itsfelicity-emma

[itsfelicity-emma]

heyyyy can you write a ff where aaron hotchner and the reader get into a fight and it’s like post fight and she’s giving him the silent treatment and he wins her back and it ends in them being all cute and cuddling

heyyy lovey! thank you for requesting! <3

Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Summary: when you give Aaron the silent treatment, he tries his best to make you feel better.

CW: simp!aaron hehe, fashion designer!reader, fashion show written based on my experience at work so idk how universal it is, dare I say jemily implication…

my requests are open!

⋆˖°.𖤓𓄀🂾𐚁𓃗.°˖⋆

You hadn’t meant to fall out with Aaron last night. You were just upset that he had double booked himself on a day that meant so much to you. And Aaron was upset that you had shouted at him. Today he was supposed to have driven you to your big show and taken you to dinner afterwards. However, Aaron seemed to have also promised lunch and an afternoon off with his team after a long week and half away on a gruesome case as a reward for their hard work. Naturally you avoided Aaron as much as you physically could in your shared house the next morning. You stayed ‘alseep’ while he pottered around in the kitchen, only getting up to make yourself breakfast when he had gotten in the shower. After eating, you took your coffee back into the bedroom where Aaron was getting dressed. 

“Morning sweetheart.” Aaron smiled at you. You sipped your coffee and turned away to the bathroom to do your hair. You heard Aaron sigh, not out of annoyance, but subtle sadness. You two rarely fought, but when you did most of Aaron’s lasting upset came from the fact that he had hurt your feelings. He hated feeling like the bad guy to you, especially when, this time, it actually was his fault. 

You finished up in the bathroom as Aaron was grabbing his phone off the nightstand. You stood in the doorway with your arms crossed over hugging yourself. He moved across the room and wrapped one arm over your shoulders, your arms remained around your middle. 

“You look lovely, I’ll see you later sweet girl.” He kissed your head as he pulled back. You gave him a tight lipped smile in response and mumbled out behind him. 

“Have fun.” 

“Love you sweetheart.” He called from the front door, you could hear the door open but not close again as he waited for your response. Obviously you called back, because yes you were upset with him, but of course you still loved him. Upon hearing your, albeit curt, response, he shut the door behind him. You let out a deep sigh and finished getting ready. 

By twelve you were ready to go. You locked up the house and got in the car. As you sat, you double checked the time on your phone and saw a message from Aaron. 

‘Good luck pretty girl, I know everyone will love it.’

Your heart pulled, Aaron’s support at this showcase had been the only thing keeping you grounded. His gentle words of encouragement leading up to this moment were your rock and for him to not even be there to see it was devastating.  You sighed and dropped your phone and your bag on the passenger’s seat and drove to your venue. 

⋆˖°.𖤓𓄀🂾𐚁𓃗.°˖⋆

The hall was packed full of people. Admirers, professionals, photographers, friends. But the only person you really wanted there was nowhere to be seen. 

You grabbed a drink a wandered the hall, mingling with all the visitors. You had drunk about three quarters of your glass when you felt a tap on your shoulder. 

“Excuse me I would like to speak to the designer?” You heard an extremely fake, posh voice behind you. You spun round only to find yourself face to face with Emily, linked arms with JJ who was giggling at her terrible performance. 

“Oh my god!” You cried, setting your glass down on a nearby table and throwing your arms around them both. 

“What are you doing here!” You laughed, ecstatic to see them here. The girls parted as Emily pointed to Hotch in deep conversation with an older woman looking at a photograph of an older piece of your work off to the side, while he not so subtly glanced at you out the corner of his eye. 

“Somebody didn’t want to miss this, and insisted we all had to come see the genius at work.” JJ gushed. 

You blushed and looked down at your feet. 

“Did he tell you I was ignoring him?” You grimaced. 

“He said he had made a grave error and he needed to remedy it and I need your help.” Emily explained, doing her best Hotch impression. You chuckled at her, looking over her shoulder at Aaron who was, as always, already looking at you. 

“Um one question though, how did you guys all get in, I didn’t think there were any tickets left?” You raised an eyebrow looking between your friends. 

“There’s some things that knowing a scary unit chief from the FBI has its perks for.” Jj smiled. 

You were just thinking about how you were supposed to apologise to Aaron for how you acted this morning when the venue manager called your name, indicating it was time for the show to start. You quickly said your goodbyes and went backstage to run through everything before it went out. 

⋆˖°.𖤓𓄀🂾𐚁𓃗.°˖⋆

As the models went down the runway, your whole body buzzed. This project had been your biggest and most challenging. Despite your disagreement this morning, knowing Aaron and all your friends had come to see this  made you feel an overwhelming sense of pride. From your spot behind the left wall, you could see Aaron in his reserved seat front and centre, recording the whole show on his phone, ordering Morgan who was sat next to him to take as many photos as possible on the digital camera hanging off his wrist. 

As the show neared its end and all the models had done their final walk, it was time for the obligatory designer appearance. You stepped out onto the stage and walked to the centre of the runway, smiling and waving all the way down. Once you had reached your spot for your bows and photos, you blew a kiss to Aaron who mimed catching it and putting in his pocket, and derek covered his heart with his hand, acting wounded. You waved to the audience again and turned and walked backstage to congratulate your models. 

You made your rounds of all the models, makeup artists, venue workers anybody you could find backstage. A flurry of giggles erupted behind you, you whipped your head over your shoulder to see your favourite man standing in the entryway, a large colourful bouquet in his arms. 

“Aaron.” You breathed out, beaming at him. Still full of adrenaline, you took quick steps and threw yourself into his arms. He laughed and flinched back slightly with the force of your body slamming into him. 

“I’m so proud of you.” He kissed the top of your head. 

A large group of awws sounded from around you as you flushed and hid in his jacket. 

“C’mon you, let’s get you to dinner.” 

You nodded, taking the flowers in one arm and his hand with the other. 

⋆˖°.𖤓𓄀🂾𐚁𓃗.°˖⋆

You both walked out the main doors and you thanked all your friends who were waiting to see you throwing out their congratulations and singing your praises. 

Aaron opened the car door for you holding the flowers while you climbed in to the passenger side. He gently shut the door and rounded the car, laying the flowers on the backseat and getting in to drive you both to the restaurant. 

“Aaron I’m really sorry for ignoring you this morning.” 

“Sweetheart don’t apologise,” he took your hand over the centre console, “I’m sorry for not checking before telling the team I’d take them to lunch, it was your day and you’re my priority.”

You sunk down in the seat, suddenly feeling shy. 

“Thanks for bringing the team too, Jj said you bullied your way in.” You teased. 

“Okay, first of all I did not bully my way in, I used my very legitimate badge and my government authority to persuade them to let us in.” He smirked. 

“Plus I think I saw Morgan getting one of your models numbers so I don’t think it was a hard sell.” 

You laughed the hardest you had all day. 

“Oh of course he did, what did she look like I’ll text her and tell her not to go there.” 

Aaron laughed with you, squeezing your hand, stealing a glance at you while he drove. 

“I love you.” He smiled.

“I love you Aaron.” You grinned. 

He squeezed your hand one more time before turning his attention back to the road to the restaurant, feeling well and truly forgiven. 

⋆˖°.𖤓𓄀🂾𐚁𓃗.°˖⋆

After a filling dinner and many glasses of wine, you stumbled through the house and Aaron locked up behind you. You flopped down on the bed looking up at the ceiling, waiting for Aaron. He rounded the bedroom door tossing his jacket on the chair near the vanity in the room, before he knelt down at the foot of the bed. He took each of your heels off and kissed both of your ankles. 

“Hi.” You leaned up on your elbows, smiling down at him. 

“Hey you.” He breathed out a laugh back.

“Wanna shower together?” You wiggled your eyebrows at him. 

“Sweetheart.” He warned. 

“Hotchner.” You said back in the same tone. 

“Alright that’s enough outta you.” He stood, pulling you up by your arms and hoisting you up over his shoulder. 

“Let’s go.” He chuckled 

You squealed as he carried you into the bathroom,

“Aaron put me down!”

“Nuh uh.”

“Aaron Hotchner did you just say ‘nuh uh’,” you reared your head back in shock.

He belly laughed, before putting you down on the bathroom counter.

“I am appalled, who are you?” You laughed at him, watching him reach around the shower curtain to turn the bath water to the temperature you like and drizzling in some bubble bath. He came back to stand in front of you, and you reached forward and started undoing his shirt buttons. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He peered down at your hands. 

“I’m just helping.” You teased. 

“Mm I’m sure you are.” He teased back. 

Aaron stood you up and spun you round to face the large bathroom mirror. He slowly unzipped the back of your dress, kissing your shoulder before stepping back. You frowned. 

“Where are you going?” You pouted, watching his reflection retreat in the mirror.

“Putting your pyjamas in the dryer, you enjoy that bath, you want a drink?” 

“Aaron come back a second.” You called through. 

His head poked round the bathroom door. You kissed him as his arm found its way round your body. 

“Thank you.” You smiled. 

“You’re welcome pretty girl, so proud of you.” 

Aaron, you decided, was definitely forgiven. 

[itsfelicity-emma]

secrets in the bureau

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 6.5k words

summary: you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.

cw: fluff, typical criminal minds violence and topics

an: ahhh first hotch fic everrr, gonna have to write more cm stuff to get characterisations down but this feels like a nice first go

1.

"...so what do you think?" you ask, looking at Aaron – Hotch, technically, it is working hours – from across his desk. He glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, an amused glint flickering in his eyes.

"You know the answer is yes, honey. Why are you even asking?"

"It's good manners," you say, your smile tugging wider as you inch forward in your chair, the toe of your shoe brushing his under the desk.

The truth is, you're both long past the need for politeness in these matters. If you want to stay over at Aaron's place, he's rarely, if ever, given you a reason to think he wouldn’t want you there.

He shifts in his chair slightly, setting the file aside to give you his full focus. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperated and soft, which is just how he loves you: half amused by your formality, half undone by it.

“You could come over unannounced and I’d still find a way to make it feel like I’d planned for you to be there all day,” he says, voice low and steady, like everything with him is. “You know that.”

You do. You know it in the way his fridge is always stocked with the oat milk you like, even though he won't touch the stuff. You know it in the extra toothbrush in his drawer, the way your laundry ends up folded at the foot of his bed after a weekend, neatly nestled between his dark t-shirts and pressed slacks.

Still, you like asking. You like that you can.

Hotch watches you for a beat, the silence stretching warm between you. Then he leans back in his chair, a slow breath leaving him like he's reluctant to shift back into Unit Chief mode, but he does because he’s nothing if not disciplined.

"You know something else, too," he says, eyes flicking down toward the folder on his desk before sliding back to meet yours.

You tilt your head, curious, a smile still ghosting on your lips. "What’s that?"

"That your break is over," he says, holding out the file across the desk, tone smooth but with the tiniest lilt of playfulness only you would catch. “And you need to go back to work.”

You glance at the file, then back at him, lifting a brow like you’re considering the offer. He’s in full supervisory mode now, except for the way he’s watching you too closely, his expression too fond.

You lean forward slowly, drawing it out, your hand hovering just short of the folder. "I think I’ll be alright," you murmur, feigning confidence, "my boss seems to have a soft spot for me."

The moment your fingers brush the edge of the file, he pulls it back with the smallest shake of his head, his mouth twitching again at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite not, either.

"That might be true," he says quietly. "But don’t push your luck."

Aaron holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he pushes up from his chair and rounds the desk in one fluid, practiced motion. You track him with your eyes, but your body stays still, waiting.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne settles into the air between you. With that same maddening composure, he places the file in your lap, fingers brushing your thigh just enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re not above paperwork,” he says softly, but the words are barely finished before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it costs him something to keep it brief.

But you aren’t finished. You tilt your face up before he can pull away fully, catching his jaw with your fingertips. You press back into him, just a little longer, a little deeper. His breath hitches, hands tightening against the arms of your chair like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop or pull you closer.

Hotch barely has time to blink before the knock comes.

You spring apart like teenagers caught in the act, both of you straightening instinctively—him taking a full step back, you smoothing the front of your shirt as you rise from the chair, face composed but pulse racing. You know you're standing too close, close enough that the air still feels warm between you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

Then the door creaks open.

Emily leans halfway in, eyes flicking from Hotch to you. She's not smirking, not yet - but her brow does lift, just enough to say: Interesting.

You clear your throat lightly, stepping aside as if you hadn’t just been kissing your boss at his desk. “Thanks for going over that file with me, Hotch,” you say, voice clear, maybe a little too deliberate. “Really helped.”

 “Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Emily’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. “JJ’s rounding everyone up in the conference room.” she says lightly.

You nod, making your way to the door with a quick “Got it,” and Emily steps back to let you pass. She waits a beat, then glances back over her shoulder at Hotch.

“Everything alright in here, sir?” she asks, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth now. 

Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift. “Just going over case material.”

Emily hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. “Right. Very thorough, I’m sure.”

You catch the look she shoots you as you walk side by side down the hallway. You don’t say anything, and neither does she. But you know she knows. Or at least suspects.

2.

The case, as a lot of them are, is long and hard.

Cruelty that sinks into your bones and stays there, no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing it out under fluorescent lighting. You found the unsub and you brought him in, but no one really feels like they won.

The jet is quiet on the way home, lit only by the occasional blink of overhead lights and the low hum of the engines beneath your feet. You sit in the back corner by yourself, turned toward the window, cheek pressed lightly against your knuckles. It's dark out, nothing but clouds and sky and your own reflection staring back at you, tired and smudged at the edges.

At first, it was the usual: Morgan with his headphones in, head nodding slightly to some beat no one else can hear. Reid halfway through a dog-eared paperback. Emily curled sideways with her jacket for a pillow, Rossi sipping quietly at a scotch.

Aaron sat at his usual spot, paperwork spread neatly across the table in front of him. His pen scratched steadily for a while, methodical as ever. But even that faded eventually.

Now it’s just you and him.

Everyone else has drifted into sleep, slumped shoulders, legs stretched awkwardly into aisles, exhaustion settling over the cabin like a soft blanket. You hear Reid murmur something in his sleep and shift, but otherwise, the silence is heavy. Restful.

You’re so deep in thought you don’t hear the soft creak of leather as Aaron rises from his seat. Don’t notice the subtle hush of movement as he crosses to the kitchenette. The sound of a mug being set down, water pouring, the paper rustle of a teabag unwrapped – all of it folds into the white noise of the flight, lost beneath the whirring engines and the thick fog in your mind.

He moves the way he always does, like he knows time will wait for him. Like even gravity might hold off for a second, if he asked it nicely.

When he finally comes back, you only register him when the cushion beside you shifts under his weight. The faint scent of chamomile and citrus drifts upward, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic placed on the small table in front of you.

You blink, slow, as you turn your head.

Aaron’s watching you – not with concern, exactly, but something gentler. Something steadier. A softness in his eyes that no one else on this plane ever gets to see. You’re not sure they’d believe it if they did.

He glances at the tea, then back to you.

“I thought it might help,” he says, voice low, barely threading through the quiet.

You look down at the mug then back at him. “Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you spoke.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, even more gently this time.

“You alright?”

You nod instinctively, but then shake your head, just once.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just reaches over, his hand brushing against yours. When your fingers curl around his, his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand. He doesn’t ask for more. He never does. He just holds you like that, quiet and steady.

You both sit there for a while, the silence stretching long again.

You sip the tea slowly, the heat grounding, the taste comforting. His shoulder rests against yours, warm and solid, and neither of you moves away.

“I hate that it still gets to me,” you say finally, not looking at him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

His hand squeezes yours.

“I hope you never do,” he says, quiet but steady. “The day this stops getting to you is the day you’ve lost the part of yourself that makes you good at this, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, but your grip tightens slightly around his, and he feels it. You know he does.

The tea is still warm in your hands when your eyelids start to slip. You don’t fight it. Not when his shoulder is right there, solid and warm.

