maeintree

[maeintree]

summer lovin'

pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner/fem!reader genre: smut w.c.: 6.7k a/n: shoutout to summer aka prime dbf season. this could technically be seen in the same universe as either of my other dbf!hotch fics but could also be a standalone, whatever you want <3 as always feedback fuels me ily

summary: After your dad thwarts your plan to have a not-date with Aaron at the drive-in movie theatre, you improvise.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, dbf!hotch, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, fingering, finger sucking, interrupted blowjob so hotch gets blue balls <3, one (1) hint of sir kink at the very end, praise kink, dirty talk, kinda fwb kinda dating hotch just needs to DTR already, no y/n

read below or on ao3 here <3

You’re at least 99% sure that summer was your favorite time of the year.

You loved that you were only a short ten-minute drive to the beach and could spend the whole day in your new bikini out by the water. You loved the cookouts that your dad always threw in your backyard, the smoke of the burgers on the grill and fresh chlorine from the pool swirling in the air. You loved staying out too late with your friends, drunk and attempting to quietly stumble through your front door as if you were a high schooler again.

But your favorite part about summer? Coming home and spending time with your dad’s best friend.

You and Hotch have been having a summer fling every time you visited for the past two years. Though, you wonder if it could still be considered a fling anymore if it lasted for more than one summer and the two of you would meet if he had a case in your state, no matter the season.

This summer was no exception. Your dad had been promoted last month, which meant that he was called into the office at least every day, thus leaving the house empty for your lonesome self.

“It’s fine,” you had said, waving him off. He had been worried that you felt like he wasn’t spending enough time together as you were only really able to see each other once a year due to your busy schedule. “If I’m bored, I’ll just drive over to Aaron’s place to bother him.”

He didn’t know that you already had your keys tucked into your purse and nothing underneath your dress, so he rolled his eyes and laughed, telling you to not to bother him too much.

Aaron’s schedule often didn’t allow time for you to spend as much time with him as you wanted, so it wasn’t entirely your fault that you had to jump at any opportunity that presented itself. It’s not like you were able to drop down to your knees and scoot in between his thighs underneath your kitchen table when he was over for dinner like you often did at his apartment, his expensive belt unbuckled and his large hand pushing down at the crown of your head.

You would almost feel bad at occupying all of Aaron’s free time if he didn’t clearly express that he didn’t mind, often accompanied with a half-smile he would try to hide and tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

Now, it was the first week of August and you were starting to panic.

Your entire summer flew by you, now nothing but a blur of warm days by the pool and Aaron’s head in between your legs. You seriously don’t think you’ve had this many orgasms since you were a teenager and you went to a Spencer’s to buy a vibrator for the first time.

You’ve been trying to ignore that nagging anxiety that’s been slowly forming since the middle of the summer, but now it was a full-fledged nuisance. Now, you were just that desperate enough to spend as much time with Aaron as possible before you had to go back home to your lonely little apartment to work your lonely little job.

You try to ignore the fact that you were even willing to forgo the mind-blowing orgasms that often followed being in his company. Or the fact that you had started to think about him in non-sexual ways, such as wondering whether he had eaten that day or whether he was able to ask Jack about his science fair project that he wasn’t able to help with.

You’re laying out by the pool and scrolling on your phone, skin warm from the afternoon sun and clad in your cutest bikini, when you get the idea. Or, rather, Instagram gives you the idea in the form of multiple typos and an oversaturated picture.

It’s an ad for a local drive-in movie theatre that you didn’t know even existed announcing what they were featuring for the end of summer. Their last movie was allegedly tonight, a late showing of Grease, and claimed they still had several tickets available.

As if on cue, you hear the telltale crunching of gravel of Aaron pulling up into the driveway. A wicked smile splits your face. It was like a sign from God, or gods, or whatever the hell was out there as they served the perfect date night idea to you in the form of a badly photoshopped ad on your phone.

Your dad was still home, working at the kitchen island, but you knew that Aaron had timed it perfectly where only ten minutes after he showed up, your dad was going to get a call asking for him to come into the office. You’re going to wave him off, saying that you were fine with learning how to occupy yourself, and Aaron would claim to head out a couple minutes after him after dropping something off in his office down the hall. Most times, your dad’s car would have just barely disappeared down the street before Aaron’s spinning you around by the hips to bend over that same kitchen island and shucking your denim cutoffs down your legs.

It was the same routine that you’ve had all summer. It was nearly foolproof.

When you step through the doorway and into the kitchen, you act surprised when you spot Aaron already leaning with his hip against the stove, deliciously toned arms crossed over his sturdy chest as he was already deep in conversation with your dad about something or another.

Your dad looks away to type something painstaking slow on his laptop and Aaron takes the opportunity to raise his eyebrow at you, lazy gaze taking in your and your bright pink bikini. You bite back a smirk when his eyes get stuck on your chest, your nipples undoubtedly stiff and poking through the damp fabric at the superior air conditioning of the house.

“Hey you,” you say, feigning nonchalance. You come to stand by your dad and lean forwards on the kitchen island, inadvertently pushing your breasts up. You smile when you notice Aaron’s jaw clenching as he tries not to let his eyes stray lower than your face. “What are you doing here?”

He clears his throat and your smile grows wider when you spot the vein in his neck pulsing. “Just came to drop some files off for your dad.”

Aaron’s always coming over with papers and files that you know nothing about the contents of. You wonder if they must actually be important since he’s been using that same excuse nearly every single day for the past two months.

“Yeah, yeah,” your dad mutters, still focused on the fluorescent blue screen with his reading glasses precariously hanging on the tip of his nose.

You were nearly bouncing on the balls of your feet with excitement; any second now, your dad’s phone was going to ring and he’s going to be swept away to the office. Now was your perfect chance to bring up the movie with him where only a couple of minutes later, he’ll give you an apologetic look and ruffle your hair, telling you next time with a regretful tinge to his voice. He would have no idea that you had plans to drag his best friend with you instead.

“Dad, what are your thoughts on going to this drive-in movie a couple blocks away here in a little bit?” you ask, biting at your bottom lip to prevent breaking out in giggles. “I’ve never been to one.”

Aaron’s shuffling through the files, seemingly lost in thought, but you knew he was watching you out of the corner of his eye, interest piqued. He’s grown familiar with your antics and the way you seemingly always had a plan to appear busy when you knew your dad was going to be out. To not raise suspicion, you had said.

“Never been?” your dad finally raises his head up from that, eyes wide as he glances at you, and then Aaron. “Can you believe that?”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Somehow, I can.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if the movie’s soon, we should probably get ready and head out,” your dad says, completely ignoring you. You elbow him in the side and he elbows you right back.

He slams his laptop closed and groans when he gets off the bar stool, knees popping in the process. When he’s making his way to his bedroom to get ready, you frown and glance repeatedly at the clock. They should’ve called him about ten minutes ago.

“Hey dad,” you call out. “Are you working today?”

He’s in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt when he turns around, confusion written all over his face. “No, sweetie, I thought I told you that I decided to call out today,” he says, chuckling to himself. “Good thing you brought up that drive-in thing because I had nothing planned. Let me change and we can go.”

You may be a bit dramatic but you swear you thought the walls were caving in, anxiety causing your heartbeat to spike in rhythm as you tried to subtly pick your jaw off the floor and be casual. “Oh? You didn’t have to do that, dad.”

He doesn’t even bother looking back at you. “Of course I had to, we’ve barely seen each other all summer! Now come on, let’s get going.”

And then he’s disappearing into his bedroom with the click of a door and you’re stuck with the realization that not only are you going to be spending the next two and a half hours in the back of a car with Aaron, but also with your father sitting right next to you.

You’re still staring at the polished wood of your dad’s bedroom door, the heavy weight of Aaron’s eyes on the back of your head. You could already see the amused twist of his mouth, the slight worried furrow in his forehead that would ultimately give him away.

This wasn’t the first time your plans were thwarted by your dad and your inability to plan accordingly, such as when you had to spend the afternoon by the pool in your bikini and not nude like you had initially wanted, but you still felt a bit lousy.

When you finally face him, you were surprised to find him wearing a fond, yet exasperated expression. It melts his usual hardened appearance, making him appear younger and like the man you’ve been messing around with all summer.

He pushes himself off the kitchen counter and approaches you. Your heart thumps erratically in your sternum, something that’s been occurring a lot recently, but you chalk it up to the way Aaron’s sleeves stretch over his biceps or the way the dark red shade of his shirt makes his stomach appear softer.

He quickly leans into you and your heart skips, impossibly thinking he was actually going to kiss you with your father in the same room.

You’re not sure whether you were disappointed or relieved when he’s kissing the crown of your head, brief enough for you to get a taste of his cologne before it’s immediately ripped away from you.

“Go get ready,” he mutters, voice low and soft so there wasn’t any chance for your father to hear him. “We’ll make it work.”

-

Fifteen minutes later, you’re strapped into the backseat of Aaron’s Range Rover, since he has more trunk room than either of your cars, a pile of blankets and snacks on the seat next to you, and watching out the window at the bright lights of the streetlamps as you pull into the parking lot of the theatre.

With the sun setting over the horizon, painting the sky in a picturesque orange and purple hue, came the cooler summer breeze blowing through your rolled down window. The tempting aroma of buttery popcorn and fried dough filled the car as Aaron drove between the numerous rows of cars to find the perfect spot.

You felt on edge. You’ve been nearly silent for the entire duration of the ten-minute drive as they continued to talk about work, as if the entire point of this outing was to definitively not talk about work, yet you didn’t mind.

You found Aaron entirely too distracting today. Every time your father was preoccupied, he was meeting your eyes through the rearview mirror, silently raising an eyebrow whenever you would smile innocently at him.

He knew you were up to something—he was able to read you as soon as you bounded downstairs in that strappy plain white sundress, the lace hem barely brushing your thighs, and smelling like his favorite perfume. You had smiled him just as innocently then too, ignoring the rush of heat that flooded your veins when his eyes darkened and his jaw tightened.

The spot he had pulled the car into was towards the back, close enough where you got a good view of the screen, but secluded enough where you wouldn’t be bothered by the loud concession stand or the group of teenagers laughing several cars over.

You immediately bounced out of the car as soon as it was set in park, arms filled with the numerous blankets you found laying around the house to set up in the backseat. You let Aaron push the backseats down and watch with a grin as he steps away. As smart as they were, neither your dad or Aaron would have the forethought to set the ugly blankets on the bottom and the fluffy and more comfortable blankets on top.

You clamber up into the trunk, sitting right in the middle with your legs splayed out and your sandaled feet hanging over the edge. Although you were secretly glad that Aaron convinced the two of you to take his car for the extra wiggle room, you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.

Aaron climbs in next to you, groaning at the way his knees pop and the way his back isn’t fully supported as much as he would like. Even with how roomy the car’s trunk was, his jean-clad thigh still brushes against your bare one where the hem of your dress has ridden up.

You expect your dad to follow, with similar old man groaning and bones popping, probably even knocking against your shoulder with his hip, yet an exhilarated thrill runs through you when he says, “I’m going to get some popcorn, did you guys want anything?”

