, you gave into him. He kissed along your jaw, your neck, your exposed shoulder from where his shirt had drooped down, before coming back up to your lips, kissing you roughly. The table shook beneath you, the part of your mind that wasn’t being clouded by him took in the sound of rattling cutlery, and you hoped that nothing was about to fly off the surface, but you couldn’t even really care, either. Not when this man, this man who you were head over heels for, was making you feel things no other man ever had.

“Fuck, you feel so perfect,” he husked against your mouth. “Taking me so deep, fuck…”

“Harry, oh god you-” you whimpered, fingers slipping into his hair once again and pulling him even closer. “You feel so good inside me, shit…”

You threw your head back, offering him the column of your neck and letting out a loud, almost guttural moan as he bit down on your throat. Between the sounds pouring out of both of you and the slap of his skin against yours with each thrust, he invaded every one of your senses as your eyes futtered closed, relishing in the feel of him and the pleasure he was giving you. Before you could completely lose yourself, however, his hand cupped the back of your head and pulled at the strands of your hair, lifting your gaze up to meet his.

“Look at me,” he groaned, staring deep into your eyes. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

He rested his forehead against yours, keeping the same rhythm of his hips pounding into you, wanting you to be teetering on the edge of bliss. You couldn’t form words, your mouth hanging open as a string of breathless whimpers escaped you. His brown eyes peered into yours, but as you stayed pressed tight into each other, it was as if he was looking deeper, reaching the furthest depths of your soul in a way no one ever had before.

“You have no fucking idea what you do to me,” he grunted, his lips ghosting against yours.

A hard thrust had you humming, shaking your head frantically. “I-I t-think I have a feeling.”

“No,” his forehead creased as he pulled back slightly, wanting to see every one of your features. “No, you have no clue what you do to me, what you mean to me…”

“Then tell me,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his curls, staring back at him. “Tell me, Harry.”

You knew that opening up and exposing parts of himself was difficult for a man like him. Someone who was so used to being closed off because of his lifestyle, committing himself to his work and unable to give himself to someone completely because of it. His vulnerabilities and insecurities had kept him from living a life he truly desired, his inability to see past them and let people in without the fear of judgement was something he couldn’t do… before you. Before you, he had thought love to be the hardest thing in the world, finding that treating a relationship or the prospect of marriage as a business deal was much easier. Before you, he had believed himself to be incapable of love, incapable of feeling it because that meant he was letting something unfamiliar into his life and that was terrifying. Before you, he was so sure he knew who he was and how the world worked, but he didn’t.

He had never been more glad to be so wrong.

He had learnt everything he needed to know about investments, joined his family in business and made a whole career out of it. It wasn’t until meeting you at a random charity dinner, asking you out and spending every spare moment with you since, that he realized love was the greatest investment of all. And luckily, he had found the courage to trade in it with you, rather than against you.

If everything in his Tribeca apartment disappeared tomorrow, he wouldn’t care. Now with you in his arms looking back at him with a flicker of something new and thrilling in your eye, something that could only be described as love, that was all that mattered to him.

“You changed me… you changed everything,” he whispered back, his gaze unwavering. “You’re my world now.”

“Harry,” you gasped, completely overwhelmed by not only how he was making you feel, but his words too.

He uttered your name in a hushed breath, following with the three words you had heard so many times by many lovers, but never from someone who truly understood the weight of them.

“I love you.”

A raspy giggle fell from your lips as your eyes blurred from the tears collecting at your waterline, your arms wrapping around him as you buried your face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in, consumed by him completely. He pulled you flush against his body as his lips rested against your temple, whispering the words over and over as his hips slammed into you faster, taking everything from you that you would happily give to him for as long as you could. A loud moan from you muffled against the skin of his neck as you clenched tight around him, the familiar sign that told him how close you were to that blissful release.

His lips captured yours once more as he felt your walls grip around his length like a vice, the last few harsh thrusts being both your undoing as well as his. WIth a shuddered groan from him and a sharp cry from you, you contracted around him and felt waves of the euphoria only he could bring crashing over you. His cock throbbed deep inside you before spurts of his seed spilled into you, mingling with your arousal as it coated his shaft.

You both breathed heavily as you came down from the rapturous high you had just experienced, a shiver running down your spine as he found your lips and pressed a passionate, searing kiss against them. You blinked away the tears that were on the brink of rolling down your cheeks, pulling away to look up at him.

“All that before I even took a sip of coffee,” you beamed, giving his hair a playful tug.

“You started it,” he teased, chuckling.

“I know,” you shrugged, fine with taking the blame.

With another peck to your lips, Harry separated himself from you, a hiss leaving you at the loss of him inside you. You smiled softly as you could see a hint of pride in his eye from your reaction as he pulled his boxers and pants back into place. You fixed your panties and buttoned your shirt, well his shirt, back up. He had disappeared into the bedroom with his clothes, coming back a few minutes later in a fresh shirt and suit, still navy blue but with his collar popped up. He fiddled around with his tie, rolling his eyes as he was about to step up to the mirror in the hallway before you approached him.

You took both sides in your hands, twisting it around and briefly looking up into his eyes as they met yours. You couldn’t help but think that putting a man’s tie on was sexier than taking it off, as you created the perfect knot and tightened it, turning his collar down.

“Perfect,” you breathed, beaming up at him.

He shook his head, leaning down and running his curved nose along yours. “That’s you, baby.”

“I love you,” you whispered against his mouth, peering up at him through your lashes.

“You really can’t just let me leave for work, can you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Nope,” you replied, popping the ‘p’ playfully.

He sighed dramatically as he dropped his head to your shoulder. “I guess they’ll just have to handle things without me.”

You cackled as he pulled you close and dragged you towards the bedroom, his plump lips kissing along the length of your neck, your laughter echoing down the halls where your breakfast grew cold, but neither of you cared.

You could eat later.

Together.

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