You’re barely awake when he leans in, the press of his lips to your temple so light it could almost be imagined. But it’s not.

So you sleep.

-

When you wake, the world feels dim and weightless, the hush of descent in your ears, cabin lights low but brightening gradually. You blink against the dry air and shift slightly, realizing two things in the same breath.

Aaron is no longer beside you.

And you're warm. Too warm, actually.

You glance down to find his suit jacket draped across your front, heavy and crisp and unmistakably his. It’s folded in that way he does everything: precise, considered, like the act of keeping you comfortable matters more than anything else. The scent of him clings to the fabric – clean laundry, faint spice, and something uniquely his that you could pick out of a crowd without trying.

You’re reaching to smooth it over your lap when movement draws your attention. He’s walking back to the front of the jet, toward the files he’d left abandoned hours ago. The light overhead catches against the curve of his jaw, the familiar line of his shoulders. And just before he sits, he turns.

His eyes find you instantly.

You hold it for a second, that look, storing it somewhere behind your ribs where all the quiet, important things live.

Then you catch motion from the corner of your eye.

Spencer’s awake, sitting sideways in his seat a few rows ahead, blinking blearily behind his glasses. His book is open in his lap, but it’s clear he hasn’t read a word in a while. He’s looking between you and Hotch, his brows slightly furrowed, like he’s working a problem he doesn’t have all the variables for.

Thank god his genius brain takes a few minutes to start up after a nap.

You straighten a little, clearing your throat and nudging the jacket higher on your lap like it’s perfectly normal for your boss’s clothes to be draped over you mid-flight. Then you turn to Spencer with the airiest voice you can muster:

“Spence, what have you been reading?”

It works, somewhat.

He blinks, focusing on you as his brain shifts tracks. “Oh. Um.” He lifts the book like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “It’s a comparative analysis of the evolution of moral frameworks in isolated societies. There's this fascinating case study–”

You smile, nodding as you listen, letting his words fill the space. It’s enough to distract him, at least from whatever observations he was starting to piece together. And it's more than enough to keep your thoughts from drifting back to the warmth still lingering on your skin, or the weight of that kiss you’re still not entirely convinced you didn’t dream.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron settling back in with his files, expression calm but unreadable again.

3.

It starts with a lull in the afternoon, one of those rare moments in the bullpen when the cases are filed, reports are done (mostly), and the coffee's gone lukewarm but no one wants to get up to fix it. The low hum of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper fills the air, a kind of peace, however temporary.

You're halfway through your third report of the day, pen uncapped and mouth twisted in concentration, when Morgan leans across the short wall of your desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the divider.

"So, what’s the deal with you?" he asks, casual but too pointed for it to be offhand.

You blink at him, glancing up from your paperwork. "Clarify, please."

He grins like he’s been waiting for you to bite. “I’m just saying. We’ve known each other how long now? Three years? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even flirt with anyone.”

“Maybe I’m just selective,” you say without looking up, though the smirk tugging at your mouth threatens to betray you.

Emily’s head pops up from the other side of her monitor like a meerkat. “Selective or nonexistent? Because Morgan has a point. You’re attractive, smart, not a serial killer—what gives?”

Across from you, Reid glances over with a tiny frown, clearly confused as to how this became the topic of conversation. "Are we ranking coworker eligibility now?"

“No,” you say, “we are not. They are.” You gesture at Morgan and Emily with your pen. “And I don’t date because I’m too busy.”

“Too busy?” Emily echoes, incredulous. “Come on, you make time for what matters.”

You give a noncommittal shrug and flip a page in the file you’re reviewing. “Maybe nothing’s mattered enough.”

Morgan huffs. “You’re telling me no one’s even caught your eye lately?”

You barely have to think to keep your expression neutral, your tone light. “Nope.”

There’s a rustle of movement behind you, a door opening at the far end of the bullpen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hotch stepping out of his office, file in hand, brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration he always wears when he’s mid-thought. He glances around the room, then straight to you, like instinct. Like muscle memory.

You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the moment he finds you. You feel it like a current, like the way your shoulders relax half a degree before you can stop them.

“Really?” Morgan presses, watching you too closely now. “No one?”

You glance up, keep your voice calm. “You ever try scheduling a date between a cross-country manhunt and a twelve-hour flight delay?”

“You think we haven’t?” Emily snorts.

Hotch’s footsteps pause just outside the group’s periphery, and you feel him hovering there — listening. You’d bet money on it.

“Well,” you say, flicking your pen across the page as if it’s just any other day, “I'm perfectly happy as I am now.”

Hotch moves finally, continuing toward the conference room, his voice low and even as he passes.

“Briefing in ten.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, not directly, but his hand brushes the back of your chair lightly. So lightly it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t already watching too closely.

You don’t move. Just nod. “Got it.”

The moment he’s out of earshot, Morgan narrows his eyes at you. “That was weirdly… cordial.”

“Maybe he’s just in a good mood,” you reply, deadpan.

Emily mutters, “Which would be weirder.”

But they let it drop, mostly because the briefing’s about to start, and because the day’s quiet never lasts long. Still, Morgan gives you one last look before turning toward the conference room.

4.

The morning sunlight filtering through Aaron’s bedroom is soft and pale. It falls in golden streaks across the sheets, the hardwood floor, and the line of his bare shoulder where the covers have slipped down during the night.

You shift slowly, your leg sliding along his under the covers, your face still tucked into the space just below his collarbone. His hand is still resting low on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he’s mapping you in his sleep.

“Are you awake?” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” Aaron murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your cheek.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Handsome?”

“That’s fine,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you feel him press a kiss to your temple. “You got it.”

You shift again, curling closer, and he chuckles quietly at the way you practically climb on top of him. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the detergent you’ve secretly switched his sheets to without telling him — because the old ones smelled like hotel soap and starch. These smell like home.

“God,” you mutter, “can’t believe we have to work today.”

Aaron hums, his hand still steady on your back. “We can’t be late again.”

“We won’t be, you’re so dramatic.”

“We won’t be,” he repeats, more teasing now. “Yeah, right.”

You lift your head, finally, meeting his sleepy brown eyes and a smug smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, slow and easy, until your lips meet his.

The kiss starts soft – sleepy and unhurried – but quickly deepens, his hand sliding up under your shirt, the weight of it grounding you. You sigh into his mouth, shifting to press him deeper into the pillows, and he lets you, his other hand sliding along your waist like he’s not ready to let go yet either.

Eventually, unfortunately, he does pull back, eyes flicking open again.

“If we don’t stop, we’re going to be very late,” he says, voice low and a little ruined now.

You kiss the edge of his jaw in retaliation. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He groans, but he’s already sitting up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

He tosses you a look over his shoulder and leans down for one last kiss, slow and deliberate, before he gets up and heads to the shower. He pauses in the doorway, looking at you swaddled in his sheets like you’ve been dropped there by some vengeful sleep deity.

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

You whine softly, rolling over dramatically. “You’re abandoning me, cruel man.”

“You’ll survive, honey,” he says, smirking as he disappears into the bathroom and flicks on the water.

You stay in bed for another few minutes, eyes closed, completely content. You can still feel the press of his lips on your neck, still smell the citrus of his aftershave lingering in the sheets.

And then his phone rings.

You groan again, dragging yourself upright. The screen lights up—JJ.

Your heart skips, just slightly.

You let it ring out.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don’t even look before answering.

“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got something,” JJ says. “Need everyone here, as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Thanks. I already tried Hotch, but he didn’t answer—can you try calling him?”

You blink. “Oh—yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll let him know.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough.

JJ’s voice is too casual when she says, “Thanks.”

And then, just as you’re about to hang up, you hear it.

“Honey?” Aaron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, drifting out from the steamy bathroom. “Do you know if I left my belt on the—?”

You fumble to hang up the phone.

Too late.

There’s a beat of silence on JJ’s end. You can practically hear the way her eyes narrow.

You clear your throat again, face hot. “I—um. I’ll pass it along.”

“…Sure,” she says slowly. “See you soon.”

Sure enough, when you get to the office later that morning, JJ barely glances up from her folder.

“Morning,” she says sweetly. “You two sleep well?”

You don’t answer.

Aaron – your ever-collected, ever-disciplined Aaron – freezes just long enough to give the entire game away.

JJ just smiles.

And keeps reading.

5.

You’re hunched over a map of the city, elbows on the edge of the conference room table, red and blue pushpins scattered across the surface like confetti from a very grim party. Spencer leans over your shoulder, pointing at the area just north of the river.

“I’m telling you,” he says, tapping the map with the end of his pen, “the pattern holds if you factor in the population density from the census before the most recent one. It’s consistent with a comfort zone radius, even if it doesn’t look like it at first glance.”

You nod, squinting at the outline of streets and intersections. “So the unsub’s older, maybe? Operating off memory instead of current data? That would explain the anomaly in the last dump site.”

“Exactly. I mean, he might even be—” Spencer pauses, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—using a mental map that hasn’t updated since he lived here, assuming he moved away and came back. Like visiting old haunts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s depressingly poetic.”

He grins. “A lot of serial killers are.”

You’re just about to reply when the conference room door swings open harder than necessary.

Hotch.

His expression is tight, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and tired in that dangerous way that means he’s too deep in it. His gaze sweeps over the map, the markers, and then the two of you. His eyes linger on the way Spencer’s leaning in, innocent enough, but close..

“Is this part of the profile?” he asks, voice clipped.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The conversation,” he says, straighter now. “Does it have anything to do with the case? Because if not, maybe we can stay focused.”

Spencer pulls back immediately, blinking. “We were just discussing—”

“I’m not interested in discussion. I want results.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice – he never really does – but the tone alone is sharp enough to make Spencer recoil slightly. You feel your spine stiffen automatically.

“We are working,” you say, slower now. “We’ve been narrowing the comfort zone down to two square miles. The pins—”

“I don’t want excuses,” he cuts in. “If you’ve got something, put it on the board. Otherwise stop wasting time.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the door snapping shut behind him like a slap.

The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. You glance at Spencer, who’s looking down at the map like it just personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “that was… intense.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, pressing a palm to your forehead. “He’s been like this all day.”

It’s not a lie. The second the briefing started, Hotch had been on edge, pacing too much, correcting people mid-sentence. You knew the case was getting to him, and you knew what it meant when he got like this – when his control frayed and he lashed out not because he was angry, but because he was terrified of making the wrong call. Of losing someone.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to be on the receiving end.

Especially not in front of everyone else.

You’re still rubbing your temple when Morgan appears beside you.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “You got a second?”

You nod, rising slowly as Spencer gives you an apologetic look and turns back to the map. Morgan leads you out of the conference room and down the hall, away from the rest of the team.

When he stops, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s gearing up for a talk. You groan internally.

“I know that look,” you say. “And I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then stop making me use it.”

You fold your arms, mirroring him. “What?”

“You know what,” he says. “Hotch is being a dick. To everyone. And I know he’s stressed, I know this case is brutal, but it’s getting in the way.”

“I agree.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, so talk to him.”

You blink. “What? Why would I—”

“Because he listens to you.”

Your stomach flips. You hope to God it doesn’t show on your face.

“I’m not magic, Morgan.”

“No,” he says, voice low but pointed. “But you’re the only person he hasn’t completely snapped in half yet.”

You snort. “He just bit my head off in there.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but he look too happy with himself after.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard not to let your expression crack. “That’s a stretch.”

He just gives you a look. The kind that says don’t bullshit me, I have eyes.

You stare at him, exasperated. “Why does everyone assume I can fix it just because I—”

You stop yourself before you say love him.

Morgan doesn’t blink. “Because you calm him. He has a soft spot for you”

You sigh, slumping against the wall beside him. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But no promises.”

He smiles, finally, clapping a warm hand to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

You wait until he disappears back into the conference room before you head down the hallway, toward the local precinct’s makeshift office where you know Hotch has holed himself up.

You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say: something about how his tension is bleeding into the team, how he needs to remember they’re on his side, how he can’t fix this case by destroying himself from the inside out.

But when you reach the door, it’s cracked just slightly – and inside, you see him.

Elbows on the desk. Head in his hands. Shoulders tight.

You stop. Because for a second, he doesn’t look like the man who barked orders ten minutes ago. He looks… tired. Scared. Like all of this has sunk too deep under his skin.

You raise your hand, knock softly.

His head lifts instantly. The second he sees it’s you, something in his face softens. He sits back slowly, composing himself, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the unraveling.

You step inside and close the door gently behind you.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

He looks up at you, exhausted. “If you’re here to tell me I’m being an asshole, you don’t need to. I already know.”

You blink. Then let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, that saves me a speech.”

He leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or Reid. Or anyone.”

“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “But they don’t.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at you like maybe your presence alone is enough to let him breathe again.

After a beat, he says, quieter: “I’m afraid we’re going to miss something. That someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m pushing too hard because I don’t know what else to do.”

You step in front of him now, between him and the desk, and crouch just enough so you can meet his eyes. Your hand slides over his where it rests on his knee.

“Then let us help you,” you say. “Let me help you.”

His eyes search yours, and for a second, there’s nothing but the space between your breaths. Then he nods, barely.

You squeeze his hand once. “Come back in. Apologize. Let’s get this guy.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And I’m always right,” you reply, and lean in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It lingers a second too long.

You pull back and then you hear it.

A cough. Somewhere behind you.

You turn just in time to catch Rossi in the doorway, brows lifted, a coffee in each hand.

He arches an eyebrow. “This is cozy.”

You freeze.

Hotch just sighs and mutters, “Dave...”

Rossi grins. “Learn to lock a door, Aaron.”

He winks and disappears down the hallway before either of you can respond.

You look back at Aaron.

He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

“He already knew, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, honey.”

+1.

The call comes in fast. Too fast.

One minute you’re clearing a low-rise apartment complex with Morgan and Emily on your six, the next, there’s shouting, an unexpected backdoor escape, a scuffle, the unsub slipping through hands you thought were ready to catch him. You see the knife before anyone else does.

You don’t think. You move.

And then–

White-hot pain.

It's sharp and sudden, flaring across your side as the unsub lashes out and the blade sinks in just beneath your ribs. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against cracked linoleum, and your breath punches out of your lungs before you can even process the impact.

You hear shouting again – Emily’s voice, Morgan’s, someone barking for medics – but it’s all underwater now. Muffled. Warped. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by a nauseating chill that starts at your fingertips and crawls inward.

You press your hand to the wound and it comes away slick.

Shit.

Morgan’s face looms above you next, eyes wide, voice sharp. He’s pressing down on your side with both hands, trying to slow the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he says. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”

You want to answer. Want to reassure him. But your lips feel slow, and your mind is already spinning sideways.

Then there’s another voice. Quieter, rougher, but sharper than a knife through fog.

“Aaron—she’s hurt bad.”

You don’t see him at first. You only feel the way Morgan shifts to let someone else take his place, the way the air changes as Aaron drops to his knees beside you, one hand immediately replacing Morgan’s at your side.

He’s pale. Jaw locked so tight it looks painful. But his eyes, his eyes are wild. 

“Hey,” he says, too calm, too quiet. “Stay with me.”

You blink up at him, trying to smile. “Wasn’t... planning to go anywhere.”

His expression cracks. Just barely.

You feel his hand slide up, cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he blinks.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a plea.

Your fingers twitch, reaching for him. He catches your hand like it’s instinct, like he was already halfway there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Aaron shakes his head once, fierce and immediate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

But you’re already fading, the pain morphing into something floaty and distant. You don’t know when the medics arrive. You don’t hear the sirens. You just feel Aaron’s hand in yours, tight and shaking slightly.

And the last thing you register before your world goes black is the sound of his voice – no longer calm, no longer careful – shouting your name.

-

You wake up to beeping.

Soft, steady, mechanical. A rhythm that feels like it’s been there forever, lulling you in and out of something thick and dark.

It takes a minute before your eyes crack open.

The hospital ceiling is blurry, too white, and the lights overhead are too bright. Your mouth is dry, your throat worse.

You shift, barely, and that’s when the pain comes.