You clear your throat and make yourself appear busy by grabbing a spare throw blanket to throw over your bare legs, ducking your head to hide the devilish smile that threatens to form. “Nope, I brought all the salty and sugary snacks I could ever need.”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Aaron says, polite as ever, as if he couldn’t sense your desire to jump his bones at that very second.

Your father shrugs before leaving you two, just as the lights in the parking lot cut off and the only way you were even able to see your hand in front of you was from the giant screen and the glow of the bustling concession stands behind you.

You’re tempted to scold him, remind him what his doctor had said about cutting back on butter, but you honestly couldn’t pass up this opportunity to spend a couple minutes alone with Aaron. It didn’t help your case when you saw how long the concession line was, nearly wrapping around the entire carnival-esque building, so you knew you had more than enough time.

You really were initially planning on actually watching the movie, maybe grabbing his hand to hold underneath a blanket, but he just looked so good in a casual setting and not wearing those unfairly tight suits he often wore whenever he would pick you up outside the house, smelling like dried ink and lukewarm coffee.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Hotch scoots down a bit in his seat, actually relaxing for once, as the movie starts. You wince at the way the music blares, a bit louder than you were comfortable with, and shuffle a bit closer to the furnace that is Aaron, pressing the length of your body against his.

He stiffens. His breath catches when you throw your blanket over his legs, now concealing both of your laps, and your chest brushes against his arm. He can probably tell by now that you decided to forgo a bra.

“Just making sure I don’t hog the blanket,” you say with a smile when he glances at you.

He seems to believe you, not expecting you to pull any funny business when you were surrounded by so many people, as well as your father in the near vicinity.

Which is absolutely silly on his part, considering how often the two of you had hooked up in his car on the side of the road.

You take a deep breath, the smell of butter and the faintest whiff of Aaron’s cologne filling your lungs, before you pull the corner of the throw blanket over your shoulders and place your right hand onto the meat of Aaron’s thigh.

You have to stifle a giggle when he nearly jumps out of the car, head nearly bumping against the roof. You can sense the stern words threatening to come out when he turns to you, something about how you’re in public and how now wasn’t the time on the very tip of his tongue.

Yet you keep your eyes trained on the screen, pretending to be completely enraptured as the opening credits end and transitions to the front of the high school and definitely not being distracted at how perfectly firm his thigh was even through the thick fabric of his jeans.

He doesn’t say anything, maybe assuming that you were just feeling a bit extra touchy-feely like you do when you haven’t seen each other in a couple of days. He would call you needy, but you considered yourself grateful with what you got.

He decidedly does not say anything and turns back to face the screen.

Your heart is racing, blood in your ears nearly drowning out the noises of the people in the parking lot annoyingly reciting each line of the movie one after the other. You shift in your seat, thighs brushing against each other underneath your dress, and you try not to think about why this whole scenario was actually getting you riled up.

You wait a couple more minutes, enough to where you felt Aaron’s thigh slowly relax underneath your palm, before you begin to slowly trail it upwards.

The rough fabric of his jeans against your hand was strangely soothing, warm from the heat of his skin seeping through. The pads of your fingers slide along the inner seam and you allow a manicured nail to scratch against it before gently squeezing your hand around his entire thigh.

You keep your eyes fixed straight ahead; however you’re no longer taking in the movie as you’re too aware of the way Aaron’s breath deepens or the way he imperceptible spreads his thighs apart underneath the blanket.

When your hand reaches his crotch and you feel the very sizable bulge of his half-hard cock straining against his jeans, heat crackles down your spine, adamantly pooling in between your legs. You felt a strange surge of power and experimentally squeeze your hand around the length of him, coaxing a groan that Aaron tries to bite back. Your mouth waters.

He leans down until his lips were barely brushing against the shell of your ear, the low timbre of his velvet voice causing another flare of desire to burst in your chest. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you say, giving him one final squeeze, your thumb briefly brushing against the very tip of his cock. You lay your palm flat against the bulge and wonder if precum has stared leaking through his boxers yet.

“Nothing?” And then it’s his turn to snake his arm underneath the protective guise of the blanket, over your chest, and away from prying eyes to place his own hand on your bare thigh.

Your heart rate kicks up, face suddenly feeling heated in a way you couldn’t blame the summer heat for. Aaron’s hands have always been ridiculously large, with thick fingers and rough skin mottled with endearing age spots. They were one of your favorite things about him, especially when he put them to good use.

Like he is now.

He’s squeezing the flesh of your thigh, causing you to grip the fabric of his jeans at the inseam, breath growing heavier. He doesn’t bother teasing, completely aware of the time restraint and the fact that you were surrounded by a third of the town, and when his fingertips brush against your pussy, he expects to find your favorite pair of light blue lace panties.

When he brushes against your skin instead, he pauses. You inadvertently hold your breath, not so subtly spreading your thighs apart underneath the blanket. Your left knee pokes out from the edge.

“It doesn’t look like nothing since you’re not wearing anything underneath that dress of yours.” And then he’s yanking your thighs further apart and dragging his fingertips along the seam of your pussy. He avoids your throbbing clit and takes his time to barely dip into your dripping entrance before he’s spreading your wetness in between your folds.

You have to bite back a gasp, your grip tightening where you still have a handful of denim. You resist the urge to arch your back into his touch, instead scooting down in your seat so Aaron would be able to effortlessly thrust one of those deliciously thick fingers inside of you. Your sandal dangles precariously off your foot as it hangs over the edge of the trunk.

“It’s hot out…” Your voice sounds weak even to you, your breaths coming out ragged as you attempt to cant your hips up in an effort to get Aaron to touch you where you’re nearly throbbing for him.

He hums before he’s sliding his middle finger inside of you, causing your entire body to jolt and your jaw to fall open. You bring your legs up, planting your feet onto the truck and allowing the blanket still on your lap to shield your… activities from anyone if they decided to stroll by. You squeeze your eyes shut and let your head loll onto Aaron’s sturdy shoulder.

If anyone decided to look over at the two of you, they would assume that you were a couple, albeit an odd one, casually cozying up during a date night at the drive-in movies. There were plenty of couples in the parking lot, the singing and lines being repeated back quieting down as the crowd became enthralled with a movie they’ve seen a hundred of times.

The next song in the movie plays, effectively drowning out the filthy sounds of your pussy as Aaron effortlessly slides another finger inside of you, still narrowly avoiding your clit. You let out a low moan under your breath and Aaron has to shush you.

“You have to be quiet, sweetheart,” he mutters, as if it was the easiest thing in the world and not like you were living out your horniest fantasies with a man old enough to be your father.

That thought, dirty and sinful, causes you to clench around his fingers and for you to bury your face in Aaron’s neck to quiet the wet gasps that threaten to come out of you.

You think Aaron chuckles at your reaction but you can’t even bother to be mad because his pace increases, and the indecent sound of you somehow getting wetter, his palm slapping against your clit and just barely giving you enough stimulation has your thighs trembling.

You thank every God that ever existed that Aaron was left-handed as he steadily thrusts his fingers in and out of you, curling his fingers just so to hit that spot that makes you nearly cry out, but it’s not enough.

You have to muffle your noises against the skin of Aaron’s throat, the strong clean smell of his cologne mixing in with sweat had your mind spinning, stoking at the arousal that was building faster and stronger with each second that passed.

“Aaron…” you whimper, abandoning where you were pathetically attempting to rub his cock through his jeans to take a hold of forearm.

He doesn’t stop. In fact, your grip on him seems to make him go faster, deeper. He tilts his head to press his lips to your forehead and then quietly asks “Are you going to come for me, honey? In front of all these people?”

You whine, shaking your head and burying your face further into him, words catching in your throat and desperately hoping he would know exactly what you needed. 

He makes a faux sympathetic noise. “Your pussy needs a little bit more, doesn’t she?”

To your absolute horror, he slowly takes his fingers out of your pussy and you make a pitiful noise, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes at the utter confusion and annoyance swirling in your chest as you lift your head up from his shoulder.

“Wha—”

He brings his free hand up to your face, glowing with an array of flashing colors from the screen. You’re barely able to discern the dark glint in his eyes, pupils wide and his lips parted as he breathes heavily. “Suck.”

Before you could even think, realize that you’re only a couple feet away from strangers and that any of the people walking back from the concession stand could pass by you, one of them possibly even being your own fucking father, you’re meeting his gaze and obediently parting your lips to let him slide two fingers into your mouth.

You can feel the corners of your lips stretch, accommodating the girth of his fingers, his skin tasting clean with a faint hint of your lavender soap he used before you left and his rough callouses brushing against your tongue. You make sure to swirl your tongue over his fingers sloppily despite knowing you wouldn’t need it, have never needed it, because Aaron was able to have you dripping down your thighs with just one word.

You hollow your cheeks, peering up at him from underneath your eyelashes, and your clit throbs painfully when he wordlessly slides his fingers deeper into your mouth.

When he pulls his hand away, a trail of your saliva follows, connecting your spit-slick mouth to him. The vulgar sight causes your face to heat up.

“Good girl.”

The praise nearly lights you from the inside out, your thighs instinctively parting wider as his wet hand dips underneath the blanket to caress your folds again.

You’re completely drenched, your inner thighs sticky with your arousal, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you were leaving a wet spot on the blankets underneath you.

You pay that no mind, completely unable to, as Aaron easily slides the two fingers that was just in your mouth into your aching pussy with a wet noise. He immediately starts fucking into you, his thumb circling your throbbing clit at a maddeningly steady pace, now focused on pushing you over the edge as soon as possible.

A strangled moan erupts from you, caught off guard at the onslaught of pleasure running hot through your body, and Aaron is immediately tilting down to capture your lips in a kiss.

You’re distantly aware that he hasn’t kissed you at all today, not even while he’s been fingering you in public underneath a blanket, and the revelation nearly causes a rise in unseated annoyance to spark in your chest if it weren’t for the fact that you felt your muscles tensing and your lower belly coiling with your impending orgasm.

His mouth is hungry against yours, tongue sliding into yours as he easily swallows the steady stream of your moans as he fingers you faster, rubs your clit a bit rougher.

When you pull away, chest feeling tight at the lack of oxygen, you manage to let out a high-pitched whine against his lips that you hope understands as your hips roll up to meet his thrusts, not even caring if the lewd wet noises of your pussy was audible over the movie.

“You better come before your dad gets back.”

The low tone of his voice simmers through you as he’s curling his fingers, nearly grinding them into you, and you’re biting your bottom lip to muffle your moan. Your pussy clenches around him, hips stuttering into his thrusts as you come so hard you swear your vision blurs around the edges.

He continues to fuck into you, letting you ride it out, and you have to push his wrist away while your ears were still ringing as your oversensitive clit begins to throb. You felt sluggish and like you’re one second away from melting through the floor of the car, your entire body limp and sated.

You barely wince when he slides his fingers out of you and discreetly wipes your leftover slick onto the blanket you both were sitting on. You lean your head back onto the headrest, tilting slightly away from the warmth of Aaron’s body as you desperately hoped a cool breeze would pick up and magically blow into the trunk of the car and onto your heated face.

Aaron reaches over your body for the forgotten bag of food, rummaging for the bag of salted pretzels he knows you packed because he knows you’re seconds away from begging for a snack. However, him straightening up and twisting his body into yours reminds you of the very sizeable shape of his hard cock visible through the crotch of his jeans.

