sarcasm-and-stiles

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

“i asked chatgpt” “i asked grok” yeah well i asked my grandma and she told me that back in her day they used to go to the library

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

what's your favorite season of criminal minds??

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

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

masterlist

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

That was probably your second thought.

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

Still.

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

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

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

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

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

You don’t know how he does it.

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

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

But instead, you just hum.

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

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

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

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

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

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

“Sweetheart”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could you go lower?”

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

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

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

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

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

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

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

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

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

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

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

And apparently, he does.

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

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

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

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

Close. The. Curtains.

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

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

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

Just the essentials.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

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

Veeeery humbling experience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s… a moment.

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

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

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

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

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

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

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

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

Then again. And again.

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

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

(Thank God.)

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

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

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

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

He fucks you with it.

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

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

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

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

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

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

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

That first stretch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

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

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

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

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

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

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

Wrong answer, apparently.

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

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

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trying,” you pant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you never find it. You never find him.

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

So instead, you settle. Again.

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

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

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

That’s the reason.

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

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

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

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

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

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

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

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

And oh… you feel it.

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

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

insatiable

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: with an age gap like yours and aaron’s, it’s expected for there to be differences. aaron expected it, of course, but he never expected it to be like this. but is he really complaining?

content warnings: smut, 18+, minors do not interact!, established relationship, age gap, like two (2) spanks, some dry humping, p in v, cowgirl, cream pie, reader is a horn dog but hotch is whipped regardless, degradation, dirty talk, hints of sugar daddy!aaron

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i already had this in my drafts but when i saw this post i couldn’t help but speed up the process teehee 🤭 all i ever write is smut but i honestly cant help it lmao there’s something wrong w me

Aaron is a tired man.

A tired, busy, stressed, and overworked man.

He swears he somehow has six children despite only one of them having his actual blood and DNA.

He knows the relationship between him and the rest of his team has become fatherly in some aspects (keyword: some), even silently acknowledging the way they call him and Rossi ‘mom and dad’ behind their backs.

Yet, despite his love and respect for them, he was still a tired father man. A man that gave his team the weekend off so he could go home and sleep for 48 hours straight without the annoying six a.m. alarm that was constantly pending and going off.

But, of course, it seemed that you had others plans for him.

You, who he would normally classify as his sweet, beloved angel of a girlfriend, was secretly the devil reincarnated, someone who patiently waited for him to arrive to your shared apartment in order to attack.

He can sense the tension as soon as he steps inside the living area and sees you waiting for him on the couch, sitting primly with your legs tucked underneath you and facing the door. A sweet smile and seemingly innocent look adorns your face but Aaron knows better, and it doesn’t take a profiler to see the mischief that still sparkles through your facade.

He groans inwardly, not just because of those tactics of yours he’s already used to, no. But because of what you’re wearing. The cherry on top, truly.

A short, pink—and overall skimpy—nightie adorns your figure, the satin fabric shining the slightest bit from the glow of the table lamp from behind you. It ends at your mid-thigh, the lace adorned slit spread open over your skin, leaving little to the imagination. He can tell it’s new, a piece he hasn’t seen before—a piece he’s certain you bought with his credit card.

You look sweet, so sweet, but Aaron knows what you truly are.

A horny, insatiable beast.

Out of all the things Aaron has ever wondered in his life, he couldn’t help but be at a loss at how you’ve managed to conceal such ravenous desires with specious normalcy. He knew that hypersexuality and eagerness was a prone factor of yours, given the significant age gap between you two.

The insecurity prods at him now and then, the one that makes him think he’s far too old for a girl like you. But while he still considered himself to have a somewhat normal, healthy libido for his age, yours was over the roof—completely skyrocketed over what Aaron thought was the normal amount for a woman your age.

He doesn’t know how you do it, how you’re always ready to pounce on him at—quite literally—all times.

There’s been times where he’s been woken up with your mouth wrapped around his dick and your head bobbing up and down underneath the blanket, times where little to hardly no work gets done when he’s working from home because he just ‘looked so hot concentrated,’ times where his alarm goes off early in the morning and you call him back to bed with just a spread of your legs.

He swears he’s going to get a heart attack because of you one of these days.

The sound of you shuffling around the couch snaps him back to reality, swallowing harshly when you move to lean over the backrest of the couch. Your breasts push against the cushions, accentuating them further than the nightie allows.

“Welcome home, my love.”