Dull but deep. A throb just under your ribs, blooming out slow and insistent like a warning bell. Your face twists in a grimace, and a sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Instantly – instantly – there’s a hand on yours.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not one of those brisk, impersonal touches meant to check your vitals and vanish again.

No. This is different.

This hand is warm. Familiar. Fingers wrapping around yours like an anchor.

You blink again, and your vision clears just enough to see him.

Aaron.

Slumped forward in the hospital chair, suit jacket discarded on the back of it, tie loosened but still intact. There’s stubble on his jaw, more than usual, and deep bruises under his eyes, like sleep gave up on him days ago. His hand is clasped in yours like he never left your side.

Because he didn’t.

He feels your fingers twitch and bolts upright, the chair screeching slightly beneath him.

“Hey,” he breathes, and it sounds like the first time he’s spoken in hours.

You try to smile. It’s weak. Pathetic, probably. 

“Hey,” you rasp.

His eyes flick over your face, wild with relief and something else, still settling behind his ribs.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice thick.

You squeeze his hand—or try to. “I scared me.”

That gets a half-laugh out of him. It’s broken, but it’s there.

You take a shallow breath, testing your lungs. “What happened?”

“You lost a lot of blood. The knife missed anything vital, but barely.” He swallows hard. “You were in surgery for two hours. They had to give you a transfusion. You’ve been out for almost a day.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Wow. Overachiever.”

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him. The tightness in his shoulders, the rawness in his voice. You reach for him again, slower this time.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

Aaron doesn’t move at first. Just watches you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if he lets himself believe it, the universe will punish him for the audacity.

You blink at him again, taking in the state of him now that your vision’s steadier. The wrinkled shirt, the undone top button, the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting cold on the bedside table. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look so sad.

“You haven’t left,” you murmur.

It’s not a question.

Aaron shakes his head once. “Didn’t want to.”

You arch a brow. Or try to — it feels more like a flutter of effort than expression. “Aaron... have you even gone home? Or... showered?”

His silence is damning.

“Have you slept?” you push, and your voice cracks halfway through, too dry, too rough.

“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” he says simply.

“Aaron.” You pause until he meets your eyes again. “I’ll be fine. Just for an hour. Go... sort yourself out.”

His jaw twitches. “What if you sleep and wake up again and I’m not—”

“Then I’ll be annoyed for five minutes and then I’ll fall asleep again,” you cut in. “Seriously. I don’t need a guard dog.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

So you lean your head back against the pillow and muster your most unimpressed tone: “If you don’t go, I’m going to ask Rossi to make you.”

As if summoned, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar head peeks in.

Rossi.

Followed by Morgan. Then JJ. Emily and Reid right behind. Garcia’s holding a bouquet that’s half her height and bright enough to sear through the fluorescent lighting.

“You rang?” Rossi says with a knowing look, already striding toward the bed.

Aaron stands stiffly, caught in the headlights.

“Perfect timing,” you murmur, letting your gaze flick toward Hotch. “Rossi, can you do me a favour?”

Rossi crosses his arms. “Of course.”

“Make him leave for, like... forty-five minutes. An hour. Long enough to eat and shower. Or sleep. Whichever comes first.”

Aaron huffs through his nose, not quite a protest, but not agreement either. Rossi doesn’t wait.

“You heard the patient,” he says, already taking Aaron by the elbow like it’s a done deal. “Come on. I’ll even buy you real coffee.”

“I’m not—” Aaron starts, but Rossi just tightens his grip.

“You’re not doing anyone any favors walking around looking like that. She’s safe. We’ve got her.”

And somehow, it’s that —the weight of trust in Rossi’s voice— that finally gets Aaron to nod. He squeezes your hand once more, like he’s leaving behind something vital, and then lets go.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Once he’s gone, the rest of the team crowds in, careful and gentle.

JJ brushes a hand down your arm and gives you a smile that’s equal parts motherly and relieved. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Join the club,” you rasp, eyes flicking toward the IV in your arm. “Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.”

Morgan chuckles and drops into the chair Aaron vacated. “You still managed to take the guy down. Stab wound and all.”

“I just slowed him down. You all did the rest.”

“You gave us the opening,” Emily says softly. “That’s more than enough.”

Garcia sets the flowers down by the window and nudges the edge of your blanket with uncharacteristic caution. “When you’re better, I’m throwing a movie night. And you’re not allowed to say no.”

“I’ll be there,” you whisper. 

Emily clears her throat and tips her head toward the door, where Aaron disappeared minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth...” she says carefully, her voice low and sincere, “we’re really happy for you both.”

JJ nods, smile gentle. “Seriously. It’s not exactly shocking.”

“We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Garcia adds, her voice half a stage whisper, half delighted confession.

“You should’ve seen him when they wheeled you into surgery,” Morgan murmurs. “He looked ready to rip the whole ER apart just to stay with you.”

Your heart trips a little. You shift your gaze to the doorway, even though he’s long gone from sight.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say softly. “It just... did.”

“No one ever means to fall,” Rossi says from the hallway, returning with two coffees in hand. “The good ones just catch you.”

You smile again. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.

“Thanks, guys.”

JJ squeezes your arm again. “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And as you drift back down into the syrupy quiet, surrounded by the warmth of your team and the promise that he’ll be back —soon, always— you believe it.

[itsfelicity-emma]

do i wanna know? | aaron hotchner

after hours au

after hours au

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!bau!reader summary: because of a storm, what was supposed to be a quick interview turned into a day on lockdown, which resulted in cancelled flights, an emergency hotel reservation and obviously, only one room to share. content/tw: SMUT, p in v sex, unprotected sex (this is fiction so fuuuuuuuck ittttt), oral sex (f receiving), fighting, hurricane/storm settings, mentions of reader smoking a cigarette (no cigarettes actually end up being smoked), cursing, a little angst  word count: 6k a/n: a man who yearns is a man who EARNS! inspired by this request! i’m soooooo sorry it took me so long to write this one down, i had it planned from the moment i started to write this au but i wanted to make it worth the wait! thank you so much for those who’ve been reading this, i love this series and i love you even more! we’re just getting started 🙃 dividers by  @uzmacchiato

after hours masterlist

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“What do you mean, there’s only one room?” Aaron asked the hotel manager, trying to keep his voice down but still hearable enough through the crowded lobby.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re packed for the night.” he explained, as patiently as possible. “We were told there would be only two agents.”

Hotch looked back at you, impatiently sat on the couch, talking to someone over the phone while picking your nails and trying as hard as possible not to be run over by the kids that insisted on making the reception into their own trampoline park.

One of the main cases of the FBI ended a few years ago. It was an international horror, a child predator that raped and murdered over 20 young girls all over the country. No one truly knew exactly how many victims he actually had. In fact, the government was so desperate for answers, that they had sent the BAU for a last interview with the criminal before he got the injection.

With the overload of ongoing consults, Aaron only managed to bring one agent. Despite the fact that he wanted nothing less than to be alone with you – while simultaneously wanting nothing more than that –, you were the best choice, amongst the other members. He recognized that, and everyone else did too.

He convinced himself that it would be okay: it was a one day trip, and apart from the flights, there wouldn’t be a moment where he would find himself alone with you.

But of course, the universe didn’t take pity in his distress and threw a storm in the way. Of course the interview would take place and time at the peak of hurricane season. They had it checked before flying in and it didn’t seem like anything much would happen besides maybe a heavy storm, but at the last minute the hurricane changed paths and the city you were in would be on lockdown for the rest of the day.

“Great news!” the receptionist cheered, visibly distressed with the insane amount of people running around in the lobby but still not wanting to piss off an unit chief of the FBI. Hotch just arched a brow, doubting that any news that wasn't the announcement of the weather being safe enough for him to fly back home and be as far away from you as possible would be anything remotely close to ‘great’. “The room you’re settled in is one of our master suites, so there’s plenty of room for you to be comfortable.” he said with a smile larger than his face, handing Aaron the key as a secret plea for him to set off to his room and stop complaining.

Recognizing the man was doing the best he could in a situation as complicated as this, he decided to take the keys and nod. But because he was still grumpy with things not going his way, he didn’t smile, just mumbled a thank you and good luck and made his way towards you, just as you shut your phone off with a huff.

As you saw him approaching you stood up with a jump, too tired to be that giddy but relieved to get away from the way-too–energized kids. “Hey, all the flights until 2 p.m tomorrow were canceled, and the jet also can’t come to get us until then. The rest of the flights are on hold, depending on the weather tomorrow morning.” you explained, sighing. He just nodded, seeming distant. “Did you get any luck?”

“We only have one room available. It’s a suite so there will be plenty of space. But we’ll have to share it.” he said in only one breath, almost like he was ripping the band-aid out of a bruise.

“Oh.” you only managed to say, blinking and waiting for him to tell you it was a joke. Obviously, he wouldn’t do that, so you just swallowed and blinked one more time. “That’s… okay.”

He just nodded, pressing his lips together in a thin line.

“We should be getting upstairs.” he said, awkwardly wiggling the keys. In any other situation you would’ve laughed at his manners, but the sweat starting to form on your lower back was a sign you were just as uneasy as him.

It was going to be a long night.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You stared at your reflection on the bathroom mirror for at least three minutes, all while beating yourself up for not owning more work-appropriate pajamas.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and hoped for the best. Hotch, who was sitting on the dining table with a stack of case files – wearing perfectly appropriate clothes, mind you – just glanced up for a second before pressing his lip in a thin line and going back down to scribbling on the paper.

“I’m sorry.” you started, holding your hands up and approaching him “We were just back from that almost two-weeks-long case and I forgot to do my laundry and I really thought this was a one day trip so I grabbed a handful of clothes just in case. Obviously I didn’t think I’d need it and if I did, I was sure you wouldn’t have to see me, so…”

“It’s… fine.” he said, looking at you and trying his hardest to keep his look straight on your face to make a point. “This is an exceptional situation, and we’re not on the clock. Don’t worry.” he said, shifting his attention back to his papers and proudly patting himself on the back for not glancing at your very short and inappropriate silky pajamas.

With a sigh of relief, you picked up the fitted suit jacket you wore earlier and put it on anyway, before pulling the chair in front of him and getting cozy with a pile of papers.

The two of you worked in silence for a while, enjoying the sounds of the strong wind outside. The storm hasn’t arrived yet, but for the looks of it, it wasn’t going to take any longer.

“Do you have 2 go bags? Like, for emergencies?” you asked when the lines of the report started to get too blurry.

“Three.” he mumbled, not even looking up from his paper. Hearing the soft ‘Oh!’ you let out and only then realizing how judgy he must’ve sounded, he settled the pen down and looked at you “Don’t beat yourself up.” he added, softly “I work with the BAU for years now, and I’ve been in this situation before. Once, I had to wear the same pair of jeans for three days straight.”

Your whole face lit up at that, lips twitching into an amused grin, and he couldn’t help but feel relief for making you smile again – even if it was at his costs. “Really?” you asked.

“It was this or sleeping in my underwear with Gideon and his wife in the same room.” he added, his own face grimacing at the memory. You laughed loudly, throwing your head back and snapping your eyes closed. The way his heart clenched while watching you wasn’t as funny.

Before he could duel on the fact that he shouldn’t be feeling that, a loud sound echoed from outside. The storm wasn’t there yet, but the power was gone. The two of you were involved with darkness for seconds, until a very low and soft emergency bulb near the front door lit on.

“So I guess there won’t be any work done for now.” you said, looking at him. His face was facing the light, so even though it was rather dim, you still could see his features properly. The timid playfulness he was showing then vanished, going back to his usual scowl.

Mumbling to himself, he stood up from the table and walked near the sofa – it was a master suite, after all – and picked up his bag. Shrugging to yourself, you thought there was nothing you could do other than fish the bedroom fridge.

Picking up a bottle of wine and two glasses, you walked up to where Aaron sat on the couch, tapping his phone passive-aggressively, like if he could manage to make a few calls, the hurricane would change paths and he could resume his work in peace.

Placing both wine glasses on the center table with a loud thud, you caught his attention. With a lost expression, he held his phone up to you “We don’t have any service.”

“Figured.” you said sympathetically “I know you like scotch better, but I think this will make it.”

Only then he seemed to notice the wine in your hand. And then, completely panicked. “Oh, I don’t… I shouldn’t. But you go for it.”

You rolled your eyes “We’re not on the clock, your words.” he shifted, still looking at the bottle like he was trying to x-ray its content with his bare eyes “Come on, we’re on lockdown for at least the next 14 hours.” you said, handing him the bottle and corkscrew.

He scrunched his eyebrows “I think I should keep a clear head. In case of an emergency.” all while drawing the cork upwards.

“There will be nothing you can do. We don’t have service, remember? Besides, I feel like this is already the emergency.” you pointed as he handed the opened bottle to you. With a raised eyebrow you stared at him, silently waiting for the green light.

All it took was a tilt of your head for him to sigh in defeat and you knew you had him. With a way-too-pleased grin you filled both glasses and settled next to him on the large couch that was soon to become his bed – he demanded, even after you very kindly pointed out how his older-man back wasn’t going to like it.

Under the dim light of the emergency bulb, you shared the whole wine bottle and a bag of chips. Maybe it was the tiredness of the day, or the fact that you were locked up in the same bedroom with the man you’ve been craving for the past year, but something in the air made you feel more relaxed than you’ve been in ages.

And it apparently wasn’t just for you too: looking at Aaron, the shift from his usual tense posture is noticeable from a mile away. It wasn’t that he was tipsy, he was simply calm. Shoulders relaxed, posture welcoming. His permanent scowl was gone, and even though he wasn’t grinning away – like you were –, his face was satisfied. Like he finally wasn’t in distress.

You had never seen him like this, not even the night the two of you met. Speaking of which, you were sure that was the reason why he was always so reluctant to be around you. He was tense by nature, you figured that much, but near you he was alert. Like a guard dog, like an alarm, always paying attention to every inch and corner of his surroundings. Catching every movement, every word, coming from your mouth or directed to you.

But not tonight. It was the most intimate you had been since that night, and it was the most at ease you ever saw him. 

Maybe, that was what did it. The fact that, with you, apart from the rest of the world, he could let his worries go. Even if just for a while.

Before you even realized you were speaking, you heard your own voice saying his name. Not Hotch, not Sir.

“Aaron.” you called, softly. He raised his head from the magazine the two of you had been previously mocking, watching you attentively. His eyebrows were slightly raised, nudging you to speak. You had his undivided attention. His eyes were watching you deeply, not even for a second moving away from your face.

Actually, that’s not true. 

After waiting for you to speak for a second and not getting any answer, his gaze lazily dropped from your eyes to your lips. Maybe it wasn’t the first time he did it, but it was the first time he did it so tenderly. The first time you caught him.

Staring at your lips like he was in a desert and you were his only hope. Watching closely, lustfully, tenderly, yearningly.

He wanted you, you realized. That was all the proof you needed that the few tiny bits of signs you thought he gave you weren't only in your head.

So, gathering all the courage you mustered, you exhaled through your mouth, watching his mouth twitch, unconsciously mimicking yours.

“Aaron, what are we doing?”

That question, for some reason, seemed to snap him out of it. Every bit of emotion overflowing his eyes vanished in a blink of an eye, and what felt like the start of something new started to look like a door being shut.

All the relaxation of his body was gone as he sat up straight and placed the wine glass on the center table “No, nothing is happening.”

You frowned, completely caught off guard at the shift in his demeanour “Huh?”

“I– I think you misread the situation.” There was no reaction your brain could muster other than blinking in complete shock, whispering a ‘what the fuck’ or something of the sorts. Noticing your reaction, Aaron shifted in his seat, leaning over and gesturing with desperation “No! Not that it was your fault, of course not! That was on me. I understand I made it seem like something could happen, but it really can’t.”

In a reaction that surprised both him and you, the first sound you let out was a laugh. An incredulous laughter bubbled out of you before you could think properly. It wasn't the situation – there was nothing funny about that –, it was the fact that you felt so stupid, so humiliated. Waited for months for the right time to act, and just like that it was all over.