Embarrassment floods through you as you remember that, despite your initial plan to pay attention to Aaron and tease him, it had totally backfired and you were the one who still got off. Despite him always assuring you not to worry about him, it just didn’t feel right, and plus, you wanted to.

Just like you expected, when you grab the bag of pretzels to toss aside to place your palm on his crotch where he’s still hard, he puts his hand over yours to stop you. “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

You roll your eyes and knock his hand aside. “I want to.”

And then you tuck your legs primly underneath yourself and duck underneath the blanket, situating yourself until you were essentially kneeling over him and your face was merely inches away from the bulge in his jeans.

Aaron makes a strangled noise that you can barely hear over the sound of the movie still playing, but he doesn’t stop you as you’re expertly popping the button of his jeans open and dragging the zipper down. With some shuffling and maneuvering, his jeans and boxers are bunched around his thick thighs and his cock is out, curving against his stomach and flushed an angry red.

The heat of him is palpable, his heady musk stronger now thanks to the blanket over his lap, and you lick your lips, your cunt pulsing from arousal again. When you wrap your hand around him, his cock twitches and you can see Aaron’s hand fisting the edge of the blanket.

You could tell he was on edge, probably surprisingly closer than to he expected from just fingering you until you bit your lip raw and surrounded by a crowd of people. You smile wickedly at the thought that he was getting off to this just as much as you before you’re tilting your chin up and parting your lips over the head of his leaking cock.

You hear a muffled noise, most likely Aaron refraining from groaning out loud, as you open your mouth further to accommodate the girth of him as he slides deeper into you. You squeeze your hand around the base of him as you lower and lower until the head of his cock brushes against the back of your throat, your lips meeting your fist.

Aaron curses quietly, his breathing turning ragged as he tries to keep his hips still so he doesn’t make you gag, letting you take your time despite his own judgements.

You know he was expecting your usual teasing—kitten licks at the head to savor his precum or the flat of your tongue tracing the vein along the underside of his cock. But it must have been over 15 minutes already and, as much as you want to leisurely lick and suck him until you were dripping wet again and your jaw got sore, you’re running out of time.

You unfurl your fist around the base of his cock to place on the bare skin of his thigh and begin to bob your head, rivulets of your drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth and coating him.

He seems to understand because he’s sneaking a hand underneath the blanket to cradle the back of your head, keeping you steady, before he’s lifting his hips up to start fucking into your mouth.

Something simmers at the base of your skull, your eyes fluttering shut, as you let him take control in that seamless way he always does. Submitting to him was always exhilarating, making you feel drunk and like you were a second away from floating out of your body with just one look, one large hand wrapped around your throat.

It happens now as you concentrate on making sure you didn’t gag, trying to open your jaw further so he could continue using your mouth whichever way he wants. The sounds of the movie and the audience singing along filters through your brain and out your ears, the only thing you’re aware of being your harsh breaths and the filthy crude noises of his thick cock hitting the back of your throat.

Aaron grunts, barely audible over the movie, and his hips begin to stutter, his fist clenching and unclenching where he still has a grip on the back of your neck. You swallow around him as best as you could, mentally preparing yourself for the first spurt of his come hitting the back of your throat and wondering if you could get away from sitting on his lap and angling his cock inside of your aching pussy for a little bit.

You don’t hear the sound of the car door opening until Aaron’s grip on the back of your neck tightens, essentially stilling you with your lips still wrapped around his cock.

“Shit, can you believe I got to the front of the line and I forgot my wallet?”

Aaron hums in response, though it sounds strained to you. His muscled thighs are tense, as if anticipating this was the moment that your father would discover his daughter was sleeping around with his best friend by his cock in your mouth.

Your ears burn as you slowly lift yourself off of him, making sure you swallow to refrain from any lewd noises from your mouth. You and Aaron seem to have the same idea as you stay hunched over his lap, hiding out of your dad’s eyeline, the thick blanket covering you.

There are sounds of him rummaging around the seats, even checking the middle console, and then he’s making a triumphant noise and closing the console shut. You’re not exactly sure why his wallet was in the console of Aaron’s car, but there were evidently more important matters as you watched his cock, right in front of your face, soften with each passing second.

“Where’d that girl get to now?”

Aaron clears his throat and you have to bite your lip to hide your smile when his cock twitches. “She had to go to the restroom.”

A sigh. “Well, I better go back and get in line. You sure you don’t want anything, Hotch?”

There’s a tinge of frustration when he speaks again “I’m good, thanks.”

You could almost imagine the noncommittal shrug your dad gives before you hear the slam of the car door being shut and his whistling along to the song on the screen that gradually fades away.

Aaron’s hand finally leaves your neck, silently telling you that the coast was clear. You’re not sure if you’re wanting it back or not, but one glance at his cock, nearly completely soft, has you holding back a sigh.

When you finally sit up, you’re sure you look like a mess. The neckline of your dress was probably pulled down a little too low still, your hair frizzy and tangled from his hands, and your lips swollen and puffy.

However, when Aaron glances at you with a soft expression, the start of a smile tugging at his lips and his thumb coming to swipe at the corner of your mouth, you felt like the prettiest woman in the city.

“I guess we’re done for tonight, huh?” you ask, attempting to pass it off as a joke but your voice sounds weak even to you.

“I’m okay with that,” he says, voice gentle and not like he was trying to hold back his moans merely two minutes ago. He tucks himself back into his jeans and you have to lift the edge of the blanket up to make sure that he had gone fully soft. When he’s done, he studies you, an unreadable glint in his eyes that causes your heart to flip in your chest.

Before you could say something idiotic, something that would disrupt the easygoing nature of your undefined relationship, he raises his arm to rest on the back of the seat. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the slight flex of his bicep and the shine of his fancy watch against his wrist, shamelessly admiring the way it glints underneath the light.

When you tear your gaze away from the sudden filthy thoughts revolving that specific watch, he’s raising an eyebrow at you, and then, “Come here.”

A giddy smile erupts on your face before you could help it. You try to suppress a squeal as you shuffle closer into Aaron’s embrace, letting the warmth of him bleed through his shirt as you press your cheek into his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his middle to intertwine your fingers with your arm that you have curled around his back.

He’s so soft, with his belly rising and falling with each breath and the way he brings his arm down from the back of the seat to rest around your shoulders, pulling you further into him. You’re not sure if the sense of calmness that overcomes you was from the comforting scent of his cologne or the orgasm his fingers just brought you to.

A girly type of excitement fills your chest at the fact that you were cuddling him so publicly, such a rare event that has only happened when he’s come to visit you when out on a case. You know he can see your smile out of the corner of his eye, the way you try to wiggle further into him as if you’re trying to crawl into his skin, but he stays silent. 

The two of you sit in silence and, surprisingly, watch the movie, with you singing along and Aaron shaking his head at you. You know he’s mouthing along to the lyrics, you just can’t quite prove it.

You hear the distinct off-tune whistling from your dad and scramble to put a respectable distance between you and Aaron.

His hand shoots out to grab at your wrist and you ignore the way arousal licks up your spine at the way his fingers easily dwarf yours and how unbearably attractive he is when he leans in to whisper into your ear.

“Maybe you can come over tonight after the movie to finish what you started.”

You bite back a smile, noticing how it wasn’t exactly a question, but rather a concise demand. You also knew that Aaron can be impatient, especially after he didn’t get a chance to finish in your mouth like he wanted to, and that you were most definitely going to pay for it later.

“Yes, sir.”

taglist <3: @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds 

[maeintree]

the crown keeps moving ₊˚⊹ ── l. laufeyson

when the heir to asgard starts pulling away, old tensions resurface. he's not ready. his father doesn’t care. and the crown keeps moving forward, with or without him.

pairing/s: loki x queen!reader (established) warnings: canon divergence (loki becomes king by abdication of thor), heavy dialogue, political intrigue, father-son conflict, royal court drama, legacy angst, arranged marriage, crown tension, jötunn lore, power imbalance, sharp language, emotional hurt/comfort author's note: i've been out of writing for so long because of so much stuff happening and i honestly just stopped because i felt insecure of how i wrote. but now, i really don't care. i hope to whoever this comes up to you, you enjoy it. xx. w/c: 6.4k

This was usually a shot in the dark.

Heimdall couldn’t (or, wouldn’t) find him. That alone said enough.

Your son had never been particularly fond of authority, least of all yours. And with Loki now seated on the throne after a stunning display of diplomacy and deceit that neither you nor the council had managed to fully unravel, your son had become increasingly difficult to track.

The boy was slipping. No, not slipping—choosing.

And now he was here. On Midgard.

You stepped over a gutter, already regretting the decision to wear these so-called boots—thick-soled, clunky things that trapped heat and bent your gait into something unnatural. The jeans itched at the seams. You missed your robes, your leathers. You missed breathing air that wasn’t full of fried meat and synthetic perfume and rubber.

You hated Midgard.

It wasn’t a realm. It was a mess. Everything was buzzing or blinking or yelling. There was no silence. No grace. No reverence for anything except money and men who exploded things for sport.

Maybe you just hated.. New York. 

But your son loved it. Or rather, he loved what he could be here. 

No expectations. No legacy trailing behind him. No one whispering his name like a question mark at the end of a bloodline.

Just a boy with magic in his veins and his father’s grin on his face. Free to disappear into the back rooms of smoke-filled clubs, or charm his way into the penthouses of politicians’ daughters, or start bar fights with rednecks who didn’t know any better.

He wasn’t here to learn. He wasn’t here to grow. He was here to feel. To touch. To indulge. And maybe to have more bastards than you might admit. 

You paused outside a building with red lighting in the windows. Music pulsed faintly from beneath its foundation, bass-heavy, numbing. A line of mortals waited to get inside, their bodies exposed to the night air in scraps of sequins and synthetic fabric. Why do they torture themselves like this? 

You felt eyes on you. The kind of stare that wasn’t admiration or threat, but confusion. You didn’t look like them. Not exactly. Your hair was too neat. Your posture too straight. Your face too still.

You ignored the stares.

He’d be somewhere like this. Not the popular clubs, not the polished, glossy rooftops the Avengers flocked to after a long day of “saving the world.” He’d go underground. Where there were shadows and soft mouths and quick hands. Somewhere he could vanish into sex and smoke and pretend, for a night, that he didn’t come from anything at all.

And the worst part?

You understood.

That’s what made it difficult. You understood the hunger he had, for anonymity, for freedom, for pleasure. For the kind of recklessness Loki had once worn like a cloak.

He was his father’s son.

Which meant he was not safe.

You glanced up.

No signage. No symbols. Just the thump of bass bleeding through brick, and a bouncer standing with arms crossed, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt or run.

You stepped forward, your chin lifting slightly. Composed. Unbothered by the sweat-thick heat rolling from the doors behind him.

“I’m looking for someone,” you said, calm, clipped, exact.

The bouncer didn’t even look up at first. “Yeah? So’s everybody. Keep it movin’, lady.”

You didn’t blink. “He’ll be the only one in there who doesn’t want to be found.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. Like the words hit somewhere deeper than he meant to let show.

He looked up at you fully then, brow raised. “You one of those?” 

You didn’t answer. Just stepped forward.

The bouncer leaned back, gave a low whistle through his teeth.

“Vali’s at the whorehouse,” he muttered, half amused, half pitying. “Good luck with that one.”

The heat hit first—humid, sticky, and loud.

Inside, the place was packed. Bodies everywhere. Sweat in the air. Music so loud it rattled in your chest, something electronic with a pop hook you couldn’t make out over the bass.

Strobe lights flashed hard and fast, cutting across the crowd like searchlights. Everyone was dancing, or grinding, or too drunk to know the difference.

From behind you, someone shouted—

“Hey, why does she get to go in? What about us?”

And somewhere in this chaos, your son was doing exactly what you feared.

Why on earth did you let Loki stay with him again? 

You stared at the clock on the club’s wall like it might start making sense if you glared hard enough.

It didn’t.

Some blinking digital mess of numbers—1:42 apparently—glowed red against fake wood paneling. 

You muttered under your breath, tugged the strap of your ridiculous “watch” one last time, and walked.

The hallway was dim, walls covered in fake velvet. A man at the end—some kind of bouncer—held up a hand. How many “bouncers” does this place need?

“Ma’am, those rooms are—”

You looked him in the eye, already too tired to argue.

He blinked once, stumbled slightly, then stepped aside like he’d changed his mind mid-thought.

You walked past.

The first door you opened, someone shrieked and threw a bottle. The second, there was too much movement to bother explaining. You closed it quickly.

By the time you reached the last room, you already knew.

The air reeked. The bass of some Midgardian music pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat in heat. You didn’t hesitate. No knocking. No warning.

You just turned the handle and walked in.

And there he was.

Váli.

Stretched carelessly across a bed that wasn’t his, like he owned the whole fucking building.

The sheet was tangled loosely around his hips—barely. His torso was exposed, pale skin marbled with shadow where the streetlight bled in through the half-open blinds. Muscle carved sharp across his shoulders, his abdomen lean, his collarbones dusted with faint blue veins like old ink. Scars dotted his left side—quiet things, healed-over and half-forgotten.

His arm was slung across his face, as if the light offended him. One leg hung off the edge of the bed, foot bare, the other bent at the knee. He looked like someone trying not to care.

And failing.

His raven-dark hair was a little longer than the last time you'd seen him. Mussed. A curl clung to his jaw.

Beside him, a girl sat up fast. Mascara smeared under her eyes, mouth still swollen from kissing. The sheet clutched to her chest like it could somehow shield her from the reality walking through the door.

“Who the fuck are you?” she snapped.

You didn’t look at her. You barely even blinked.

You reached—not for a weapon, not yet—but for the thread of seidr beneath your skin. It answered like breath to lungs, like it had been waiting.

The Midgardian clothes disappeared in a shimmer of silver and frost. The turtleneck, the jeans—they folded into nothing. Replaced by your leathers—Asgardian black, panel-stitched and trimmed in deep green, light but regal, sharp at the waist. The vambraces coiled up your arms. The air around you cooled a fraction. 

That felt amazing.

The girl gasped, grabbing her garments.

She didn’t argue. No one ever really did. She scrambled out without shoes.

Silence fell.

Váli finally moved, dragging his arm off his face.

And when he saw you, he blinked once. Not in shock—no, he was never that foolish—but in quiet, biting realization.

“Mother,” he said dryly, voice still sleep-hoarse. “What a surprise.”

You looked at your son. He still hadn’t moved. Just looked and squinted at you like you were interrupting something boring.

“Usually,” you said, stepping closer, “your father is the one who comes to collect you. And yet. Here I am.”

He didn’t reply.

You exhaled, short and sharp. “Thor returned from Vanaheim tonight.”

That got him to sit up, slowly, the sheet gathering around his hips.

“And?” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“And,” you snapped, “Asgard is watching. Everyone is watching. And where is the heir? Where is the prince?”

You gestured around the room. It didn’t need explaining—used glasses, a wine bottle on its side, a discarded bra near the wall.

“Here,” you finished. “Sweating through mortal linen and pretending he’s not some god.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. You kept going.

“There are more than enough brothels in Asgard. If that’s all you came for—fine. We have them. Discreet ones. Ones that don’t smell like damp carpet and desperation.”

He looked up at you, face unreadable. “I didn’t come here for sex.”

You stared at him for a beat.

“Then what?” you asked, voice low. “What is it this time? What exactly is so impossible about being home while your uncle—who hasn’t stepped foot in the golden city in two centuries—is welcomed back like a son? What’s so hard about being present for five hours of your immortal life?”

He looked away.

You stepped closer. “I had to leave a council meeting. I had to lie. And do you want to know the worst part?”

He didn’t respond.

You leaned in. “No one was surprised you weren’t there.”

That landed. His shoulders shifted, eyes falling to the floor.

You straightened. “Get dressed. You’ve got less than an hour. We’re leaving before dawn.”

You turned, hand already on the door.

“Why didn’t Father come?” he asked quietly.

You stopped.

“Because he’s king now,” you said. “And unlike you, he showed up for it.”

The flash of the Bifrost faded behind your heels, and the wind of Asgard hit your face like a balm—clean, thin, cold. A realm that remembered how to breathe properly. Finally.

Heimdall stood at the bridge, hands behind his back, gaze already locked on yours. Too calm. Too unreadable.

“Welcome back, My Queen,” he said, nodding. “And Prince Váli.”

Váli brushed past you in silence, walking ahead with the practiced indifference of someone who knew every eye was on him and chose not to care.

You didn’t follow immediately. You stepped toward Heimdall, kept your voice low, sharp.

“I don’t know what bet you two have,” you said, voice even but unmistakably sharp. “But I am your queen, Heimdall. And the next time my son disappears for two weeks and you conveniently can’t see him? You will tell me where he is.”

Heimdall’s jaw ticked. “It will not happen again, Your Majesty.”

You watched him for a beat longer, until his eyes dropped—just slightly—in guilt.

Then you turned and walked.

The palace doors opened before you like breath held too long. The guards lining the hall immediately dropped to one knee, hands over chests.

“My Queen. Prince Váli.”

The echo of your steps stretched across the floor like a quiet warning. Váli didn’t respond, didn’t even glance at them. You could feel the tension coming off him in waves.

You didn’t break stride. Through the gold doors and into the private dining room.

And there they were.

Loki lounged at the end of the table, a half-finished plate in front of him, sipping something dark from a silver cup. Your daughter—Idunn—sat beside him, legs tucked beneath her, a basket of sewing in her lap. Her fingers moved through green silk like it was second nature.

She looked up first.

“Ah,” she said with a grin. “Come back from Midgard, older brother? Did you have fun?”

Váli stopped walking.

His jaw clenched. “Fuck off.”

“Mind your tone,” you said calmly, without looking at him.

“Not in front of your sister,” Loki added lightly, not bothering to look up from his plate. “We do try to set a baseline of civility in this house.”

Váli ignored both of you, stepping around the table and dragging out a chair farthest from them all. He dropped into it like the weight of the Bifrost still clung to his boots.

Idunn raised a brow. “That bad?”

“Idunn,” you warned.

She held up her hands. “I’m just saying. He looks like he fell in a river.”

“I look fine,” Váli muttered, stabbing a piece of bread off a plate he hadn’t been invited to.

Loki finally looked up.

His eyes flicked to you, then to his son. “Were you difficult?”

Váli didn’t answer.

Loki sighed and set down his cup. “You know, when I vanished, it was at least interesting. You? You vanish and get caught in some back alley with mortals and no shoes on. Where’s the art in that?”

Váli glared at him. “Did you bring me back just to mock me?”

“Mock?” Loki echoed, mockingly. “Never. I’m concerned. That you’ve turned out so—” Loki chuckles “—predictable.”

“Enough.” You cut in before Váli could rise from his chair. “I didn’t drag him back for theatre.”

Loki tilted his head, then looked at Váli again—longer this time. “Thor’s here.”

Váli scoffed. “Great.”

“Try again,” you said.

“Great,” Váli repeated, flatter.

Idunn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Loki smirked, but it faded. “He asked about you. I told him you were… busy.”

“I was,” Váli said dryly. “Midgard’s women don’t seem to get bored.”

“Váli,” you said.

“No, let him talk,” Loki replied, voice still light but eyes harder now. “Let’s see how far the prince can dig.”

Váli shoved his chair back, standing. “You want to scold me? Fine. Scold me. Just stop pretending you care when all you really want is a puppet that behaves.”

Loki stood too, not quickly, but with purpose. “You think I don’t care? I know exactly what it’s like to have no one expect better of you. I’m trying to do better with you.”

“By humiliating me?”

“No,” Loki said, voice low now. “By not letting you rot. By making sure you don’t become what they always said I was.”

There was a pause.

Then Váli muttered, “Too late,” and turned for the door.

You caught his arm before he could pass.

“No.”

He stopped.

Your voice was calm. Quiet. But final.

“You don’t get to walk out. Not from me. Not from your father. Not from this.”

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t pull away either.

“Sit,” you said.

And slowly, he did.

Loki watched you both, then sat again himself. Idunn went back to her sewing like nothing had happened.

The door creaked open before anyone could speak again, and you didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Is that my favorite niece I hear giggling like a brook?” came Thor’s voice, loud and warm and far too cheery for the hour.

He was through the door in seconds—broader than ever, hair longer now and tied back in thick braids that swung over his shoulders as he strode in like a storm in summer. His armor was still dusted with Vanaheim soil, and the faint clink of his greaves echoed through the chamber like a heartbeat.

Idunn squealed with delight.

“Uncle Thor!”

She tossed her embroidery aside and ran to him. He didn’t hesitate—just scooped her into his arms and spun her around once, twice, her laughter ringing through the hall like music. Her feet barely hit the floor before she was tugging something from behind her ear.

“A flower crown,” she grinned, pulling a half-woven loop of pale yellow and green from her sewing basket. “It’s not finished, but you need something ridiculous.”

Thor laughed, huge and unbothered. “I am honored,” he said, bowing low as she placed it over his braids. It sat askew, too small for his head, but he wore it like a circlet of gold.

Loki looked like he might roll his eyes into the next realm.

“Váli,” Thor said, turning now, that same grin stretching across his face. “Still brooding, are we?”

Váli gave a sharp, reluctant nod of respect. “Uncle.”

“Why so uptight, hm?” Thor asked, walking to the table and clapping a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You look like someone told you the ale’s been watered down.”

“It has,” Loki murmured into his cup.

Thor chuckled, then looked between you all. “What’s happened? You all look like a trial just ended.”

You exhaled through your nose and sat again, not quite bothering to hide the weight in your posture. “He disappeared for two weeks on Midgard. Slipped Heimdall’s sight. Ended up in a brothel.”

Váli snapped upright, incredulous. “Really? Tell the entire nine realms, why don’t you?”

Thor’s hand dropped from his shoulder.

Loki sipped again, entirely unfazed. “She did.”

You looked at Váli calmly. “If you wanted it kept quiet, you should’ve kept yourself quiet.”

Idunn had taken her seat again but was watching intently now, the flower thread forgotten in her lap.

Váli muttered under his breath, “I didn’t ask to be dragged back like a criminal.”

“You’re not a criminal,” you said. “You’re a prince. Which makes this worse.”