“I don’t…” you tried to react differently, but everything you started to say ended up interrupted by your own laughter. You sounded insane – it was clear from the worried look in his face. Feeling whatever coping mechanism was being activated on your system was ready to turn off and leave you in tears, you shot up, feeling even more naked than when you first walked out of the shower, and you brushed your hands through your hair “I can’t be here.” you whispered mostly to yourself, but to him too.

“Where are you going?” he asked, but you left him unanswered. There was not one single respectful answer going through your mind at the moment. Walking over to where your bag was hanging, you started messily going through the pockets to find your cigarette case and lighter. Finally finding them, you walked over the glass balcony doors completely ignoring Aaron’s questions.

“Don’t go outside, it’s dangerous. Please stay in.” he tried, shifting comfortably in his position, clearly not knowing whether to go after you or leave you be.

Completely tired of hearing his voice, you just looked at him angrily. Every shadow of laughter were gone from your face, and you looked him straight in the eye with a glare that could cut glass “I just need a fucking minute.” you spat, not waiting for an answer before opening the balcony door, stepping out of the bedroom and snapping it shut with a loud bang.

The storm still hasn’t hit yet, but the clouds were so heavy that the sky, that in other occasions would be jet black, ended up in a greyed color, not a single clear spot visible. The wind was heavy, and from the distance you could see at least two trees fallen along the road.

Focusing solemnly in flicking the lighter and keeping the fire alive enough to light up one cigarette, you almost got distracted from what happened. Of course, it didn’t last even half a second, and only a moment later the same door you walked out from opened, revealing Hotch’s presence, tall and steady, holding it open with his arms.

“Please, get inside.” he asked, his voice so soft it was barely audible over the sound of the wind. Not glancing up from the lighter, you huffed annoyedly.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t a minute.” you mumbled, the cigarette still trapped between your lips. From your peripheral vision you could see him pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I can give you all the time you want, just get in.”

Letting the already too wet cigarette fall from your lips, you turned to face him even angrier than before.

“Can you leave me alone? Jesus Christ.”

“I told you, I can. Just not here.” his eyes glanced up to the sky, probably calculating the time you still had before the storm kicked in.

“You’re aggravating.” you spat, clenching your jaw.

“For not wanting you to get hurt?” he blinked, unamused.

“I’m not made out of sugar, Hotchner. I can take care of myself.”

“You can.” he started, his tone patient and lecturing “But you’re hurt, and right now you are so focused on easing up the pain that you’re not thinking about your well-being clearly.”

“Stop.” you yelled, stepping closer to him and pointing your finger to his chest “Don’t you fucking profile me.”

He closed his eyes shut, knowing damn well he wasn’t making things better “I’m sorry. I’m just worried.”

“No, you’re not.” you said, starting to see red. Every reservation you had with the fact that you might disrespect your boss was now gone “That’s your hero complex. You can’t stand the fact that you screwed up, that you did this. And now, leaving me outside in a storm would certainly ruin your gentleman facade, right? That’s all you care about. You’re selfish, Hotch. It doesn’t matter how much you try to pretend you aren’t.” you point, your voice starting to sting at how loud you were speaking, both from the anger and to be heard.

“Fine.” he agreed, his eyes shifting to the sky every 5 seconds “I’m all that. Let’s talk about how selfish I am, but please let’s do it inside.” he pleaded one more time, and just to get him to shut up you agreed, pushing past him and getting back into the room.

Pretending you didn’t hear his sigh of relief, you threw your things on top of the vanity while he made sure to close the door properly.

And because apparently you weren’t feeling bad enough about yourself, as soon as the door closed, the darkness of the room vanished for a second, illuminated by the lightning that ripped through the clouds. Only a few seconds later, you heard a thunder so loud and so strong that the half empty glasses on the center table trembled slightly, and the next thing you knew the storm arrived, stronger than the prediction.

Aaron saw it coming before you turned to him, throwing your head back in a sarcastic laughter, you shook your head half in disbelief and half in self depreciation.

“Oh my god, of course.” you started, watching his eyes drop to the floor like he was bracing himself for your words “Congratulations, Hotch. You were right. Are you happy? Are you about to piss your pants in excitement to get to say ‘I told you so’?” you asked, venom dripping on your voice.

“I won’t say that.” he murmured, looking defeated. You didn’t hold back.

“You should. It’ll be the nicest thing you’ve said to me all evening.” you shrugged.

“Don’t do that.” he tried, running his hands through his dark locks. You hated how you catched the way his arms flexed. You hated how it affected you.

“You think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you? Keep thinking that you’re a better person, a better man. Is it because of your job? Or you’re just that arrogant?” he called your name, but you didn’t stop to catch a breath “How could you do that? Knowing all along how I felt about you…”

“I didn’t know.” he interrupted, but you cut him again, speaking even louder.

“You purposely entertained me, knowing it wasn’t going to happen. And for what? Your ego? Are you that miserable?”

“You’re completely misreading it.”

“Oh, again? Because I’m so dumb and pathetic? Tell me, Hotchner. Was that your criteria for choosing me? Loser younger agent? Someone who you’d never look at twice? Someone you wouldn't mind leaving hanging? Or you’re just that kind of guy who’s too full of themselves to fuck the same girl twice?” you spat, not even caring you were disrespecting him. Your job could be at stake, but none of it matters. The words didn’t even sit in your head before you spoke them out loud.

On the other hand, even if you weren’t absorbing them, Hotch was. And all the reservations he had also vanished. His eyebrows were scrunched up, his forehead creasing. When he called your name, that time louder and stronger than the storm outside, the scowl he had on could make the worst of unsubs crumble on his feet.

“Is that what you think? That I don’t want you?” he wasn’t yelling, wasn’t fuming like you. His voice was like a growl, predatory and angry, and you couldn’t help but feel like a prey while he walked closer to you. “You really think I don’t want this? Ever since the night we met I’ve been close to throwing away everything I worked so hard to build just to be near you again.” differently from you, his words didn’t sound like they were uncalculated. They were spoken with such raw, deep emotion that it was clear they came from his heart. 

It couldn’t be true, obviously, but you felt like you were getting smaller and smaller every past second. The intensity of his gaze, of his words. The warmth of his presence as he approached you. The shadow from his face disappearing for every few seconds with the light of the lightning outside. It was all too much.

Because there was no answer you could possibly form, you let your emotions speak. But this time, it wasn’t an attack. “Why didn’t you?” a question that sounded like a plea.

He sighed, running his hands over his already too disheveled hair “Every single decision I make, no matter how small they are, affects my team personally. Do you think it's easy to be that person? To put everyone’s needs above my own? But I’m flawed. I crumble everytime. Or haven’t you noticed that I purposefully try to pick the room closest to you so that if you need someone, it’s me you come to? That I pair you up with me more than anyone else because I can’t focus unless I know for a fact that you’re safe? So, yes, I’m selfish. Not because I don’t want you, but exactly the opposite. I tried to avoid this. I needed to avoid this. Because I knew, once I stopped, I could never go back.”

You blink, silent. There’s no other word for it: you were stunned. Completely, utterly stunned. It made sense, honestly. Now that you thought about it. But somehow, hearing it was even harder. Knowing that what you wanted was right there for you to have it, and the only obstacle was… What?

Gathering all the courage you had left, you lifted your chin up to face him. Trying, and failing, to appear less vulnerable than you felt.

“What’s stopping you now?” you asked, your voice barely audible above the sound of the heavy rain hitting the glass. 

If he weren’t close, he might’ve missed it.

What was stopping him? His responsibility, his duty. His composure, that he fought so hard to maintain. But even that part of his brain that urged him to do the right thing was silent now. Aaron knew that whatever boundary he tried to respect for the past months, it was now crossed beyond repair.

So, in all honesty, there was nothing stopping him.

And that he told you.

“Nothing.” he repeated. You wanted to hear it,  you fantasized about that moment. But now that it happened, you had no idea what to do next.

Either way, it wasn’t your move to make, and Aaron made sure you knew that. With a swift movement he closed the distance between you in a kiss that felt like flying high and coming back home at the same time.

When he lips touched yours, all the noise outside turned to mute. Nothing mattered anymore beside the feeling of his mouth pressing against yours and his hands cupping your face firmly. With a relieved exhale, you relaxed in his arms, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. He followed your movements immediately, brushing his tongue against your lip and invading your senses passionately.

A moan you didn’t notice letting out was muffled in the kiss, and he hummed lustily and leaned even further into you, like he wanted to swallow every sound you made. Your legs moved on their own as he pushed you backwards into the room. Only when the lack of air started to ache your lungs that you stopped the kiss.

Not for a second you pushed away from each other, his nose still brushed your cheek and his kisses streamed down to your jaw, “Just as I remembered.” he mumbled so languidly you  doubted he said it to you.

When the back of your knees met the king sized bed, he helped you up with minimal effort, laying you down on the bed close to the edge, leaning down until he hovered over you. Pulling away from the kiss, he looked you in the eyes, face blushed and limps plumped “How could you not know I wanted you?” he whispered, completely in disbelief.

“I– I don’t know.” you mumbled, wiggling your hips to get any friction. Aaron looked down to your lower half, smirking at your clear desperation, looking back to your face smugly. You rolled your eyes, but didn’t say anything that could possibly delay his touch from you even longer.

“Are you sure you want this? Because if you aren’t, please, tell me off.” he begged, sounding breathless. The fact that he was just as affected as you only turned you on more, and you unconsciously thrusted your hips upwards.

“Aaron, please, I’m sure. I want this. I waited for it for so long.” you whined, not caring at all if you sounded pathetic or desperate. You’d do even worse just to have him. With a groan of satisfaction, like your mere voice was enough to push him over the edge, he pulled himself out of you.

Even though the distance wasn’t ideal, you didn’t have time to be upset. The next thing you knew, he grabbed your both ankles and pulled you towards the edge of the bed with a harsh tug, until you only had your lower back pressed on the mattress. 

Looking deeply into your eyes, he spread your legs open and kneeled down between them. The expectation of what’s to come was enough to have you rolling your eyes and tilting your head back. He squeezed your thighs, roaming his hands down until he was holding your ankles, and threw your legs over his shoulders.

“Oh, god.” you moaned.

“Already?” he hummed, smugly. You wanted to say something, anything, to wipe that smirk out of his face. But he deserved it: you were completely at his mercy. Luckily, he was at yours too. “Next time, I’ll take my time,” he promised. You tried not to be too giddy at the ‘next time’ part. Actually, you didn’t even have to try, because next thing you knew he was tugging your tiny pajama shorts and your underwear to the side, leaving your cunt exposed to the cold air.

“Aaron…” you pleaded, trying to shift away from his strong grasp, but you didn’t manage even to bulge. He looked at you, completely hypnotized, whispering to himself how beautiful you looked.

As soon as his tongue touched your folds, the two of you moaned at the same time. He ate you out the same way he kissed you: languidly, passionately, rhythmically. He knew what, where and how to do it in a way that left your legs trembling in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve dreamt about doing this again? About your taste? So fucking sweet.” he groaned, licking you up tenderly. You were so close, that if he sped up a little bit more you were gone. As if he knew it and decided to purposefully drag it out even longer, he switched places, rhythm and pressure.

“I’m so close...” you tried, wiggling your hips.

“Don’t ruin this for me.” he retorted before resuming his tasting of your juices.

“Aaron!” you cried, annoyedly but begging “Please, please, please…” you repeated, feeling your eyes actually water up at the amount of pleasure.

Leaving you completely shocked, he pulled his face apart from you, tilting his head teasingly “What a switch in attitude, huh?”

Losing all your remaining patience, you reached down to grab his head and press it against you, exactly where you needed it. Surprisingly, he stopped with the teasing, and immediately went back to eating you out. Attaching his mouth to clit, he alternated between sucking it and flattening his tongue in it, and in a matter of seconds you were coming hard, screaming his name louder than the noises outside.

With his lips and chin completely wet by your juices, he stood up from the ground and pushed you further into the bed, climbing it on top of you and kissing your mouth like he missed you.

“Thank you.” he whispered to your ear. You chuckled, amused by him being the one to thank you but still too out of breath to say anything else. While you were still laughing, he pressed his hips down on yours, and you felt the rock hard bulge in his pants, leaving you moaning and aching for him yet again.

“My god, Aaron. I need you inside of me, now.” you moaned, locking your legs around his torso. He untangled your legs, carefully undressing you and them himself.

“I waited too long for this not to do it properly.” he justified with a timid smile. You thought you couldn’t want him more. Then, he pulled you closer again.

Without breaking eye contact, he slid his hardened cock inside of you, slowly and carefully filling you. The stretch left your mouth wide open, and the pleasure of feeling having him back in you was so strong it left you speechless.

“Clenching so hard around me.” he grunted, squeezing your waist tightly. “Just like last time. You’re so fucking delicious.”

You were already oversensitive from your last orgasm, so that combined with his filthy words and the stretch of his dick were enough to make your legs shake and your brain to go blank.

“Have you had any idea how many nights of sleep I lost thinking about this?” he asked huskily, thrusting in and out of you. His torso pressed you against the mattress, and you felt so trapped, so overwhelmed with his words, his voice, his touch, his kisses. Him. Aaron everywhere. “Do you even know how hard it was to stay away? To watch you flirt with other people?”

“I didn’t flirt.” you retorted, but it came out as a moan so it didn’t really sound like a comeback.

“The bartender in Vegas. The deputy in Texas.  At least two officers. Do I need to keep going?” he listed, each of them accompanied by a harsh thrust.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but Aaron wasn’t into that. He stopped his movements, and all your attitude changed. The sarcastic facade vanished and turned into desperation, where you tried to wiggle your hips to keep with the moving, but his grip on your hip was too firm.

“Did you just roll your eyes?” he asked, quietly and dangerously. You gulped. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. Not when I can do this.” much to your desperation, he pulled out of you completely.

“No! No, I’ll behave. I’ll be good.” you tried, but he still didn’t move. You huffed. “Please, I just— Fuck. I never realized you paid attention to that.”

Looking into your eyes to prove how truthful he was being, he confided  “I only have eyes for you.” and pushed back in, in a sharp thrust that earned you a yelp. “How could you not know that?” he asked, sounding so incredulous by it, that you realized it was more of a reflection than a question.

His feelings for you were so obvious, so present in his life, in his actions, that it was nothing but surprising that you didn’t know.

And the fact that those feelings kept deep inside of him, bubbling and stewing silently for the past months, only fueled the intensity of that moment.

At that point, his thrusts were erratic, hard and deep. You were already a babbling mess under him, your whole body twitching and arching, trying to cling onto him for dear life.

“A—Aron.” you yelped, barely listening to the loud and scary sounds of the storm outside “Too much — I can’t...”

Leaning back from you almost enough to pull out completely, Hotch stood back and grabbed one of your legs, pulling it up and pushing it forward until your knees were pressed against your chest.

“So pretty.” he whispered, stopping for a second to analyze his work of art. His mess. His. You laid there, hair messy and tossed, naked and spread open, one leg down and one being held up by his large hands. It was a sight engraved in his brain forever. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked just to make sure, knowing damn well the answer before you could even start to form the words.

“No! No, god, no. Don’t stop.” you whined, clawing your hands in his arms like a lifeline.

“That’s right.” he hummed “You wanted this, so you better fucking take it.” and slammed right back into you. At this new found position, he reached so deep inside of you that every new thrust pushed you further into the edge.

“Aaron, fuck — I’m—” your warning was cut short by your second orgasm, that crashed onto you like a tsunami. Your whole body went rigid and you barely registered the way his movement became harder, faster and more erratic.

Soon later, you felt his body shake as he spilled inside of you, groaning your name like it was the only thing that could save him. 

After that you stayed silent, just enjoying the rain falling hard against the ceiling and windows, your still unsteady breathing and your loud and quickened heartbeat. You and Aaron were so close there was no way to tell each of the sounds apart.