Thor cleared his throat. “Is... this what I walked into, then?”

“Yes,” Loki said.

“No,” you said at the same time.

Thor blinked, slightly lost. “Should I—?”

“Sit down,” you told him gently.

He obeyed, flower crown still crooked, braid catching in the back of the chair.

Silence fell again—less tense now, more awkward. Thor cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he’s back.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “For now.”

Váli didn’t say anything.

Thor had just finished gnawing on a heel of bread when Loki finally set his cup down.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word. “There’s a feast in the works. The kitchens are full, the halls are being set, and apparently the musicians are rehearsing in the West Courtyard. All in honor of our prodigal brother’s return.”

Thor grinned. “You didn’t have to do that, brother.”

“I did,” Loki said. “It was the only way to keep the council from making you sit through three hours of policy updates on..” A sigh comes out. “Vanaheim trade routes.”

Thor laughed. “A feast is the better torture, I’ll admit.”

Loki tilted his head, that quiet, long-smile playing at his mouth. “A king suits you well, brother.”

“And you,” Thor said, catching his gaze across the table, “wear it more easily than I ever could’ve imagined.”

Loki raised a brow—and flicked a peanut at him.

Thor caught it in his mouth midair without blinking.

Idunn clapped her hands once. “Again!”

Loki ignored her. “We’ll eat in the eastern wing tonight. I want the royal court in green, nothing too stiff. We aren’t parading, we’re celebrating.”

You were already rising from your seat. “I’ll have my attendants meet us in the antechamber.”

Thor stood too. “I should see to my men.”

Idunn followed, pulling the tangled threads of her sewing basket into her arms. “If there’s music, I want to pick it.”

“You may,” Loki said, already waving her off, “if it’s not tragic and doesn’t last nine minutes per movement.”

You touched Váli’s shoulder lightly as you passed. “Come. We need to—”

“No,” Loki said, suddenly.

You stopped mid-step.

“He stays,” Loki said, voice even. “I’d like a moment with my son.”

You met his eyes—calm, unreadable—and after a beat, gave a small nod. Then turned and walked out with the others.

“Come now, my love,” you said gently, reaching for your daughter’s hand. “Shall we braid your hair—”

Your voice softened into a murmur just as the guards closed the door behind you.

Váli didn’t move, slouching in his chair, one leg lazily crossed. “So,” he muttered, “we’re doing the fatherly wisdom thing now?”

Loki didn’t answer.

He turned toward the servants at the edge of the room. “The tea,” he said. “Leave it. Then go.”

The servants bowed, placed the silver tray down, and slipped out without a sound.

The room was quiet again.

Loki took his time, pouring the tea into two matching cups.

“Sit properly,” he said without looking up.

Váli sighed dramatically and leaned forward.

Loki passed him the cup. “Drink it.”

“I’m not poisoned, you know.”

“If I wanted you dead, Váli,” Loki said with a dry smile, “you wouldn’t wake up in a brothel.”

That shut him up—for a second.

Loki settled back in his chair, watching him. “You need to stop stressing your mother out.”

“She’s fine.”

“She is not,” Loki said, sharper now. “And frankly, neither am I.”

Váli scoffed. “It was two weeks. I’m not a child.”

“No,” Loki agreed, “you are not. You are a prince. And despite your best efforts to behave like a stray cat with a drinking habit, you are being watched.”

Váli drank his tea, not looking at him. “Then maybe stop watching.”

“I don’t watch because I have to,” Loki said. “I watch because I know. I know what it’s like to vanish into the underbelly of a realm that doesn’t love you. I know what it’s like to think that pleasure will fill the void. But you are not me. You were raised in a palace, by two parents who did not lie about where you came from.”

“Must be nice,” Váli muttered.

“It was meant to be,” Loki said, more quiet now. “But you’ve taken that gift and twisted it into entitlement. If you want to run, then run. But do not expect silence when you return.”

Váli tapped the rim of his cup with his nail. “So, what, this is a royal guilt trip?”

“This is a royal warning,” Loki said. “You are not a boy anymore. If you want to disappear, I will let you. But next time you crawl back, do not expect your mother to find you before I do.”

Váli glanced up at that.

Loki leaned forward slightly.

“Do not think me soft, simply because I became a better man than the one who made me.”

Silence. The kind that weighed.

Váli finally looked down, quieter now. “It wasn’t just for fun.”

Loki didn’t blink. “What was it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Váli admitted. “I felt... restless. Like everything here is already decided for me. And Midgard... doesn’t care.”

“No,” Loki said, “it doesn’t. And that is not freedom. That is apathy.”

Váli didn’t respond.

Loki stood.

“We feast tonight,” he said, turning toward the window. “Show up like a prince, or don’t show up at all.”

He paused. “And cut your hair. You’re starting to look like your uncle.”

The feast was already underway when Váli reentered the great hall.

He stood in the archway for a moment, newly shorn hair brushing just under his ears, still damp from a rushed rinse. He was in his court tunic—green, like his father’s—and his boots had actually been polished. He looked younger without the length. Less wild. But also less certain of himself.

You spotted him instantly.

And your mouth tightened.

“What did you do to your hair?”

He walked past you without answering.

You didn’t let him get far. “Váli.”

He stopped, shoulders raised slightly like he already regretted coming back.

You stepped in front of him. “You didn’t need to listen to him. It was a jest.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

You looked at him harder. “You are not here to mirror anyone, least of all to prove something.”

“I’m here,” he said simply, “and I’m dressed. Isn’t that enough?”

He walked off before you could reply.

Behind you, the great doors thundered open again, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Loki entered in his full regalia—robes cut in black and green, embroidered with gold threads so fine they caught the firelight like stars. His hair, usually left loose past his shoulders, was pulled back now into a neat knot, sharp and deliberate. The crown rested just above the bun, black metal woven with emerald detailing, not overly ornate, but unmistakable.

A king’s crown.

You stared at him from across the hall.

He walked toward you slowly, face calm, the weight of the room moving with him like gravity. Everyone was watching. Fandral, Volstagg, and the rest were already halfway into their cups, roaring about boar and song, but Loki's eyes were only on you.

“You let him cut it?” you asked quietly when he reached you.

“It was warm,” he said simply. “And I thought it might be nice to see his ears again.”

You stared at him.

“Don’t encourage him,” you said under your breath, glancing toward Váli across the room.

“I told him to cut it, not butcher it,” Loki muttered back, dry. “He took it as a divine command.”

You shook your head. “You are—”

“—remarkably attractive this evening?” he offered, smiling sideways.

You opened your mouth, ready to scold, but the look in his eyes made it falter. He wasn’t teasing—not entirely. The compliment was quiet, meant only for you.

Your gown shimmered in the torchlight—deep green velvet, your hair wound up in thin braids woven through with small silver fastenings. You’d worn your formal cuffs, too—symbols of your house, of your station. You looked every bit the queen you didn’t always have time to be.

Loki reached for your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “You are... breathtaking.”

Before you could respond, Idunn reappeared between you.

“Ugh,” she said loudly. “Do you two have to be like this in public?”

You gave her a pointed look. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You should’ve stayed seated until—”

But she was already gone—darting off toward Thor, who caught her mid-run and swung her into the air again like she weighed nothing.

Loki let out a sigh through his nose. “At least one of our children knows how to enjoy a party.”

You turned toward Váli.

He hadn’t moved.

He sat near the end of the long table, posture too straight, fingers locked loosely around a goblet he hadn’t touched. Around him, Fandral was laughing loudly, red-faced, throwing back more ale while regaling someone with a tale that probably wasn’t true. Across from him, Hogun was nodding along, uninterested but polite.

Váli looked like he wasn’t even in the room.

You touched Loki’s arm. “He’s not well.”

“I know.”

“He’s trying.”

“I know that, too.”

“You could—”

“I am trying,” Loki said quietly, eyes still on him. “More than anyone ever tried for me.”

You both watched him for a moment longer.

Then Loki turned to the crowd, raised a hand, and the music swelled.

“Eat, drink, sing,” he called, voice carrying across the stone and silk. “Tonight, we are together. And that alone is reason to celebrate.”

The cheers answered back instantly, mugs raised and voices loud.

But Váli didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, while the world turned and the hall roared with life around him.

The hall outside your chambers was quiet now. The feast had died down hours ago. Even the laughter from the guards had faded into soft murmurs and echoing footsteps. It was the kind of silence you only got after wine, music, and exhaustion had finally let go of the palace.

Inside, Idunn was already fast asleep—curled up across the wide settee with one arm dangling off the edge, still half in her formal gown, her hair coming undone in tangled braids. You tucked a blanket around her shoulders, brushed a strand off her cheek.

“She didn’t even try,” you muttered, softly amused.

“She never does,” came Loki’s voice behind you. “Just like her mother.”

You left the room quiet, stepping into the adjoining chambers, where the wind from the open balcony fluttered through sheer curtains.

Váli stood outside alone, leaning on the edge of the stone balustrade, the dark sky washing his face pale blue. He wasn’t moving. Not in the way someone watched stars or took in the view. He was just there. Still. Contained.

You didn’t call to him.

You let him have it—whatever silence he needed.

You crossed to the opposite side of the room, into the cool air, standing near the open window. The sky stretched endlessly in front of you. Silver clouds. Thin stars.

The fabric of your nightgown shifted as Loki came up behind you, quiet as always. His hands slipped around your waist before you heard him speak. The way he touched you was slow—deliberate. Not rushed. Not playful. Familiar.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into the curve of your shoulder. “Gods, I’ve been so busy.”

You felt his lips graze your skin—your shoulder, then up the side of your neck. His breath warmed your jaw.

“So busy,” he whispered. “From my queen.”

His hand slid lower, over the soft folds of your gown and down toward your thigh.

You reached back to stop him—gently—and turned your head just enough to catch his lips in a quiet, searching kiss.

When you pulled away, you kept your voice low.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

Loki rested his forehead against yours.

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

“Thor spoke with me after the feast,” he said. “Vanaheim is... getting louder. Their nobles want assurance. One daughter. Eight brothers. No marriage alliance. It’s starting to look like an insult.”

You nodded once.

“And how exactly do we explain giving up our daughter to settle a kingdom’s temper?”

Loki drew in a slow breath. “We don’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“We shift focus.”

You stiffened slightly, pulling back enough to look at him.

He hesitated.

Then: “Váli.”

“No,” you said immediately, stepping away from his arms. “No. Loki, no.”

“Just listen—”

“He won’t do it,” you said. “He won’t.”

“He might.”

“He won’t.”

Loki’s voice stayed calm. “They’re asking for strength. They’ll respect bloodline, not temperament. And he’s still—”

“He’s barely holding together now,” you snapped. “You want to throw him into a marriage with a woman he doesn’t know, to keep Vanaheim calm? He can barely be in the same room with Thor without looking like he wants to disappear.”

“I know that,” Loki said. “But if it’s not him—”

“It’s not Idunn,” you said sharply, then quieter. “She’s too young. And too... her. She doesn’t know how to navigate court. She still talks to her embroidery, and Thor.."

“I know,” Loki said again, slower this time. “Which is why it has to be Váli.”

You exhaled, hard.

“And what happens when he finds out we’ve been discussing it without him?”

“He’ll hate it,” Loki said simply.

You turned to him. “And you’re fine with that?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m king. I don’t have the luxury of waiting for everyone to feel ready.”

The wind pushed against the curtains again.

Out on the balcony, Váli hadn’t moved.

“He’s not going to agree to this,” you said. “You know that.”

Loki walked toward you again, quieter now.

“He doesn’t have to agree,” he said. “He just has to show up.”

You stared at him for a long time.

Then whispered, “You sound like your father.”

Loki flinched. It wasn’t a wound, but it hit.

“I’m trying not to be,” he said softly. “I’m trying.”

You looked away again, out into the sky. The stars were still there. Distant. Quiet.

“How long do we have?”

“A week,” he said. “Maybe less.”

You exhaled.

And then, more quietly: “He’ll never forgive us.”

Loki stepped beside you, hand resting lightly against your back.

“No,” he said. “But maybe he’ll survive it.”

The council chamber was colder in the morning.

No fire. No wine. No servants. No distractions.

Just the two of you, adding to one. Who is currently late.

You stood near the long table, dressed in muted green court robes, your hands folded calmly even as your jaw clenched.

Loki sat at the head, crown already in place, dark robes tailored sharp as glass. His expression was unreadable. Controlled. As always.

The door opened with a dull thud.

Váli entered with slow steps, still tugging on the sleeve of his tunic. His jaw was tight, eyes a little bloodshot. He strided in confidently.

“Really?” he muttered, glancing around. “The council chamber? This feels dramatic.”

“Sit,” Loki said.

“I’d rather stand,” Váli replied without pause.

Loki didn’t blink. “It wasn’t a request.”

Váli gave a half-laugh, dry. “Oh, we’re doing that today.”

You took a breath, stepping forward slightly. “We brought you here because this isn’t something to discuss in front of others. This isn’t—”

“Let me guess,” Váli cut in. “Some realm needs a favor, some old king has a daughter, and now I’m the solution. I marry her, there’s a feast, some empty promises, and everyone’s happy.”

He continues. "Isn't this Idunn's job?"

"Do not speak ill of your sister, Váli." Loki grunts.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

That was enough.

He laughed once—ugly. Bitter.

“Oh, you’re kidding,” he said. “That’s really it? That’s why you came to Midgard yourself? Not because I was missing. Not because I could’ve been dead in a ditch. You dragged me out of that realm because I’ve got just the right face to whore out for political stability?”

“Watch your tongue,” Loki said sharply.

But Váli didn’t stop.

“No wonder you didn’t send guards,” he spat. “Would’ve been too cold. And you—” he turned to you suddenly, voice rising, “you woke me like you missed me. Like you gave a shit. The whole time, this was it?”

You took a step toward him. “Váli, that is enough—”

“No, it’s not,” he shouted. “Because this is a fucking pattern. I vanish for two weeks and you show up when it’s convenient. You don’t come to find me. You come to use me.”

“You will not speak to her that way,” Loki said, rising to his feet.

Váli turned on him. “Why not? You do.”

The words hit.

Your breath caught. Loki’s face didn’t change—but something shifted in the air.

“What did you say?” he said, voice low, tight.

“You treat her like she’s a piece of this fucking palace,” Váli snapped. “Something that serves a purpose. Like me. Like Idunn. You think that crown gives you the right to decide where we go, who we become—”

“I am your king,” Loki roared, stepping forward now, voice thunder through stone. “And she is your queen. You will not speak to us this way.”

Váli didn’t back down.

“No,” he growled. “You’re my father, and you barely know how to be that. You sit on that throne and pretend this family’s not breaking while you talk about strategy and bloodlines and positioning like it’s not tearing everyone apart.”

“You are not a victim,” Loki snapped, voice edged and rising. “You are not some lost boy wandering the woods, Váli. You are a prince. Spoken of in halls you’ve never even seen. You carry a name carved in realms beyond this one. Do you really believe this life is a punishment?”

Váli didn’t flinch. His jaw clenched. “It’s a fucking cage.”

Loki’s gaze turned cold. “It is a birthright.”

“Then you can have it,” Váli shouted, stepping forward, fire catching in his chest. “You wanted it so badly, didn’t you? The crown, the throne, the halls and titles—you burned the world for it. So take mine. Add it to yours. Wear both.”

Loki froze. For half a breath, the room stilled with him.

Then, lower—quieter, but far more dangerous:

“You think I wanted this?” he said. “Do not speak of crowns as if they are gifts. I bled for what I have. I was cast out for it. Mocked. Used.”

Váli shook his head, eyes sharp. “And now you do the same to me.”

“I am your father.”

“Then listen to me.”

They stood across from each other, fire and frost locked between them.

Loki’s stare didn’t break.

But Váli pressed forward, bitter now, his voice thinner, tighter: “You don’t listen. You never have. You speak like a king, but you hear nothing. You sit on a throne you once called a lie—and now you pass it on to me like it’s some kind of honor.”

“I am trying,” Loki said, low and steady, “to prepare you for what comes next.”

“No,” Váli cut in. “You’re preparing me to be you.”

There was a pause. Thick. Loaded.

And then—sharp and deliberate:

“You’re a coward.”

The word hit like iron.

Loki didn’t react. Not outwardly. Not a twitch. But behind his eyes, something shuttered. Quietly, violently.

Váli wasn’t finished.

“You always have been,” he said. “You ran from Odin. You lied to Mother." He chuckles bitterly, gesturing to you.

"You tore through realms because you couldn’t bear being smaller than Thor. You want me to inherit a throne, but the truth is—” he laughed once, bitter and breathless, “—you’ve never worn one without looking like it might swallow you whole.”

Still, Loki didn’t yell. Didn’t rise. He turned, slowly, walking to the tall window lining the council chamber, the silence deafening in his wake.

“I came here to speak with my son,” he said at last, voice calm and terrifying. “Instead I found a boy pretending to be a man.”

Váli’s chest heaved. His hands were clenched. But he didn’t speak.

And Loki didn’t turn.

“Leave, if that’s what you want.”

Silence.

“Go ahead.”

But Váli didn’t move.

Not yet.

That was when you stepped between them. Quiet. Controlled. But your voice shook—just enough to give yourself away.

“Váli,” you said. “Please.”

He looked at you.

And for just a moment, something cracked. Guilt flashed across his face—brief, aching. But it vanished just as fast.

“I’m not marrying some stranger because Vanaheim wants to play a kingdom,” he said. “I’m not putting on a smile and waving like this is normal. I won’t do it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Loki said—still facing the window. Cold now. Absolute.

Váli blinked. “What?”

Loki turned back, slowly. “You will marry the girl they’ve chosen. You will secure the peace. And you will do it with pride.”

“I said no.”

“And I said,” Loki stepped forward, voice low, “you don’t have a choice.”

Váli’s eyes burned. “Then you’re not my father.”

A beat passed.

Loki’s face didn’t move, but his voice dropped.

“No,” he said. “Right now—I’m not.”

And with that, he sat again. No flourish. No order. Just one glance—dismissive, surgical.

It hit harder than any raised voice could have.

Váli looked at you again. One last time. There was something pleading in his eyes—like he was daring you to stop this. To choose.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

And then—he turned. And walked out.

The chamber doors closed behind him with a sound that echoed like finality.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Neither did Loki.

He sat back in the chair, still crowned, still composed—but his hand flexed slightly against the polished wood of the table, like it took everything in him not to shatter something.

You crossed the space between you, slow and steady.

When you reached him, you didn’t speak. You didn’t accuse.

You just reached up, gently, and cupped his face.

He flinched—just slightly. Not from you. But from what he was holding back.

You took his face in both hands.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

He did.

And then, softly: “Is this really the right choice? Are you sure?”

There was a pause.

And Loki, steady, breathing through his nose, said: “Yes.”

You closed your eyes.

Exhaled.

And dropped your hands.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t plead. You stepped back.

One, two paces.

Then turned.

And left.

The great doors opened again, spilling in the cool Asgardian air. Your gown brushed the marble. Your footsteps echoed.

Behind you, Loki remained seated.

Crowned. Composed.

Alone.

i love the thought of loki being a stressed out king with kids. :)

[maeintree]

spencer is for the girlies who want a cutesy nerdy boy who will beg for you

& hotch is for the girlies who want a cold yet caring man who will make you beg for him

[maeintree]

me if being obsessed with older men was illegal

[maeintree]

not the desperate type

pairing: aaron hotchner/neighbor!reader genre: smut!! w.c. 5.7k a/n: ty to @minswriting for not only enabling me, but also being so supportive, ily <3

summary: The apartment across from Hotch's has been empty for as long as he can remember. And then you move in, and you always seem to forget to close your blinds.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, perv!hotch so kinda creepy, voyeurism/exhibitionism, m & f masturbation, sex toys, hotch pov, jack mention

read below or on ao3 here <3

It was a warm spring day when Hotch glances out his bedroom window and spots you in the apartment across from his.

You’ve clearly just moved in, as you were struggling with a large cardboard box in your arms and had sweat dripping down the side of your face that he could see even from here.

He didn’t pay you any mind, instead just closing the blinds so he could catch up on some well-deserved sleep after a week-long case.

The next day, when he comes home close to midnight and Jack was already asleep, he had forgotten about you completely. When he closed his bedroom door to get ready for bed and noticed your light was on from the window, he felt a ripple of surprise.

The apartment across from his has been empty for as long as he’s lived there, which was why he always left the blinds partially open because he knew there was a slim chance of someone peering in. He’s gotten used to opening his bedroom window and seeing nothing but the brick wall of the neighboring apartment complex and plastic shutters.

He makes a mental note to make sure he shuts his blinds before he leaves for work every day, and when he approaches his window to do just that, he frowns.

You have your bedroom strangely laid out, which Hotch only notices because your bed was placed right in the middle of the room facing the window, thus in his direct eyeline. He wonders why you chose to do that and how impractical it was, but then he notices you.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the blue screen illuminating your features. You’re pretty, at least 20 years younger than him, and you’re wearing pajama shorts that were riding up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs from where Hotch was standing, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses because he could clearly see your nipples poking through the fabric, pebbling from your air-conditioned room.

Something unfamiliar stirs in the pit of Hotch’s stomach, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth into nothing at the fierce intensity of it. His gaze doesn’t stray from your figure, memorizing the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a delicate touch and the way your smile transforms your face into something softer, more innocent.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears a ding from his phone, most likely Garcia miserably informing him of a new case via text laden with colorful emojis and frowny faces. When he reaches over to pick up his suit jacket that he had just tossed haphazardly onto a dresser, he ignores the uncomfortable tightening of his slacks, his half-hard dick pressing against the zipper.

He spares another glance out his window and through yours and is rattled with disappointment when your blinds are closed, only allowing shreds of your golden bedroom lamp to cut through the darkness of the alley.

Hotch frowns, frustration curling up his spine, before he reaches over to finally close his own blinds and head back to the office.

He can’t stop thinking about the peak of your cleavage he caught or the huff of a laugh he could almost imagine the entire flight to Kansas.

-

The first time he actually meets you, face to face, was less than a five-minute interaction.