Moments passed until the two of you were ready to speak again. Your breathing was finally getting back to normal when he shifted from over you and rolled to your side, looking closely at you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, brushing away the strands of hair that got wet from the sweat on your forehead.

Blushing — not that he could see it with the very faint and distant light on the corridor —, you nodded. You were so much more than okay.

“What now?” you hated how vulnerable you sounded.

Aaron’s lips twitched, and he stayed silent like that, just looking at your face almost entirely swollen by the darkness.

It was only a few moments later when he leaned his face forward, leaving a long and tender kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t know.” another kiss to your mouth “But I don’t think I can go back to where we were .” he confessed, looking at you for confirmation that you felt the same.

Biting your lip to suppress a smile, you nodded “Good. I don’t think I can either.”

And finally, under the darkness of the night and the faint light of a lightning strike, you watched him smile at you.

He had dimples.

after hours specific taglist @sleepysongbirdsings @midnghtprentiss @camihotchner @ilovefictionallmenn @circuskatt @bernelflo @beesin03

[itsfelicity-emma]

an aaron ff where the reader is like completely obsessed with aaron’s hands and she thinks he doesn’t notice her staring all the time but he does and he puts it to use🥰🥰

Hands | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 1.6k | CW: MDNI, 18+, SMUT!!!, Fingering, hand necklace, 1% short of having a good girl in there, secret relationship, It's pretty mild smut, very little plot.

The bullpen had been a whirlwind of activity during the day. Ringing phones, rapid-fire keyboards, and the low murmur of agents piecing clues into profiles.

But as the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting shadows through the windows, the chaos had given way to an almost eerie stillness. The bullpen was nearly deserted now, only a few stragglers finishing reports under the soft glow of their desk lamps.

The faint hum of computers powering down and the occasional creak of a chair were the only sounds breaking the silence. You sat at your desk, a stack of case files spread out before you, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, on Hotch.

You and Hotch had been together for a couple of months at this point, carefully trying to conceal your relationship to avoid the inevitable scrutiny of HR and the eyes of the team members who usually stayed behind while the rest of you flew out on cases.

The secrecy was part of the allure: stolen glances during briefings, the brush of his fingers against yours in the elevator, late-night "debriefs" in his office that usually ended with you pressed against the door, his lips on yours.

And tonight was no different; the air was thick with that same electric anticipation. You could feel it in your bones, this was going to be one of those nights.

You watched him through the open blinds to his office. Hotch sat at his desk, his jacket discarded over the back of his chair, tie loosened just enough to hint at the rare vulnerability he allowed himself when no one was watching.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins standing out against his skin. But it was his hands that held you captive tonight.

Those hands—God, they were your obsession.

Strong, capable, with long fingers that moved with a precision that made your pulse quicken. Whether he was signing a report, gripping the steering wheel, or tracing the curve of your spine in the quiet of his apartment, his hands were a study in control. You’d been caught staring before, by Morgan or JJ, their teasing smirks making you flush, but you thought you’d been careful around him. You thought he hadn’t noticed.

You were wrong.

His head tilted slightly, catching your gaze through the glass. His eyes did a quick sweep of the bullpen before they locked onto yours, intense and unyielding.

A subtle nod toward his office was all it took to send your heart into overdrive. It was a silent command, one you’d come to recognize as an invitation to something more than work. You gathered your files, more for show than necessity, and stood, smoothing your skirt.

Your heels clicked softly on the floor as you crossed the bullpen, every step heightening the anticipation curling in your stomach. You pushed open his office door, closing it behind you with a soft click.

Aaron stood from his chair, his presence commanding even in the quiet. He rounded the desk, closing the blinds, his movements deliberate, and before you knew it, he had pulled you into his arms.

“Long day?” He asked, his voice was low and warm as it vibrated against your skin.

“Yeah,” you said, as you melted into his embrace, the familiar scent of his cologne clouding your senses. “But it’s better now.”

He chuckled. His hands—Ahhhh, those hands—slid down your back, resting at the curve of your waist.

The touch was light yet still possessive. “You’ve been distracted all afternoon,” he said, pulling back just enough to study your face. “Staring again?”

You tried to play it coy, tilting your head with a mock-innocent smile. “Staring? At what?”

His eyes narrowed, a playful glint softened the usual severity of his gaze. One hand lifted, fingers cupping your chin to tilt your face up. “My hands,” he said, his voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. The way you watched them in meetings today, while I was driving this morning, even now.” To punctuate his words, he flexed his fingers against your skin, the slight pressure sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and desire. There was no point denying it, not to him, not when he could read you like an open book.

“They’re… distracting,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t help it. They’re just… perfect.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Perfect, hm?” he murmured. “Then let me put them to good use.” He guided you backward until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of his desk.

You expected him to lift you onto it, to pin you there as he had so many times before, but he paused, his expression shifting to something more commanding. “Not like this. Not today.” He murmured, mostly to himself.

In one fluid motion, he sat in his chair, pulling you with him until you were straddling his lap. Your skirt rode up, bunching around your thighs, and his hands settled on your hips to steady you. The position was intimate, your bodies pressed close, the hard line of his arousal evident beneath you.

You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, and it sent a thrill through you, your pulse racing as you settled into his lap.

“Aaron…” you whispered, your hands finding his neck, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. Your eyes flicked to his hands, one resting on your hip, the other now sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. The sight alone was enough to make you ache.

“Shh,” he muttered, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

His fingers teased the edge of your panties, tracing the delicate fabric with a featherlight touch that made you bite your lip to stifle a gasp, while your hips betrayed you by bucking into his palm. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “About how you watch my hands, imagining what they can do to you.”

He moved his other hand slowly toward your neck, fingers wrapping around it in a light, possessive hold. The gentle pressure sent a jolt straight to your core, amplifying the heat pooling there. You’d explored this dynamic before, in the quiet of his apartment or yours, but here, in the heart of the BAU, it felt thrillingly illicit.

You nodded, words failing you as his fingers moved your panties to the side, finding you already slick with anticipation.

“So wet for me,” he growled, his thumb circling your clit with slow and torturous movements that made your breath hitch. The sensation was electric, each movement building the tension in your body.

Hotch's hand on your neck tightened just a fraction, not enough to restrict your breathing but enough to anchor you, to remind you who was in control. He slowly slid a finger inside you, watching your reaction before adding another, curling them upward to find just the right spot, the one that made your vision blur and your lashes flutter just the way he liked.

You moaned, your hips rocking instinctively against his hand, seeking more of that pressure. The chair creaked, a soft protest to your movements, but it only heightened the intimacy of the moment, the world narrowing to just you and Aaron.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough with desire as he watched you move. “Ride my fingers. Show me how good a girl you can be. Show me how much you want this.” His thumb never stopped its relentless circles on your clit, and the sensations had you trembling in his lap.

His other hand remained on your neck, his thumb occasionally brushing your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart, or tracing a line along your jaw.

The office melted away, the files stacked on his desk, the phones silent on their cradles, the world beyond the blinds—Gone.

It was just you and him, the heat between you building to a fever pitch. You leaned forward, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, tasting the faint bitterness of his coffee on his breath.

His tongue met yours, hungry and demanding, as his fingers worked you higher, each thrust and curl pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re close,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice vibrating through your haze as he felt the way you clenched around his fingers. “Let go for me, sweetheart.” The endearment, so rare from his usually preferance of using your name, sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

His words unraveled you. With a cry muffled against his shoulder, waves of pleasure pulsed through your body as his fingers coaxed every last shudder from you. His hand on your neck loosened to a gentle caress, cupping your face, his thumb stroking your skin as he guided you through the aftershocks.

His other hand slowed but didn’t stop, drawing out your pleasure until you were boneless, slumped against him, your breath ragged.

When you finally stilled, he withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his lips and tasting you with a low, satisfied hum that made your stomach flutter. “Beautiful,” he said, his eyes dark and full of promise as they met yours. “But next time you stare at my hands during a briefing, remember this and know I’ll be thinking about doing it again.”

You laughed softly, still catching your breath, your head resting on his shoulder as his arms wrapped around you.

[itsfelicity-emma]

Clark loves to praise you.

CW: Soft smut. (I love him I love him I love him I love him I love him-)

“I missed you, sugar.” Clark mumbles and feels your hips grind down on him. He looks at you with hazy eyes, watching you settle your hands on his chest. “God, you look so pretty like this.”

He reaches up, his big hand cupping your tit and you straddle his lap wider. Clark’s dick was getting hard as a rock, feeling your cunt soak through your panties.

“Take em off,” Clark whispers but impatiently pushes them to the side. Your breathing gets heavier and you whimper when he thrusts upward. Hitting the perfect spot.

“That’s my girl, you’re so pretty. You’re such a good girl, give your pussy what it needs, princess.” His deep voice is barely audible and you lean down. You hover about his mouth and he tugs you closer by your necklace.

“You’re my little superhero. You can cum, you can cum all you need to, little doll.” Clark catches your lips in a deep kiss, savoring every single moment as your orgasm hurtles you over the edge. He can’t help himself but smile at the sounds you make inside his mouth.

He pulls back, knowing you need air and watches you pull two fingers between your lips. Sucking softly and working your tongue in. Clark groans and leans up, wrapping his arm around your back.

“You’re such a doll baby. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He flips you over, making sure not to crush you with his size and cups your cheek. “You gonna let me worship your perfect body?”

[itsfelicity-emma]

lacerations

criminal minds | e | aaron hotchner x paramedic!reader | ch 1/5 | 10.4k wc

Hotch's lips are pressed together, stern as ever—except you want to believe that it's not as severe as when you first met months ago. The shape of his mouth might be softer now. A little more indulgent.

Just a little.

You still want to kiss him, stern or not.

[itsfelicity-emma]

hi! i'm so excited you're writing for superman!! 🙏🏻 can i request clark kent x reader where they're an established couple and she helps him through the aftermath of learning about his 'destiny' from his parents? maybe she finds him overthinking while doing something mundane and makes him laugh about it? i just need soft!clark getting comfort from his gf 😭

There's a specific kind of silence that's filled up your apartment since Clark came back from the Fortress. Not empty—worse than empty. Heavy with everything he won't say about destiny and DNA and the conquering of worlds.

He's at the sink again. Third time today you've found him there, hands braced on the counter like he's holding it down. Or holding himself up. Hard to tell anymore.

The faucet drips—pink, pink, pink—against a coffee mug. You recognize it by the chip on the handle, the one from this morning when his grip went a fraction too tight. He'd stared at it for a full minute afterward, this broken little thing, like it was proof of something.

You don't announce yourself this time, just press against his back, arms winding around his middle. He goes rigid, then deliberately, carefully soft.

"I was going to—" He stops. You can feel him swallow. "The dishes."

"Mm." Your cheek finds the valley between his shoulders. "You know, for a guy who was supposed to subjugate a planet, you're really slacking on conquering this kitchen."

The noise he makes—Christ, it breaks your heart and mends it in the same breath. Laughter that sounds like crying, or maybe the other way around, his whole body shuddering with the release of it. He turns in your arms, and his face is wet, and you don't mention it.

"That's so—" He cups your face like you're something miraculous, thumbs mapping the curve of your cheeks. "How are you not afraid of me?"

"Because you're standing here having a moral crisis over dirty dishes." You turn your head to kiss his palm, and you think about what's beneath that skin, that hand that's held you a thousand ways. Power and fear. Dust and ash. Love, too. Mostly love. "Because you chipped your favorite mug and looked like the world was ending. Because you're so terrified of becoming something terrible that you can't even do ordinary terrible things like leave a few plates in the sink."

He studies you for a long moment, a universe in his gaze. A future. Then he dips his chin, his forehead finding yours with a soft click. "How'd I get lucky enough to end up with someone so smart?"

"Lucky. Right." You curl your fingers in his shirt, tugging gently. "Must've been the cape."

"The cape, of course." He laughs, a real laugh this time. "You have a thing for capes."

"Only yours." You trace the shape of him, the solid, familiar lines. "I'm serious, though. You're not what you could be, Clark. You're what you are."

"And if I'm not? If I can't resist—" He swallows hard, his jaw working under your fingertips. "If it's in my blood, this... this need to conquer and dominate and..."

"Take multiple wives?" You arch a brow. "Yeah, that'll be the day."

He chuckles. It's a weak, watery sound, but it's still a laugh. Still a victory.

You reach up and frame his face, thumbs rubbing over his cheeks, his chin, the stubborn jut of his lower lip. With your thumbs, you push up the corners of his lips into a smile; it turns genuine after a second, eyes crinkling in that devastatingly handsome, shy way. He looks like your Clark again. Just a little bit.

"You're a good man, Clark Kent. No matter what your genes say. Now, how about we put the dishes aside, huh?" You stretch up—all of you straining against his 6'4’’—and press a quick peck on his nose. It earns you a huff. He's not really laughing, but he wants to, you can feel it, like a gentle push against a closed door. He just needs a little help. "I can think of much better things to conquer tonight."

Clark's laugh is a sweet, embarrassed thing that warms you down to the bone. You kiss the sound, let it fill you up, and then you're leading him away from the sink, the dishes, the weight of the world, and into a different kind of orbit. One where you're the center of his universe, just for a little while.

[itsfelicity-emma]

—•“Held In Silence,Pinned Down.”—•. Aaron Hotchner

Aaron Hotchner x fem!BAU!reader : • Age gape • Both pining for each other. • Heavy stares. •Tension that won’t break. • blurb

Not my gif : gif by @hqtchner

The room is alive with voices, papers shuffling, chairs scraping, but none of it matters. Not when Hotch’s eyes are on you like that.

Not casually. Not politely. His eyes are heavy, deliberate, unblinking, and it feels like he’s seeing everything. Every inch of you. He’s undressing you with his gaze, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing you—your neck, the slope of your shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you fight to keep your breathing steady.

Heat raises under his stare, crawling up your neck, across your collarbones, and down your spine. Your fingers twist in your hair without meaning to, tugging at the strands as if it will distract him—or maybe distract yourself. Every small movement, every blink, every quick inhale seems to pull him in closer. You feel raw under his attention, every nerve on fire, every muscle keyed to him even though you’re trying to focus on your notes.

It’s suffocating, almost painful, and impossibly electric. You want to look away, to ground yourself, to act normal—but your body doesn’t listen. It leans forward slightly, just enough for him to notice. Your chest tightens, your stomach twists, and even your thoughts feel messy, scattered.

And still, his eyes hold you. Unmoving. Unrelenting. Waiting. Silent, but screaming with everything he’s not saying.

And then—

“Hey.”

Derek’s voice cuts in, low but sharp, pulling your gaze away like a hand on the back of your neck. “What’s that?”

You blink at him, startled, pen hovering uselessly over the page. His brow lifts, a half-smile curling, but his eyes aren’t playful. He saw it. He saw something.

“Nothing,” you mutter too quickly, dropping your gaze to the page, heart hammering.

Derek doesn’t move, doesn’t let it go. He leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to remind you he’s there. “Doesn’t look like nothing.” His tone is light for the others’ sake, but his eyes flicker—knowing, protective, sharp.

You force a laugh, shaky, scribbling something meaningless on the paper in front of you. Anything to keep from looking back at Hotch.

But you feel it still—that stare. Heavy. Dark. Unmoved.

The meeting finally breaks up, papers shuffled, chairs scraping back. Everyone drifts away, murmuring and distracted, but you stay a second too long at your desk, still feeling Hotch’s gaze burn across the room even though he’s focused on Rossi.

“Hey.”

Derek’s voice cuts through the quiet, softer now, just for you. You look up and he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar protective tilt to him.

“You okay?” he asks, but it isn’t really about your well-being. You can feel it in the way he’s looking at you—like he knows exactly what just happened.

“I… yeah,” you say too quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m fine.”

Derek’s brow quirks, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. You locking eyes with Hotch like that? That’s… intense.”

Heat raises up your neck and across your chest. You look down, pretending to busy yourself with the papers in front of you, but it’s no use. Derek’s eyes don’t let you hide.