Not only was it pouring rain, thus increasing his commute time to the office by at least 20 minutes, but his coffee machine broke on him this morning, dying with a pathetic spluttering noise. He wasn’t going to have time to stop somewhere so he’s going to have to put up with the shitty office coffee and he ran out of clean socks because he hadn’t had the chance to do laundry yet.

So, he’s annoyed—frustration blooming hot in his chest and causing him to grind his molars, a horrible habit he’s been trying to quit.

When he steps out of his apartment complex to head around the building to the garage, he sees you.

You’re standing under the awning in front of your building. You’re dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and a white blouse, hair and makeup impeccably done. You’re chewing on your lip, glancing up at the street and down at your phone intermittently. He assumes you’re about to head out to your job or, most likely, a job interview since you’ve just only moved here, and you’re waiting for your ride.

His legs move of his own accord, drawn in by the soft drape of your hair across your shoulder and ignoring the nagging text from Rossi, until he’s standing a respectable 3 feet away from you.

“Do you need a ride?”

You jump, startled, and when you meet his gaze, Hotch can detect the faint swirl of recognition.

From this distance, he can smell the light and sweet notes of your perfume. He can see the swell of your breasts under your blouse, even a peak of a modest nude bra that has him clenching his fist around his umbrella. The pencil skirt clings to you, showcasing your curves and the long line of your legs. There’s a stay droplet of rain on your collarbone that you haven’t noticed yet and Hotch quickly tucks away the urge to swipe it away for you.

“Oh,” you blink at him, eyes wide. “No thank you, I’m just waiting for my Lyft.”

Hotch nods, about to turn away with the memory of that water droplet traveling between the valley of your breasts, when you surprise him.

“You live in the other building, right? Window facing mine with a cute little boy with blonde hair?”

The mention of Jack should raise alarms for him, yet instead, he’s only a little curious, mostly just pleased that he’s able to continue talking to you and learn more about you. Who cares if he was a little late?

“Yes, that’s my son, Jack. You can’t hear him yelling all the way from your apartment, can you?”

You laugh, a light tinkling noise, and it does nothing to quell the sudden burst of affection and want in Hotch’s chest. Your eyes crinkle, one of your hands lifting to cover your mouth, and he resists the urge to frown at not being able to see the full radiant display of your smile. “No, no, I’ve just seen him running around during the day when your blinds are open.”

A subtle thrill runs up Hotch’s spine at that, realizing that you’ve been able to peer into his room and into his home the same way that he has been doing to you. He wonders whether you’ve been checking out your window throughout the day, hoping to get a glimpse of him like he does before he leaves for the day or comes back home.

He gets a better chance at seeing you once he gets home, the earlier the better. Half of the time, your blinds are closed, and Hotch has to go to bed with disappointment sunken deep into his bones.

Hotch huffs a laugh, secretly glad that he hasn’t been caught yet. “I’m sorry if he’s distracting. I should probably close the blinds before I leave anyway.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind.” You smile, soft and warm and definitely not something Hotch necessarily believes he deserves. All the stress and hurriedness from this morning melts away, leaving him with a distinctive feeling of possessiveness in his chest.

Before Hotch can even formulate a response, one that did not expose the way his thoughts fixate on you nearly every waking second, a car pulls up to the curb.

You give him another smile, smaller and nearly regretful, but he doesn’t miss the slow onceover you give him or the spark of intrigue in your gaze. “That’s my ride. See you around.”

Heat runs through Hotch’s body at that, something wild clawing its way up his throat that he had been trying to suppress for years. He clenches his fist where he’s still holding his umbrella over himself, as if foolishly hopeful that you were going to take him up on his offer to drive you to wherever you needed to go, maybe even taking the long way since you were likely new to the city just so your perfume could take it’s time to seep into the upholstery.

He hasn’t been with another woman in months, but he likes to think he knows when another woman was flirting with him, even someone as young and ambitious as you.

He watches the way your skirt rides up your thigh when you climb into the car, the polite smile you give to the driver, and the little wave you give Hotch before you shut the door.

There was something fascinating about you, piquing his interest in a way that had him itching for the day to be over, just so he could get a glimpse of you through his window before bed.

-

The next few weeks pass slowly. At least, when it comes to you.

There had been back-to-back cases, all local and blending together where Hotch wasn’t even sure when he had slept. It had felt like he was coming home to his bed, closing his eyes for three seconds, and then back on his feet and back at the office. He had to deal with the local cops being horribly ignorant, the unsub being frustratingly smarter than expected, and the precinct coffee being decidedly lukewarm.

The only reprieve he had was coming home late, exhaustion grinding down on his bones, and catching you across the way through his window.

Sometimes your blinds would already be drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and raw disappointment would make him frown and keep him from falling asleep right away. He’d wonder if you were getting ready for bed or if you had fallen asleep with the TV on, hair splayed out on your pillow and the strap of your tank top slipping down your shoulders.

Most of the time, when he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he had saw you. Laptop placed in your lap or off to the side, you’d be fiddling on your phone and not paying attention to whatever was on the screen. Sometimes, you’d be sitting at your desk, placed by your bed, so Hotch was able to see the way you swung your legs from your pink desk chair and the furrow in your brow as you chewed on a pencil while pouring over a notebook. Maybe you were in school? Or this was something related to your job, or even something you did for fun?

Hotch thinks he would be able to watch you all day and not get bored; drinking in the way you’d pick at your nails and the methodical way you applied your chapstick nearly every hour. You liked to wear baggy clothes in the comfort of your apartment, several sizes too large and muted in color. You liked to have a cup of tea before bed and you always left the mug until the morning, too comfortable to get out of bed.

Tonight, however, you were decidedly not home.

Hotch furrows his brow, checking his watch again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It was late, past midnight, and you still weren’t home yet.

He tries not to let it bother him—you were a grown woman with a career and it was a Friday night. Maybe you were still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

Maybe you were out on a date.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and molten jealousy flaring in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows it’s unreasonable, because he barely knows you. He’s lived across from you for several months now and you’ve only exchanged a handful of words.

He somehow has been able to run into you at least twice a week while he’s heading out in the morning. You’re always standing out in front of your building, waiting for your ride, and the way your smile lights up your face whenever you catch him out the door has Hotch nearly begging for you to let him drive you to work every time.

He never had the chance to talk to you besides a quick “Good morning,” to which you always cheerily responded with “Hope you have a good day!” and a little wave.

He barely knows you, but the possibility that you were on a date with someone else was almost unbearable.

Your date wouldn’t know that you liked to fold yourself up in your desk chair to get comfortable, or that you always made sure to pat what looked like a childhood stuffed bear on your nightstand before turning off your lamp, or even that you liked to lay in bed for 15 minutes after getting home from work to do nothing besides stare at the ceiling.

Hotch attempts to continue his nightly routine, hoping the annoying weight of his jealousy would eventually dissipate before he went to bed.

He’s debating staying up a bit later to catch up on some paperwork, the adrenaline and the coffee he had earlier this evening still thrumming through his veins, when your bedroom light comes on.

Eyes immediately drawn through his blinds and into the familiar gold light of your bedroom, that jealousy flares hot again when he notices you kicking off your heels, wearing a short dress that seemed to hug every soft curve of your body.

So you were on a date.

Not a very good date, Hotch assumes, by the way you toss your heels aside a little harder than necessary or the way your bare shoulders are tense, barely relaxing as you heave out a sigh that he can almost hear from here.

Hotch pauses from where he was about to grab his stack of files he threw on his bed, frozen on the spot as he watches you mutter to yourself. You’re rolling your eyes, throwing your hands up and shaking your head, starting to take out your earrings.

Your hair is carefully done and makeup absolutely pristine, visible even from Hotch’s place at his window. Hotch can tell you’re annoyed that it’s all gone to waste as you pull your hair up, fidgeting in your tight dress.

And then you’re shimmying out of it, exposing a delicate lavender bra and matching panties. They’re lacey, hugging your hips and the slopes of your breasts, nearly sheer and at risk of exposing the peak of your nipples. The sudden exposure of your thighs and your stomach has Hotch reeling, breath hitching and reaching out to grasp at the edge of the windowsill as he’s hit with an onslaught of all-consuming desire while all the blood in his head travels south.

You bend over to pick your dress up from the floor and throw it in the overflowing hamper in the corner of the room. His gaze is immediately drawn to your ass, suddenly imagining having you bent over while he grabs at your hips to pull you on and off his cock, and his slacks tighten impossibly more.

Hotch, realizing that he may be staring for too long and too obviously, tears his gaze away from your window to fixate on the pile of papers on his bed. The sound of blood rushing through his ears is deafening as he tries to count backwards from 100 or imagine the details of the crime scene from the other day—anything in an effort to drive away the image of your tits spilling out of your bra that’s somehow already been seared into his brain.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut to ignore the alluring glow of your light spilling into his bedroom, pinching at the bridge of his nose, before his breathing has steadied, his pants significantly more comfortable than before.

He swallows, throat dry, and hopes that working through his case notes for the next two hours and examining crime scene photos will bury the sinful thoughts he has of you.

When he peeks out of the corner of his eye out his window before stepping out of his bedroom, he notices your blinds have been drawn and the light was off. Hotch ignores the flare of exhilaration at not getting caught once again.

There’s no harm in looking, right?

-

The next time he catches you, he’s not so lucky.

Another draining case and another night of Hotch coming home late into the evening, it was too late to pick Jack up from Jessica’s house.

There was a pounding headache digging behind his eyes, causing him to clench his jaw harder with each step he took as he unlocks his front door. His stomach growled, mouth feeling spectacularly dry, and Hotch wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with his clothes still on, if it meant that he could get two more minutes of sleep.

The visceral image of you in that matching lingerie set that you so cleverly hid underneath your dress and the soft expanse of your thighs has been imprinted behind his eyelids for weeks. The swell of your tits encased in your lacey bra and the curve of your throat just begging to be marked had been haunting him nearly every second.

He had tried so hard to resist when his thoughts wandered to you while he showered or before falling asleep, cock swelling just at the thought of you peering up at him from his bed.

It only took one day for him to give in—wrapping a reluctant hand around his throbbing cock and fucking into his fist until he came embarrassingly fast with a choked groan, watching the way his come swirled down the drain while something akin to shame snaked its way into his brain.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He hadn’t had the chance to see you since then, not even outside the front of your building in the mornings. Hotch tried not to let it affect his day, his routine that he didn’t even realize he had been thrown off, but he found himself imagining your soft smile and sweet perfume to tide him over until he came home.

He’s sliding off his suit jacket to throw over his dresser and glances out his window, now as much of an instinct as breathing.

He heaves a sigh of relief, the stress headache prodding into his temple gradually simmering away, when he notices you already tucked into bed, book in hand. The golden glow from your lamp illuminates your features and Hotch is able to discern the sleepy droop of your eyes and the stifled yawn from this distance.

He doesn’t recognize the cover and can’t read the title despite it being blazed in bold letters; however, he assumes that it wasn’t very riveting based on the way you’ve been stuck on the same page for the past two minutes. Hotch could tell that you were about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, and the possibility of seeing you asleep, unguarded so he could watch you without risk of being caught, has something warm settling in his chest.

He briefly turns away to lock his gun and badge in the closet safe, and when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air rushing out of his lungs in an instant.

You’ve tossed your novel aside, placed haphazardly on your nightstand, and you’ve thrown the covers back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, having had forgone shorts this late into the night.

From where Hotch was standing, he had a clear view of the way your blush pink panties melded to your pussy, a wet spot already forming in the center. Your head was thrown back, lips parted as you let out a noise, and Hotch swears he could almost hear the breathy moan you make if he strains his ears hard enough.

He should look away—he needs to look away. You don’t know he’s watching you pinch your nipple, letting it harden through the fabric underneath your fumbling fingers, while his slacks grow inexplicably tighter and his breath stutters.

But you’re just so pretty—eyelashes fluttering as you move to your other breast to continue the same motions, brows furrowed as you try to chase that pleasure undoubtedly thrumming up your spine.

Hotch lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides in an effort to keep himself from giving in and wrapping a hand around himself, despite the fact that watching you touch yourself was a wet dream come true.

Were you reading a dirty novel and got too worked up? Or were you watching something on your phone earlier and needed some overdue relief?

He watches your chest dip and rise, breath growing heavier, as both of your hands trace light patterns down your sides before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing them randomly on the floor.

He suddenly imagines what he would do to you if he was there—leaving marks on your neck until you were whimpering or laving and playing with your nipples until you begged him for more. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket while at the office and still detecting your slick on the fabric, and having to bite his bottom lip in the bathroom stall as he brought himself off with your panties wrapped around his aching cock.

You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead sliding the straps off your shoulders and tugging them down until your breasts were freed, fabric pooling around your abdomen.

And now you’re completely bare for Hotch to see—nipples tugged into stiff peaks, stomach tensing underneath your hand as you trail down to squeeze at the flesh of your thigh, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening cunt.

“Fuck…” he mutters, heaving a frustrated sigh as he reluctantly palms his erection through his slacks. He groans at the instant relief, hoping that it would tide him over until later tonight, when you’re done touching yourself so he can take care of himself in the shower.

The front of his slacks is already damp, precum leaking from his head and seeping through the fabric, and the rough glide against the tip of his cock has his chest feeling hollowed out as he imagines your hand. You’d be on your knees, peering up at him underneath those long eyelashes, mouth parted and begging to taste him.

Hotch watches intently as your fingers leave the apex of your thighs where you were raking your nails down your skin to finally your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your own slick around, making sure to avoid your puffy clit.

He licks his lips, mouth suddenly watering, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and worshipped the way it deserves.

He could give you that—sucking on your clit and tonguing at your entrance until your fingers card through his hair to tug him closer, grinding against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and come over and over with a strangled cry. He thinks he could be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever you wanted.

He knows you’d taste delicious, heavenly, just by admiring the shine of your fingers as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Your hips cant up then, no doubt sensitive from your brief teasing, while your free hand comes up to squeeze your breast.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on the familiar ecstasy that only your own fingers could elicit, and Hotch feels a little less guilty when he hesitantly undoes his belt and unbuttons his slacks to slide a warm hand to wrap around his aching cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He lets out a throaty groan, heart racing, as he starts up a lazy rhythm up and down his cock, the leaking head continuing to rub against the damp fabric of his boxers.

He has to squeeze the base, arousal thrumming hot and rampant at the base of his spine, when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit and you writhe against your sheets. He suddenly feels as if he’s there in the room with you—able to discern the light sheen of sweat that’s started to form over your supple skin and the continuous slick leaking out of your entrance.

When you trail your fingers down to gather your wetness and push a finger inside, Hotch swears he can almost hear your sudden gasp, as if surprised. He leans his forehead against the wall, the coolness doing nothing to subdue the fire burning underneath his skin, the heat of his heavy cock in his own hand.

It would be nearly impossible, unbearable, to stop watching you now as you pump your index finger in and out of your pussy. Hotch makes a strangled noise as he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his slacks, letting the fabric hang crudely around his waist, as the cool air provides a miniscule amount of relief to the head of his cock. He starts a steady pace now, no longer restrained due to his pants, jerking his cock as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers.

He can almost feel the softness of your skin as he would grasp your hip as you attempt to thrust down to meet his fingers, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes as you begged for his fat cock.

I have to make sure you’re ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?

Suddenly, you’re pulling your finger out, and Hotch nearly comes from the sight of the pearly white trail of your slick still connected to your folds. He’s tightening his grip around the base of his cock, toes nearly curling into the carpet, as he watches with bated breath as you sit up slightly to twist your body to reach for something in the drawer of your nightstand.

He drinks in the curve of your ass, the dip of your spine, and grunts when he notices the pool of your own arousal having had dripped down onto your bedsheets.

When you’ve resituated yourself on your back, Hotch nearly passes out at the sight of a bright purple dildo— slender, easily 8 inches, and curved inwards with a separate add-on to press against your clit.

A rabbit toy, Hotch faintly discerns, nearly dizzy at the fact that he’s lucky and pathetic enough to watch you get yourself off with it.  

He’s fallen off the deep end, completely consumed by you, he realizes, as he watches you drag the head of the dildo between the seam of your pussy, spreading your slick around and onto the silicone. You must be impatient, needy, because you then notch the head against your weeping entrance and begin to press the dildo in.

Your hips still, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch, but you throw your head back so beautifully, mouth falling open on a broken moan. Hotch’s heated gaze fixates between your thighs, where he can see the way your pussy opens up for the toy, can almost feel the way your walls would flutter around his own aching cock.

You push the toy all the way in and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your mouth forming a stuttered curse while your free hand slides up to grab at your breast, running your fingers along your pebbled nipple.

You pause for a moment, chest rising and falling as the toy bottoms out in you, the clit stimulator flush against you, and Hotch wonders if this is how you would act if he was fucking your tight cunt instead. Would you squirm just as much as you are now, hips fidgeting from how restless and needy you were? Or would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, making you lay there and take it?

When you start moving the toy out of you to push it back in, finally fucking yourself with it, Hotch finds his own hand has moved of their own accord, starting a pace similar to yours.

Precum leaks steadily over his cock and Hotch uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide of his hand smoother and filling him with the desire to close his eyes and savor it.

But he can’t—not when you were laying in your messy bed, the glow of your lamp softening your features in a heady haze.

His gaze follows the movement of the toy as your thrusts increase in speed, making sure you were fucking yourself all the way to the hilt before out again. Your slick was spread all over the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, and Hotch licks his lips as he imagines the lewd squelching sounds of his cock fucking his hand filling his ears was your pussy instead.

You’d be so fucking wet for him as he splits you open, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. He can almost imagine the breathy whines and the strangled groans you’d be making, your nails raking down his biceps as he held you down by your hips or pressed your knees into your chest.

And then your grip on the toy wavers as your fingers fumble around the handle before finding and pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back, spine nearly arching up as you increase the intensity with every click.

He watches your mouth open and close, possibly shouting out expletives, as you push the toy deeper so the vibration of the toy hits your clit dead on.

His hand is a blur on his shaft, squeezing at the head, breath coming out in stutters. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, and its a near Herculean effort to slow himself down and not come at the thought of how tightly your pussy would squeeze around him from the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.

Hotch curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your mouth falling open on a ragged moan, brows furrowing. He can tell you were close—thighs shaking, your hips switching between canting up to meet the faltering rhythm of the toy’s thrusts and stilling so it presses against your clit.

He starts up his own relentless pace, stroking his hard cock and squeezing on the upstroke at the same time you grinded the toy into yourself, desperately imagining how you’d soak him until you were dripping all over his thighs and onto the sheets.

When you finally come, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful. He stares as if in a trance, as your face scrunches up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening on a silent scream as your entire body stills besides the desperate stuttered rolls of your hips against the toy, the clitoral stimulator pressed so hard against you he wonders if it hurts.

When you come down from your orgasm, still panting into the air, something unfamiliar curls in Hotch’s chest, nestling itself in with the heat of his arousal, when you weakly smile to yourself. Your eyes are still shut, as if relishing in the syrupy weakness of your bones, and you giggle breathlessly.

Hotch lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins tugging at his rock-hard cock frantically, the nearly continuous stream of precum aiding him. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his loud breathing fills the room, the pressure in his stomach threatening to snap. He lets his eyes drift close, now content knowing he wasn’t going to miss another second of your show.

He imagines staring down at you while your pussy swallowed his cock, the way your tits would bounce with each deep thrust, the way your eyes would be glossed over, so fucked out from his fat cock that you’d be whining unabashedly. He imagines you begging for him to come inside of you with that sweet, honeyed voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy cunt.

The pressure finally fractures and he’s coming with a deep groan, thighs tensing, while hot spurts of his release coat his hand as he slows down his fist. He doesn’t stop, not when this was possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had, and the full-body twitch when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has his knees weak.

He tries to catch his breath, his pulse gradually slowing in his ears. Exhilaration and guilt swirls together at the pit of his stomach, quickly replacing the heated arousal that’s made a near permanent residence. He was content watching you every once in a while, able to brush it off as being a curious neighbor, but now he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to meet your gaze again without remembering the way your hips stuttered as you came.

It was a one time thing. He won’t ever watch you like that again.

When he finally opens his eyes, back aching from how long he’s been standing by the window and his hand sticky with his release, he instinctually glances out the window.

You’re not on your bed, most likely having gone to your bathroom to clean up and leaving behind a stain on your bedsheets. What catches his eye is the scrap of notebook paper taped onto the window, words written large enough for you to read, as well as the unmistakable ten digits of your phone number.

If you want to join me next time ;)

taglist <3 @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds 

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do yall ever think about the jaw dropping fics that are probably sitting collecting dust in someone’s drafts rn.

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gonna update my thingy finally!!!# E#2werjei

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no but the dishevelled one deserves a separate post

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PEDRO PASCAL as Javier Peña — NARCOS | S02E02 Cambalache

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can we ignore the sadistic cannon to talk about how BIG joel miller is like please MANHANDLE me

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i need to get a grip

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i love smother

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i look js like her in the art. IMS O HAPPY I LOVE THKS FIC MORe tha god bcjshsn

dark!joel x innocent f!reader. post-apocalypse au.

main masterlist | ao3 | kofi | fic tag

summary: can you hold a man as both your savior to be worshipped and the monster that he is? completed series.

warnings: 18+ MDNI! noncon, nonconsensual touching, dubcon - reader eventually enthusiastically consents but the syndrome is stockholming so its dubcon, ddlg dynamic, dom!joel, reader is a virgin, big juicy age gap (reader is 19, joel is 55) innocence kink/innocent reader, smut, reader has hair and clothing is described, reader can be picked up by joel but he’s actually got hulk like strength in my mind always, each chapter will have individual warnings!

part i: deliverance part ii: resistance part iii: compliance part iv: surrender part v: penitence part vi: sanctification part vii: convert part viii: punishment, peace part ix: fracture part x: hysteria part xi: dawning part xii: liberation part xiii: exhibition part xiv: unraveled part xv: condemnation part xvi: absolution part xvii: devotion

EXTRAS: one shots: precious (joel pov) satin polaroid ambrosia good luck, blossom (crossover crack fic) series tag / inspo art commissions: one | two | three | four spotify playlist pinterest board moodboards | one (thank you wym! ) | two (thank you gi!)

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i need to start writing! im so sorry how have u. guys been

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