“You—he noticed,” you whisper, barely audible, panic lacing your words.

Derek’s smirk is small but sharp. “Noticed? Oh yeah. And I noticed you noticing him. Don’t think I didn’t see that stare. You two—there’s something there, isn’t there?”

You press your lips together, heart hammering. “I—”

“Shh,” Derek cuts you off gently, but firmly, one finger lifted like he’s keeping you from saying too much. “Don’t panic. I’m not saying anything to anyone. But… damn, you’ve got it bad.”

You glance at him, caught somewhere between mortified and burning with awareness. He just leans a little closer, quieter now, like he’s sharing a secret only you can hear.

“Careful,” he murmurs, almost teasing, almost serious. “Hotch… he doesn’t let things go easily.”

And just like that, Derek’s presence is grounding—reminding you you’re not entirely alone in this intense of eye fucking Hotch—but it doesn’t make Hotch’s gaze any less heavy in your mind.

The meeting breaks, chairs scraping, voices fading as everyone scatters. You catch yourself watching him, the way he moves toward his office—shoulders stiff, stride clipped, like he’s carrying the weight of the whole room on his back. He doesn’t look at you now, but you can still feel the echo of his stare on your skin. It lingers, burns.

“There goes your man,” Derek mutters low beside you, almost teasing but his tone carries something sharper. Protective. He tilts his head toward the stairs. “Go say something to him.”

Your stomach knots. Heat rushes into your chest. “Like what?” you snap, sharper than you mean to, your voice edged with panic. “It’s not like he’s gonna want to talk about it.”

Derek only smirks, shaking his head as he grabs his files, leaving you there with your pulse racing and the image of Hotch’s broad back disappearing into his office.

Your hands won’t stay still—you’re fidgeting, tugging at your hair, pretending to gather your notes when you already know what you’re going to do. Your legs move before your mind catches up. Each step toward his door feels heavier, like you’re walking into something you can’t undo.

You pause, staring at the closed door, nerves clawing up your throat. Then you knock. Light. Hesitant.

“Come in.” His voice is steady, even, but it sinks right through you.

You push the door open, step inside, and let it click shut behind you—or you think you do. You’re too busy watching him. He’s at his desk, sorting papers, calm in a way that only makes the storm inside you worse.

Minutes stretch. You stand there, caught in your own silence, nails pressing into your palms because you don’t know how to start.

And then he moves. Stepping behind you, close enough to draw every nerve tight, his hand reaching past to push the door closed because you forgot. The soft thud of it shutting makes your chest seize.

Your voice cracks when you finally speak. “What was that?”

He pauses, his tone quiet, measured. “What was what?”

You spin, nerves snapping. “Hotch, don’t play me,” you bite out, heat and fear tangling in your throat. “You knew exactly what you were doing in there.”

“Hotch, please,” the words slip out before you can stop them, your voice tight, shaky. “There was some extreme tension between us back there and you can’t hide from that. Your eyes…”

He tilts his head slightly, calm, unreadable, like he’s giving you rope to hang yourself with. “What about them?”

Your chest heaves, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Heat crawls up your throat, choking you, but you can’t stop. The words push out jagged, desperate. “Do I need to spell it out for you, Aaron?” You snap, sharper than you mean, the sound of it filling the quiet office. “Come on…”

His gaze sharpens, the faintest shift in his jaw, and it makes your stomach twist. He knows. He knows. He’s just waiting to hear you say it.

The silence stretches, unbearable, and before you can catch yourself you blurt it out, choking on the words as your pulse stumbles. “You were—you were eye fucking me back there.”

The air thickens, heavy, charged. Your fingers tremble at your sides. You can’t take the words back, can’t breathe them away. They’re out now, hanging between you like fire.

Hotch doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, steady, deliberate, as if he’s weighing exactly how far you’re willing to let this go. And the way his eyes settle on you again—slow, unblinking—tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re stunned when he clears his throat, breaking the silence. “What did you just say?” His voice is low, deliberate. Then, almost mocking, “I’m surprised you know how to use that kind of language.”

Your blood spikes hot. “Really?” you snap, sharper than you intended. “I’m not a teenager, Hotch. I’m grown.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re a lot younger than I am,” he says quietly. “We can’t be doing this. I can’t be doing this.”

The words hit you like ice, but anger flares up through the chill. “But you did,” you shoot back, heart pounding.

“And you,” he cuts in, voice still steady, but his eyes burn into yours. “I had you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You wouldn’t stop staring back at me,” he says, stepping closer now, each word peeling you open. “Your breathing changed. It went from steady… to heavy, in seconds. And I didn’t even have to touch you.” His gaze dips, then lifts again. “Your hair—you were tugging at it, like you didn’t know what else to do.”

“Stop,” you choke out, the word weak, useless. Your chest is tight, your body betraying you.

He takes a step forward anyway, closing the space. That look—that look—hits you like a blow, makes your heart slam against your ribs so hard it hurts. You feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the trembling breath you can’t quite get out.

And you know he knows.

“Hotch please you whisper.”

Then he steps back straightened his tie , clears his throat we leave in 20 , you should go get ready , see you on the jet .

Author notes : Intense eye contact with Hotch would be so hot I don’t think I could handle myself , very well .. .. if you got this far thanks for reading if you enjoyed it please consider rebloging in comment you’re support means a lot to me .. I’m still learning to write .. I think I love this new setup :) … new layout …

@ssamorganhotchner

[itsfelicity-emma]

good golly mr. kent! (18+)

switch!clark x switch!reader, 1.3k words

summary: clark tries to be dominant and finally succeeds. well, kind of...

content: filthy nasty dirty smut (MDNI!), porn w/o plot, clark and reader are switchy (and freaky as hell), p in v, use of good girl, sir etc. etc.

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

He’s all “gosh!” and “golly!” until he’s inside of you.

You can’t help but tease him for it, the way he’s so pure until you’re wrapped around him, dragging the monster out of the man with each roll of your hips.

His jaw is clenched tight as you bounce on him, his hands lifting you and lowering you mercilessly up and down on his cock, the pulse of your slick walls around him threatening to unleash something long dormant inside of him.

His grunts and groans are animalistic. The cracks in his voice every time he tries to speak fills you with pride. Big strong superhero and you’re bringing him down with nothing but your body. You feel like goddamn Wonder Woman and he sees you the same way.

“Good - holy - aggggh…fuck!” He finally lets slip.

Your smile is wide and wicked at the sound of a curse word finally falling from his lips. Your movements get even faster, the bed creaking below Clark as you ride him into full blown mania.

“Tsk tsk, now that’s a dirty word, Clark! Where’s my sweet, innocent boy now?”

That’s what breaks him. Hands clutching your hips, Clark flips you over, your back hitting the mattress with a thud. It's seconds before he has his cock back in you, no easing in this time, just straight to the hilt. A sharp gasp escapes you at his rare show of force.

“You think this is funny, huh?” 

The smile that spreads across his face as he taunts is anything but humorous, his hips surging forward again and again until you're too breathless to answer him. You’ve officially awoken the beast.

“Is this what you wanted?” He scolds through gritted teeth, his arms propped on either side of your head, caging you in. “You want me to be dirty? Okay baby, I’ll get fucking filthy for you.”

You whine helplessly, obsessed with the sound of curses falling from his sweet lips, obsessed with the fact that no one else gets to hear that sound. 

“I lo- oh! - I love it Clark, I love when you lose control,” you sob out.

“Nuh-uh, angel. Clark’s gone. You can call me sir or nothing at all. Got it?”

Your hand flies to your mouth to suppress the absolutely unholy sounds that are pouring out of you now. Clark won’t have that, though. After all, you were the one that pushed him to become this new version of himself. He wrenches your hand from your mouth, pinning it above your head. 

Lowering his head to the crook of your neck, Clark nips and sucks a path from the crook of your collarbone up to your earlobe, leaving his mark on every inch of you.

Once his mouth is pressed to your ear, he pants, “say it, baby. Say what I want to hear.”

You’re officially powerless now, every drop of defiance in your body robbed by the force of his cock pushing into you over and over.

“Y-yes sir, yes sir!” You cried.

“See, that wasn’t hard, was it? See how easy it is for you to be a good girl for me?”

With that praise, he slides a hand between you, stroking through your slick to torment your swollen clit.

“Ahhh, fuck!” You moan helplessly., hips jerking violently under his brutal touch.

“Nah baby, if you’re gonna force me to be naughty, then you need to be the good one. Talk sweet to me, princess,” Clark coached you, “Or I’ll stop right now.”

“No, no, please sir, don’t stop,” you beg, free hand clawing at his slowing hips to drag him back into you. “I’ll be sweet.”

In a final attempt to gain some upper ground, you squeeze your cunt around his length as hard as you can, feeling every vein and inch of him pulse inside you. 

Clark’s head falls to your neck, gasping against the damp skin there.

“Do it then. Be good,” he orders, the forcefulness in his voice waning ever so slightly.

You run your hand up his back until it finds his messy hair, still matted from his usual position underneath you. With a tug, you pull his head back to look him in the eye.

“You’re so good at this, so good to me. I love what you do to me, love when you fu - make love to me,” you whisper with what little breath you have left, trying so hard not to curse and nearly failing.

His eyes droop low, hips slowing slightly as you praise him. Under the dominant side you’ve brought out of him, you can still see the shy boy who loves to be praised.

“Why do you tease me then, baby? Why get me all riled up?” His voice is half playful, half completely earnest.

“Because I love to see you like this, love to be stuffed full of you. Just want to be close to you all the time.” It’s the most honest you’ve ever been with him, both of you surprised at the sincerity in your voice.

“Is that it? Just want me to give you what you need?”

You nod desperately. Clark’s grinding into you now - slow, steady strokes that make you feel like you’re losing your mind.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart,” he consoles you. “I’ll give you anything you want, you know that.”

Your mouth finds his, pouring all your gratitude into the kiss, groaning into his mouth and begging him for more with your tongue.

After a minute or two he pulls back just long enough to say, “what do you want, hmm? Ask and it’s yours.”

“W-wanna cum, Cl - sir,” you stammer out, “please can I cum?”

Clark smiles down at you, so amused at the effort you’re putting into being submissive for him. Your eyes are screwed shut, brow furrowed in focus. It’s so endearing he almost thinks about taking it easy on you, rubbing your clit softly until you slip into a gentle, soothing bliss. But that’s not what you asked for when you teased him, and he always gives you what you ask for.

The sound of skin against skin bounces off the walls as he hammers into you, harder and faster than ever before. Your legs that were once wrapped around him are jello now, trembling uncontrollably as you teeter on the edge of something mind-blowing. You’re crying out a million “oh oh oh!’s” that only add to his maddening desperation. 

When his fingers find your clit again, pinching and swirling mercilessly, you nearly reach the end of yourself, dangerously close to tumbling into a kind of oblivion you’ve never experienced before. Somehow, you’d managed to turn Clark and yourself absolutely primal.

“Hhhng, oh shi- oh gosh! Oh my fu- goodness…it’s so good, I c-can’t…”

“Shhh, baby,” Clark soothes you, the honey in his voice in complete conflict with the ferocity in his hips. “You don’t have to say anything. Just cum for me, just let go now.”

For the first time ever, you do what he says without arguing. You fall right over the edge of the cliff, nothing but bright white behind your eyes and ringing in your ears as he catches you on the way down, just like always.

He doesn’t have it in him to keep up the act. The feeling of you fluttering and gushing around him is too much, he slips back into his real self, his sweet self, the pure hearted Kansas farm boy that you're falling in love with.

“Ahh, oh my gosh,” he croaks. “Geez, love, that feels so good. I love when you let go. I’m gonna cum too, can I cum?”

“Yes, yes, Clark, cum inside,” you command. “Fill me up. Now.”

And just like always, he does what you ask.

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

a/n: oops another one!! i have several longer fluffy/angsty/soft smut one-shots in the works for him, I just needed to get the freak nasty smut out of my system first <3

[itsfelicity-emma]

[itsfelicity-emma]

lexcorp president lex luthor found disemboweled and there's also a dog

[itsfelicity-emma]

fifth time's the charm

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: 4 moments he almost said “I love you,” and one moment where he finally did.

Word count: 4.3k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

I. Coffee

The secondhand coffee machine in Clark’s kitchen sputters again, issuing a pathetic hiss and a few reluctant gurgles like it’s fighting for its life. The sound echoes softly through the quiet apartment, accompanied only by the low, rhythmic hum of his voice. He’s not singing—just humming, some nameless, comforting tune you’ve come to associate with him when he’s deep in thought or focused on something small. You realize you’ve heard it more often lately. It’s always soft, always slightly off-key, but it settles into the background like a heartbeat.

You’re curled up on his worn, overstuffed couch, a blanket tucked over your legs, its fibers still warm from the dryer. The morning sun drapes over your cheek through the half-open blinds, warming your skin ever so slightly. Outside, the city is waking up—horns blare in the distance, someone yells about a dog, a bus grumbles past—but in here, it’s quiet. Slow. Still.

Clark turns from the counter with two mismatched mugs in his hands—one with a fading print of the Metropolis skyline, the other chipped slightly at the rim. There’s a small tremble in his fingers, just the tiniest betrayal of movement. He tries to hide it, keeping his grip steady, his face neutral. But you see it. You notice it now—the soft signs, the cracks in the armor. The quiet exhaustion in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The humanity in a man who so often feels like he carries the weight of the world without letting it show.

He walks over and hands you your mug carefully, as though the moment is delicate, sacred somehow. You catch the faint scent of the coffee before you take a sip—rich, smooth, with just a hint of cinnamon. It’s perfect. Suspiciously perfect.

You pause mid-sip, blinking up at him. “Wait… how did you know I like it like this?”

Clark hesitates. His eyes flicker down to his socks—gray, worn, one of them inside out. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish.

“You mentioned it,” he says, his voice low, a little unsure. “That night at the diner. You said your barista always puts too much syrup in.”

You frown slightly, surprised. “That was two weeks ago.”

He shrugs, almost apologetically. “I remember things. Especially about you.”

Your chest tightens—just a little, just enough to make your breath catch. Something unspoken swells between you, warm and sudden. You look down at your cup to hide your face, but you can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips.

Clark sits beside you, careful not to jostle the couch. He sinks into the cushions slowly, one arm resting along the back, his body angled slightly toward yours. His knee brushes yours, and though it’s the lightest touch, you feel it like a spark. His warmth bleeds through the space between you before you even look up.

When you do, he’s already watching you.

There’s something different in his eyes today—quieter than usual, but deeper. Like there’s something behind them he hasn’t said yet. A thousand unsent letters sitting just behind his tongue. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to speak.

You beat him to it, nudging his side gently with your elbow. “You gonna say something cheesy again?”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I…” His voice trails off for a second, then steadies. “I was just gonna say I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s simple. No dramatic inflection, no flourish. Just that.

But it lands like an anchor in your chest—heavy in the best way.

You turn toward him, the smile still lingering in your voice as your tone softens. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

He leans in, barely—like he’s moving without realizing it. Like gravity’s pulling him closer. But then he catches himself. Stops. Retreats just enough to let you breathe. As if he’s afraid to press the moment too far, afraid that naming the thing between you might shatter it before it’s ready.

He doesn’t say I love you.

He doesn’t have to.

You see it in the way he looks at you, in the quiet reverence of it. Like you’re something rare. Something breakable and brilliant. It’s not just affection—it’s intent. A kind of waiting. A kind of hope.

And maybe you don’t say it either. Not out loud.

But the way your shoulders settle into his, the way your fingers brush against his when you hand back the mug, the way you let your head fall gently onto his shoulder a minute later—all of that says enough.

Love is brewing here. Quietly. Patiently.

Just like the coffee he made, exactly how you like it.

II. Ramblings

The evening air has a bite to it, crisp in the way late summer sometimes is when the day begins to retreat and the first hints of fall sneak in around the edges. The city speaks around you, softened in the golden hour glow. Metropolis' east side is quieter at this time of day—just a few scattered people out walking dogs or lingering at cafe tables, their voices low and half-lost in the hush of a waning sun.

The sky overhead is painted in fading strokes of rose and molten gold, clouds drifting like brushstrokes across a canvas. Light glints off the windows of nearby buildings, setting them ablaze for a moment before dimming again. The world feels slower here, like it’s catching its breath.

You and Clark walk side by side, your pace unhurried. Comfortable. Familiar. The soles of your shoes scuff softly against the pavement. His jacket brushes your arm every now and then, and your hands swing between you, knuckles brushing with each step—tiny electric touches that say more than either of you has figured out how to put into words. Yet.

Clark steals glances at you as you talk about your day—your boss's passive-aggressive emails, the chaos in the breakroom, some intern who mistook decaf for espresso and turned the office into a war zone. You catch him looking and raise an eyebrow, but he just grins, sheepish and unapologetic, like he can’t help himself.

He looks at you like he's trying to memorize you in real time. Not just how you look in this light, but how you are in this moment—how your mouth moves when you laugh, how you tug at your sleeve when you're self-conscious, how your eyes crinkle when you’re teasing him. Like if he doesn’t commit all of it to memory, he’ll forget something important.

You reach your building before you know it—a quiet, brick-front place tucked between a florist’s shop and an apartment complex with ivy crawling up the side. You stop at the base of the steps, and so does he.

His hand lingers near yours. Close enough to feel the warmth, but not quite touching. His fingers graze your skin—once, then again. Like he wants to hold your hand but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to anymore. Or maybe he just doesn’t want the moment to end.

You tilt your head toward him, voice low. “You’re stalling.”

Clark laughs under his breath, looking down at your hands with that crooked smile that always gets to you. “Am I that obvious?”

“Just a little.”

He inhales, slow and deliberate, like he’s bracing for something—or holding something back. He lets the breath out in a soft, half-laugh. “I just... I really like this,” he says. His voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges. “Being with you. Even if it’s just... walking and talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even when I talk too much about my work drama?”

“Especially then.” His eyes meet yours, steady now. “You let me in. That means something.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward—just full. You watch him in the last stretch of sunlight, the way the gold outlines his jaw, the faint curl of hair at his temple, the thoughtful crease between his brows. You get the feeling he’s on the verge of something. Like there’s a door half-open inside him and he’s debating whether to walk through it.

His thumb brushes your knuckle again, slow and gentle this time. Intentional. You feel it down to your ribs.

Then his lips part.

“I think I lo—”

But he stops. The words catch like a bird in flight—startling, unsure. His mouth shuts abruptly, and for just a moment, his eyes widen, like even he didn’t mean to get that close to the edge.

You blink at him, heart tight in your chest. “You think you what?” Your voice is soft. Encouraging. But steady.

Clark blinks once, twice, and then clears his throat. “I think I… left my umbrella at the office.”

You stare at him.

A beat passes.

Then, involuntarily, a laugh escapes you—light and genuine. “Clark,” you say, “it’s August.”

He shrugs, helplessly, all wide eyes and boyish charm. “You never know,” he offers weakly.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The air is thick with the thing he didn’t say.

You lean forward and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s brief—barely there—but his breath stutters just a little. His body goes still. Like he’s afraid if he moves, the spell will break.

When you pull back, he looks at you like you’ve knocked all the wind from his lungs.

“I’ll text you later,” you whisper, your smile soft around the edges.

He nods, wordless, watching you as you turn and head into your building. The door swings shut behind you slowly, and in that last sliver of glass before it closes, you catch a glimpse of his reflection.

He’s still standing there.

Eyes fixed on the spot where you just were. Like he’s trying to will you back.

There’s longing etched into every line of his face. And something else, too—something tender and raw and a little lost. The unspoken sitting heavy on his tongue.

He doesn’t say it.

But he came close.

So close, it’s still ringing in the air after the door clicks shut.

III. The Busted Zipper

You’re once again walking side by side through Centennial Park, shoes crunching softly over the winding gravel path, when the sky turns on you. What had been a patchwork of sunshine and scattered clouds just moments ago shifts suddenly—like someone flipped a switch in the heavens. A sharp breeze cuts through the trees, rustling leaves into a frenzy, and the sky darkens with startling speed, the blue swallowed by a rolling tide of storm-gray clouds.

You glance up, frowning. “My weather app did not mention this.”

The wind picks up, tugging insistently at your clothes. Your jacket zipper catches halfway up, then jams completely, refusing to budge no matter how hard you pull. You huff, half-laughing, half-exasperated, as the fabric flaps open in the breeze like a reluctant flag.

“Perfect timing,” you mutter, futilely yanking at the zipper again.

Beside you, Clark slows, his brow knitting in concern. Without a word, he shrugs off his coat. It happens so smoothly, so instinctively, it almost doesn’t register until you feel the sudden weight of it settling around your shoulders—warm, heavy, and comforting. His hands reach up to adjust the lapels, smoothing them over your chest with deliberate care, as if ensuring every part of you is protected from the creeping chill.

You blink at him. “Clark, I’m not gonna let you freeze for me—”

He just shakes his head, calm and certain. “I’ll be fine.”

His voice is soft but steady. His hands linger a second longer than necessary before dropping to his sides. He tucks them into his pockets, his shoulders curling slightly inward against the breeze. You can’t help but notice the way he shivers—just barely, just once.

You inhale, and the coat pulls around you like a cocoon. It smells like soap and fresh cotton. And something else—something harder to name. Something warm and grounding, like the sun hitting pavement after rain. Like the feeling of safety in a storm. Like him.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you zip the coat higher—his coat—and fold your arms inside it. His posture is casual, but there’s tension in his frame now, like something’s coiled in his chest, something he’s trying not to let slip out.

“You always this gallant?” you ask, your voice light, teasing, trying to soften the sudden weight in the air.

He looks over with a smile—a real one—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I try.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You gonna ask for it back later, or am I keeping it forever?”

Clark’s smile shifts. Less playful now. It gentles, mellows into something quieter. His gaze lingers on you, thoughtful.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says, almost under his breath. “You keeping something of mine.”

You freeze for half a second. Something flutters in your chest—delicate and unsteady. Not panic. Not fear. Something more dangerous.

Hope.

The wind rattles a tree above you, scattering leaves into the air, and you let them fall around you like confetti, but your attention is pinned to Clark. He isn’t looking at you now—his eyes have gone distant, fixed on the path ahead like there’s something very important in the middle distance he needs to study. His jaw tightens, like he’s about to say something. Or swallow it instead.

Then, quietly: “I…”

You tilt your head toward him. You don’t rush him. You know the weight of unfinished sentences. You know how carefully they get carried.

But he stops. You see it happen in real time—the hesitation, the brief flicker of fear, the soft retreat behind his eyes.

He shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

You stop walking, reach out, and gently catch his hand. The contact is small, but it roots him. He glances down at where your fingers curl around his.

“It is,” you say softly. “If you were gonna say it, it’s important.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—emotion, raw and unguarded—but it vanishes almost as quickly as it comes. He offers you a smile, but it’s practiced. A gentle deflection.

“Just wanted to say…” he pauses, almost making you believe him, “you look good in my coat.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Searching. Waiting. But you know he’s not ready—not yet. And maybe you’re not either.

So you let him have the out.

You smile, faintly. “It’s a good coat.”

You start walking again, side by side under a sky heavy with unspoken words and almost-rain. He doesn’t take his hand back right away, and neither do you. The wind has calmed for now, but the air feels charged. The kind of hush that comes before the sky finally breaks open.

You don’t talk for the next few steps. You don’t need to. The weight of what he didn’t say—what you felt anyway—settles around you, heavier than the coat draped across your shoulders.

You keep walking, heart full, steps slow, the storm holding off a little longer.

But you know it’s coming.

And maybe, just maybe, next time, he’ll let it rain.

IV. The Call

The nightmare hits hard.

It doesn't creep in. It crashes—sudden, visceral, and overwhelming. One moment, you're sleeping soundly. The next, you're gasping into the darkness, lungs tight, heart pounding against your ribs like it's trying to escape. The room is too quiet, the shadows too long. Sweat clings to your skin despite the chill in the air.

You sit up abruptly, tangled in your sheets like something tried to pull you under and almost succeeded. You don’t remember the details, not clearly—just impressions. Panic. Falling. A voice screaming your name. Or maybe you were the one screaming. The remnants of the dream are already dissolving like smoke, but the fear lingers, sharp and disorienting.

Your hands tremble as they fumble across the nightstand. Your phone is there, cool and familiar beneath your fingertips. You unlock it without thinking, muscle memory guiding you. His name is the first one on the list.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even question it.

You tap the call button, and hold the phone to your ear like it’s a lifeline.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then—his voice. Soft. Sleep-roughened. Gentle in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Hey,” Clark says, quiet and warm. “You okay?”

His voice is like a light flipped on in a dark room—no sudden brightness, just a glow that steadies you.

You swallow hard, trying to find your own voice. “I… yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just…”

He cuts you off gently. “You can always call me.”

There’s no edge to it. No trace of annoyance or confusion. Just concern. Calm, grounded concern.

“What happened?”

“I had a bad dream,” you say. Your voice is unsteady, barely above a whisper. “I don’t even remember all of it. Just… it felt real. Too real. I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. Not silence—just stillness. Like he’s taking that in, wrapping his mind around your fear and already trying to shoulder it for you.

Then, softly: “Do you want me to come over?”

You glance at the clock glowing on your nightstand. 2:06 a.m.

You huff a breath through your nose, part laugh, part disbelief. “Clark… it’s two in the morning.”

“I’ll fly—uh, drive. Fast.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you let out a shaky laugh, something like tension loosening in your chest. You can almost see his sheepish smile through the phone.

“I’m okay,” you say, softer now. “I mean… I will be. Just needed this. Needed you.”

He exhales slowly on the other end. The kind of breath that sounds like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“I’m always here,” he says. “Okay? Always.”

His voice holds weight. A kind of gravity that draws your heart closer to steady. You believe him—without needing proof, without needing anything more than the way he says it.

You don’t respond right away. You don’t have to. The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It means something. The call has become more than just a connection—it’s a tether. A thread stretching between two hearts in the dark.

And in that silence… you feel it.

Something he’s not saying.

It sits between the words. In the hitch of his breath. In the way he doesn’t rush to fill the space. You know him well enough to recognize it now—that careful pause, like he’s standing at the edge of something bigger than both of you. Like the truth is already in his mouth, but he’s weighing the moment, wondering if this is the time.

You feel your own heart rise to meet it. Expectant. Open.

But instead, he says:

“Close your eyes.”

You blink at the ceiling, where the shadows stretch across plaster like long, reaching fingers.

“I’ll stay on the line,” he adds gently. “I’ll talk. Just… close your eyes.”

So you do.

You sink back into the sheets, the pillow cool against your cheek. The sound of his voice hums in your ear—low, steady, soothing. He doesn’t fill the air with stories or distractions. Just small things. Quiet things. A whispered “You’re okay now,” like a promise. A murmur of your name every now and then, like he’s reminding you you’re not alone. Like he’s anchoring you to the moment, pulling you gently out of the nightmare’s gravity.

Your breathing slows. Your fingers stop trembling. The tension in your chest unwinds thread by thread.

Eventually, you drift.

Not all at once, but slowly, safely—held by the sound of him. The warmth in his voice like a blanket across your heart.

You fall asleep to him.

And long after your breath evens out, long after you’ve slipped into dreamless quiet, Clark stays on the line—listening, just in case. Just to be near.

Because he almost said it.

And maybe next time… he will.

V. The First Time

It’s Sunday, and finally, the world has slowed to a gentle crawl. The usual chaos—the relentless rush of city life, the sharp edges of weekday urgency—has softened into a muted pause. It’s as if time itself has exhaled, allowing space for something quieter, something deeper.

Outside, the rain drizzles steadily, whispering softly against the windows like a lullaby meant just for the two of you. The sky is a sheet of soft gray, blurred by mist and drizzle, and the sound of water hitting the pavement blends into the background like a delicate symphony. The city has faded into a gentle hush, its hurried heartbeat replaced by the rhythmic tapping of raindrops.

Inside, an old Cary Grant movie plays, but neither of you has really been paying attention for the past hour. The dialogue and the scenes have melted into white noise, a backdrop to this moment. Instead, your focus has been elsewhere.

You’re curled up on Clark’s couch, limbs intertwined and tucked beneath a shared, oversized blanket that smells faintly of lavender and clean cotton. Your legs drape lazily across his lap, warm and familiar, while your head rests gently on his chest, the steady rise and fall of it syncing with your breath. His fingers move slowly, tracing soft, absentminded patterns along your back—circles, lines, nothing deliberate, just a comforting rhythm. It’s like his hands are learning you, memorizing every curve and contour, as if engraving you into his skin with gentle touches.

The air between you is warm, still, and full of quiet energy—an unspoken promise hanging in the space. And then something shifts. Subtle but undeniable.

You feel it first—his heartbeat quickens beneath your ear, a gentle but unmistakable change. Your own heart responds, speeding up just enough to notice the difference. Instinctively, you lift your head, eyes meeting his, and you find that he’s already looking at you. Not distracted by the movie, not caught in thought, not averting his gaze shyly. No—he’s watching you with a kind of raw, vulnerable intensity that feels new and electric.

“You’re staring again,” you whisper softly, a small smile curving your lips.

Clark blinks, caught off guard, his gaze flickering away for a moment before settling back on you. “Oh—uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be,” you say gently, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your faces inch closer, noses brushing lightly, and he lets out the softest, breathiest laugh—nervous, almost like he’s afraid to mess this up. That laugh speaks volumes: he’s trying, trying so hard to get this right, to say everything he feels without saying too much.

Then, suddenly, quietly—but with the surety of a truth finally spoken—he says it.

“I love you.”

The words land softly between you, but inside, they echo like a thunderclap. They settle beneath your ribs like a secret long held, a treasure finally claimed.

You freeze, stunned by the weight and clarity of those three simple words. The room seems to hold its breath. And then, barely above a whisper, you say, “You what?”

He repeats it, firmer this time, eyes locking with yours. “I love you. I’ve… been trying to say it. For a while.”

You search his face, seeing the vulnerability, the hesitation, and the hope wrapped in those words. “So why didn’t you?”

Clark lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck like the words had been stuck there for a long time. His gaze drops to your legs covered by the blanket before meeting your eyes again, steady and open.

“I wanted to be sure,” he admits quietly. “Not about how I feel—I’ve known that for a long time. Maybe before I even admitted it to myself. But I was scared. Scared I’d say it too soon, scare you off, or mess up something that feels perfect to me. I didn’t want to rush it or say it in the wrong moment. I wanted it to mean something real.”

You soften, warmth blooming in your chest as he keeps going, as if releasing the weight of those held-back words is a relief.

“I overthink everything. Especially with you. You’re important to me—more than I can really say—and I didn’t want to ruin what we have by rushing or stumbling over the moment. Sometimes I almost said it—like it was right there on the tip of my tongue—and then I’d pull back, hoping for the right moment. Not just some careless blur, thrown out when we’re distracted by a laugh or a kiss or even—” he glances down at the couch cushions, “—toast crumbs.”

You bite your lip to hold back a smile. “You didn’t want to say ‘I love you’ next to toast crumbs?”

He groans and buries his face in his hands, chuckling softly. “No! Well, yes. But I wanted it to feel right. I wanted to give you something real, something that mattered. And the more I waited, the more I worried I’d mess it up if I said it, so I kept holding it in.”

You tilt your head, watching him with gentle eyes. “So why now? What changed?”

Clark lifts his gaze again, those soft eyes full of something like hope and relief. “Because when I looked at you just now, I realized I couldn’t keep waiting. You looked at me like you already knew. Like you’d been waiting for me to catch up. And I thought—what if I stop waiting for some perfect moment? What if I just say the truth?”

He pauses, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. But I was scared—scared I’d say it wrong, or too small, or too big. I wanted to give you the right words, the right feeling.”

You reach out, your fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, your thumb brushing softly across his cheek. “Clark,” you whisper, “you said it exactly right.”

And then, slowly, you lean in to kiss him. It’s a kiss full of all the things left unspoken, tender and lingering. When you pull back, your smile is soft, full of every hope and fear he’d been carrying.

“I love you,” you say quietly, steadily. “You’re not late. You’re right on time.”

His breath catches, and his arms tighten around you, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment—trying to hold it close, to keep it real. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

You grin, heart soaring. “I had a pretty good idea.”

Outside, the rain continues to fall softly, a steady rhythm against the windows.

Inside, everything else falls away—the walls, the doubts, the reasons to hold back.

And wrapped in blankets and in each other’s arms, there are no more almosts.

Only always.

[itsfelicity-emma]

KILLSHOT

Clark Kent scores an interview with Bruce Wayne's infamous sister — you. Except you don't make it easy for him.

TAGS: 18+, smut, reader is batman's sister, foot job, bulge rubbing, exhibitionism, clark cums in his pants, teasing, he gets flustered, reader is lowk dom/millionaire heiress vibes (1.8k wc) 𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

The ding of the elevator had everyone on the floor anxiously looking towards it.

Black heels are what they see first. A silvered dagger acting as the stilettos. It cuts through the silence in the air. Perry is already by the entrance, arms outstretched to shake her hands.

"Miss Wayne. It's a pleasure to have you here." You tip your cat like framed shades up and through your hair. A hint of displeasure on your expression at the visible crumbs on his hand. You merely nod at him in acknowledgment.

"Miss Wayne is my brother. Just my name will do." Perry roars an overly-exaggerated laughter at your dig, gesturing toward the hallways as he guides you ahead.

"Oh, you're as funny as the tabloids say." He coughs when you side-eye him. "I-I mean. As they papers say."

You look around at the room, the maroon leathered walls creating a ghastly look. Not even the floor-to-ceiling library saved it. "Pray tell, do you interview everyone in…this asylum-esque room…?"

Your vague gesture to the room has Perry floundering while pulling out the leather cushioned arm chair for you. "We — well, only for the ones that matter but, if it's not to your liking, we can have it torn down, change the walls. Make you more comfortable for your next visit perhaps."

The insinuation is clear, but all you do is let out a displeased hum.

"What of the boy?"

Perry blinks at you and then chortles out a laughter, which you immediately reel back in a cringe.

"You mean Kent? Yes! I forget that you specifically asked for him. God knows why." He's looking at his phone nervously, muttering the end of his sentence. Perry turns to tap aggressively on his phone.

The doors damn near gets taken off the hinges when it swings open. Clark stumbles in, halfway tugging his tie up. Choking himself when he over-tightens it. You're turned halfway over your shoulder, sizing the taller man up.

"There he is. Man of the hour." Perry stomps over, patting Clark with a harder than necessary pat, he's tipped his head to whisper something in a hushed anger. Forcing him to straighten up.

"My apologies, I was —"

"The boy was out interviewing 'Superman', you see." Perry interrupts, as though the additional 'celebrity' name drop would impress.

Your eyes narrow a tinge, glancing down at his buttons that was mis-matched, and the overall sweat-slicked presentation he had going on.

"Interviewing or being Superman?"

The room falls to a silence, especially Clark, whose mouth was opening and shutting like the wind was knocked out of him. Perry's even louder laughter had both your attentions. "She's hilarious! Take good care of her, Kent."

Clark turns to you. Taking a moment to survey you with his head tipped. He shakes his head visibly, "please, sit", palms outstretched to show you to your seat. You turn heel, tucking your skirt underneath you in a poised manner.

You catch Clark sneaking glances at you, fumbling to get his recorder out and onto the table. He nearly knocks the decor off the desk, but your palm snaps out, grabbing the ornate sculpture.

"Sorry. Thank you." He mumbles sheepishly, his hand dwarfing yours when he places it back onto the desk.

The chair groans beneath his weight, aligning the notepad square on the table. A pencil gingerly placed parallel to it, you place your hand over his knuckles when he attempts to press the recorder.

"I do not wish to be recorded."

His breath stutters, "Right," he manages with a clear of his throat, "so, Miss Wayne." He looks to his empty notepad, immediately realising he brought the unedited questions with him, he's already mumbling a 'oh gosh, give me one second.'

The words are on the tip of your tongue, to correct him, but the tinge of exasperation that rumbled deep from his throat at the way he says it. Had you holding yourself back.

You liked it.

Clark is blissfully unaware, biting the tip of his pencil, and then spinning the flimsy wood that looked comically small in his hand, like a toothpick he could've snapped if he so wished.

He was woefully unprepared, so you opt to let your mind wander. Gaze tracking the solid girth of his wrists, down to the veins visibly flexing on his knuckles when he scribbles on the notepad. "Sorry. So — uh, what…brings you to The Daily Planet?"

"Curiosity." You say vaguely. But your attention is entirely on Clark. Your hands fold, and you lean forward while resting your chin on your knuckles. "Boredom," you continue, "Bruce thinks I need good press." You lie, easily.

Clark looks up, mid-word and stops. He really takes a good look at you this time. Mind catching up with the initial visual impact of you. His pencil rolls from his fingers, clattering onto the desk. He manages to snatch it before it hits the floor, though his big figure makes the action look clumsy.

"Are you usually this bad at your job?" You say simply.

He's speechless. The tips of his ears going pink. "I —…no." Clark exhales, adjusting his glasses as though to ground himself. "I'm just not used to…having a guest like yourself."

You tilt your head with a raise of a brow, letting the silence between the two of you stretch. Your crossed legs brushes past Clark's underneath the table, and you hear slight pause in his breathing. He pretends to keep busy with his notes, but all you can do is let your mind wander about what exactly those hands could do if they weren't holding back.

"I liked the piece you did." He looks up when you speak again, lips going tight with a questioning look. "The one about Batman." You let your words hang, watching the faint shift of his posture.

"You wrote about how he isn't the cold hearted vigilante people assume him to be. Something about him leaving clues for the police, that being his style and all." The cap of your heels grazes on his shins.

He swallows thickly, saying nothing.

You leaned in, "stuff people only ever notice when you're close enough to someone."

Clark clears his throat again, pushing his glasses up to his nose. "I…have good sources."

"Mmh." You tilt your head, hooking the tip of your heel beneath the hem of his slacks. His breath catches at that, and his eyes darts towards you. Questioning, but not stopping. "Anyway. Go on. Ask me what you need."

He loosens his tie, nodding. "Y..Yeah. Okay. Pardon my forwardness." His tongue catches his lower lips, biting down onto them before speaking.

"Miss Wayne. You've been on the headlines of…tabloids often."

Your brow twitches at that. "They exaggerate."

"They do." He assures, scratching the side of his nose, "but you've known to have philanthropic endeavors."

The corners of Clark's lips curl up just enough to incite the indent there as he reads his notes on you.

It makes you perk up slightly, transfixed on the way his cheek dimples. "Children's aid in Jarhanpur, playing a big part in re-structuring the schools…it's an endless list. Why don't you speak on them more?"

You straighten up suddenly at your mental slip, quashing the feeling that followed when your heart thrummed at his smile. "I don't do it for praise." Clark's lips part with a bated breath when you drag your heels higher up his leg.

"W…What…for then?" It comes out terse.

"I like how being good makes me feel."

Clark blinks at you, not expecting your answer. It's a feeling he relates to, he thinks.

"I…see. And you don't think it makes you sound like you're just doing it for self-gratification? "

You subtly shift out of your heels. Humming in thought.

This time, Clark feels the softness of your toes slide higher up his shins. Pressing enough to draw a startled breath from him. You keep your expression composed, letting your actions do the speaking for you.

"Uh…Miss Wayne." His voice cracks, and his thighs are bouncing, restless at the vague twitch he feels in his gut. "Perhaps I'm misreading but are you doing that on purpo —"

Clark shudders with a soft gasp. Looking down to see your manicured toes, rested on his bulge.

"Like you said, I seem to do things for self-gratification, do I not?"

Your toes part on the outline of his bulge, lifting it higher to drag down his length. He's hesitant when his hips subconsciously edges to your touch. "It's not…necessarily what I think."

Clark's hand rounds your ankle with a firm grip to catch your attention. You think for a moment that he might stop you. But he just has his gaze trained on you, at your chest, your face, and the glint in your eyes.

You're smiling, amused. He wanted you to look at him. You apply a little more pressure and the growing throb beneath your digits sends a delightful shiver down your spine.

"What do you think, then?"

"I think," his jaw visibly tenses as his hold on your ankle relaxes, letting you rub at his bulge with just the right amount of pleasure. Clark's head lowers, he's rambling under his breath — goodgoshthat's… "I-I think that…you're a good person. B..Because no one inherently selfish would do more for the less privileged."

Your lips twitch at that, teeth catching the soft inside of your cheeks.

"And what about you?"

Clark looks to you, fists curling into a clench on the table. "Me?…" he croaks, voice higher than he intended it to be.

"Do you feel good when you're doing good things?"

You emphasize it with a particularly harder nudge, and he's gasping out, "yes! gosh—yes, i feel good." Your lips part to let out a content exhale.

Clark's head falls lower, breath strained. He's fully bucking into the friction your feet was providing him. "Miss Wayne," his voice drops lower this time, low and guttural. A tone he takes as Superman, and not as Clark.

His broad shoulder twitches while he hunches over. Eyes fluttered shut, panting deep in stutters — holding tight around your ankles. The wetness you feel blooming beneath has you drawing your feet back, sliding back into the black heel left abandoned beneath.

He doesn't register when you stand up and round the table, tipping his jaw up with your thumb and fore fingers. "Call me. For a proper interview."

Clark's gaze rakes over at your retreating figure, dazed still. And he looks down to see a perfumed ruby red name card, with gold scripted fonts that curled your initials.

[itsfelicity-emma]

MDNI 18+

゛⸝⸝ ⋆ clark kent — superman

having sex with clark who has literal super strength has its downsides… essentially clark breaking your bed for the third time this month.

cw: vaginal sex, unprotected, fluff

ֺּׅ⏦ﾟ ֺּׅ　　　⋆ ࣭ masterlist — clark kent masterlist

CLARK SWEARS THAT he’s not even putting all of his strength on you, but yet your bed frame said otherwise. the headboard slamming against the wall roughly to the point you were convinced that it was going to make a hole and your neighbours would see both you and clark butt naked having sex.

“gentle clark,” you gasped as you clung onto him, nails digging into this broad shoulders as his cock ploughs into your cunt, almost splitting you in half.

clark’s dark bushy brows furrowed, almost confused. “i am gentle,” he muttered, acutely aware of every little thing he did, the pressure he applied to your hips, the strengths of his thrusts and how deep he buried himself in you.

but him being gentle was like fighting is natural instinct.

sure he was a gentle giant in the streets, always opening the door for people, never pushing or shoving in the streets no matter how late he was, or trying to make himself seem smaller to accomodate to other people’s needs.

but not in bed.

there was something about you, that made his mind go feral, almost haywire. the moment he sank deep into your cunt, your warm gummy walls clenching around him he didn’t feel like clark anymore.

“clark the bed is creaking,” you patted his shoulder, but he didn’t even register it, a small groan escaping his mouth as he thrusted inside you.

“it’ll be fine, the bed always creak.” he reassured, though he knew how wrong he was.

and not long after that comment, the bed broke.

both you and clark groaned when the mattress under you fell, clark cradling you in your arms.

“are you okay?” he panted, deep blue eyes scanning your figure, making sure you were okay.

“i’m fine,” you sighed, wincing slightly when you pulled yourself up, his cock still buried deep inside you.

the bed was utterly obliterated.

“guess we’ll get a new bed then,” he commented, not even caring about the scenario before planting a kiss on your forehead, a boyish dimpled smile on his face when he saw your scowl.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne @i-live-in-spite @angel-z-xdx @trashaccount19 @nicolebarnes @imrandomstuffsblog @tinythebunni @leina11 @yes2455 @ilovesoapandnotthebar @ravenduskabyss @booboobear-12 @bluexberryxbutterfly

[itsfelicity-emma]

MDNI 18+

゛⸝⸝ ⋆ clark kent — superman

having sex with clark who has literal super strength has its downsides… essentially clark breaking your bed for the third time this month.

cw: vaginal sex, unprotected, fluff

ֺּׅ⏦ﾟ ֺּׅ　　　⋆ ࣭ masterlist — clark kent masterlist

CLARK SWEARS THAT he’s not even putting all of his strength on you, but yet your bed frame said otherwise. the headboard slamming against the wall roughly to the point you were convinced that it was going to make a hole and your neighbours would see both you and clark butt naked having sex.

“gentle clark,” you gasped as you clung onto him, nails digging into this broad shoulders as his cock ploughs into your cunt, almost splitting you in half.

clark’s dark bushy brows furrowed, almost confused. “i am gentle,” he muttered, acutely aware of every little thing he did, the pressure he applied to your hips, the strengths of his thrusts and how deep he buried himself in you.

but him being gentle was like fighting is natural instinct.

sure he was a gentle giant in the streets, always opening the door for people, never pushing or shoving in the streets no matter how late he was, or trying to make himself seem smaller to accomodate to other people’s needs.

but not in bed.

there was something about you, that made his mind go feral, almost haywire. the moment he sank deep into your cunt, your warm gummy walls clenching around him he didn’t feel like clark anymore.

“clark the bed is creaking,” you patted his shoulder, but he didn’t even register it, a small groan escaping his mouth as he thrusted inside you.

“it’ll be fine, the bed always creak.” he reassured, though he knew how wrong he was.

and not long after that comment, the bed broke.

both you and clark groaned when the mattress under you fell, clark cradling you in your arms.

“are you okay?” he panted, deep blue eyes scanning your figure, making sure you were okay.

“i’m fine,” you sighed, wincing slightly when you pulled yourself up, his cock still buried deep inside you.

the bed was utterly obliterated.

“guess we’ll get a new bed then,” he commented, not even caring about the scenario before planting a kiss on your forehead, a boyish dimpled smile on his face when he saw your scowl.

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[itsfelicity-emma]

[itsfelicity-emma]

𐙚⋆.˚ clark kent x fem!reader

clark kent who.. loved to tell you about his day.. while he’s inside of you.

cw: smut - pwnp, cockwarming, pet names, clark being a cutie

“then she said she made superman cookies! she sells them down at her bakery. we should go tomorrow.” clark grinned, running his hand up and down your arm in a soothing gesture. you nodded in acknowledgment, rutting slowly against him, his thick cock twitching inside of you.

he grunted quietly, subconsciously giving your arm a gentle squeeze. he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, resisting the urge to pound into you. “that- that’d be great, clark.” you mumbled, trailing your hand up the back of his neck to tangle in his hair.

“yeah. should i go in as superman or clark kent? imagine what they’d say if superman came in and bought a superman cookie.” he rambled on, growing increasingly happy and giddy at the thought of making people happy.

you stifled a whine as his hips stuttered against you suddenly, feeling him throb and grow harder inside your tight cunt, if that was even possible. you could already feel him so deep inside you, feeling him in your tummy.

“y- you okay, honey?” he asked breathily, asking casually as if it was just another normal day. you nodded, dropping your head to rest against his chest. “yeah. just- just so full.” you murmured, clenching around him needily.

he hummed, bringing a hand down to in between your thighs, rubbing lazily at your sensitive clit. you gasped quietly, a broken whimper falling from your lips. “so good for me, always.” clark whispered, kissing the top of your head softly. “love feeling you so tight around me.”

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a/n: he’s such a little loser i love him. i need him so badly its not even funny anymore. not proofread, ignore any mistakes!

clark kent taglist: @bowxs , @y0inked , @ultrafemviolence , @mar-munteanu06 , @iminlovebutimkeepinitlowkey , @kissmxcheek , @nicetomeachum , @sunnyteume , @mollymal