He’s faced far worse monsters than a horny twenty-something-year-old, but he can’t help but look away in mortification as the exhaustion he was previously feeling begins to get replaced by his trousers tightening around him.

Your giggle snaps him out of his trance and he clenches and unclenches his fist, setting his suitcase down by the door. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You grin brightly, eyes twinkling in the low light of the apartment as you tap the seat next to you. Like a predator masking kindness and genuineness in order to get closer to their prey before they attack.

“How was work?” You ask, eyes following his every move as he cautiously makes his way over to you. You shift your body so that you’re facing him once he sits down, the top of your exposed knees brushing against the side of his thigh.

Aaron’s breath hitches. This was all part of your routine, your plan. He knows that you actually do care about how his days go, but right now, by that look in your eyes, he can tell you’re attempting to lure him in just like a siren does with a sailor.

If any of his team members were here right now they’d be snickering at how Aaron Hotchner, their seemingly stoic and intimidating boss, was turning weak in the knees for his horny girlfriend. He swallows the lump in his throat before answering, “It was good. Just a paperwork kind of day.”

You hum, nibbling at your bottom lip and leaning forward, one hand coming to rest on his pantsuit clad thigh. “I missed you today.”

It’s a ruse, Aaron says to himself. It’s all a ruse. The way you flutter your eyelashes at him and creep your hand further up. He knows it, he knows all of your little tricks.

Yet he still has to push you away. He never does.

“I missed you, too, sweet girl.” His heart flutters at the way you bite your bottom lip and smile, another endearing giggle echoing through the room before you finally move onto his lap.

Like a siren with a sailor.

You wrap your arms around his neck, practically shoving your boobs in his face as you settle yourself on either side of his thighs. Aaron groans when you plant yourself right on top of his growing bulge, throwing his head back as you begin to pepper needy, heated kisses all over his face.

His hands come to grip at your waist, hissing when you bite and suck at the sensitive skin on his neck. “Sweetheart—” he tries to usher you, to get you to slow down, but he’s cut off by you grinding down on his clothed dick, eliciting a moan from both of you.

“Missed you so much,” you repeat, voice coming out in a whine like you’ve been starved of his attention for months.

God, Aaron swears he can feel his body go into overdrive in order to attempt to keep up with you. Your lips continue to kiss at his neck while your hands eagerly work to undo his belt, messily pulling and tugging.

He hisses quietly when you reach inside his boxers to spring his cock free of its restraints, the bulge slapping against his tummy while the angry red tip leaks of precome.

“Y/N, honey,” he tries again, trying to regain control of the situation, as if he had ever had any of it to begin with. Another groan is pulled from the back of his throat when you wrap a perfectly manicured hand—a manicure he paid for, of course—around his length, interrupting his attempt to snap you out of your lust-filled haze.

You hum in satisfaction at the sight of him, moving your hand up and down, tugging at the base of his cock and running your thumb over the slit. “So big,” you whimper, nibbling at your bottom lip. “Missed your cock, Aaron. Always miss you.”

Aaron digs his nails into the fabric of the nightie, throwing his head against the cushions when you spit onto your hand and use it as lube to quicken your pace.

Maybe you were secretly a succubus, one that feigned purity and serenity to fool and lure in her victims before showing her true form. One that maxes out all of her victim’s credit cards to buy skimpy outfits and pay for all her things.

But who was he to deny you anything? Aaron never thought he would be able to handle all of this—all of you, even without the constant horniness— but here he was, fighting for his life while you lifted your hips and sunk down on his cock.

Aaron groaned again, the sound loud and guttural as it mixed in with your own cry of pleasure. Your walls clenched, wrapping around him like a vice who never wanted to let go.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he mumbles, his grip on your waist loosening and his hands skirting down your back to slip underneath the hem of your nightie, delivering a particularly harsh slap against your ass that makes you whine. “Take what you so desperately want all the time.”

He chuckles at the sight of your cheeks turning pink, your desperation overpowering your slight embarrassment as you begin to move your hips.

“Aaron,” you cry out, bottom lip jutting out and eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“What? Does that feel good?” He taunts, one hand slipping around your waist, keeping you close while the other leans against the backrest of the couch.

You nod, a fucked-out expression already taking its place on your face. “S-So good, I l-love it.”

“Yeah? You love it?” He coos when you nod again. “Dirty girl, always so needy and ready for me. You have no shame, do you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-uh,” you mumble, “Need you all the time.” The straps from your nightie slip down your shoulder as you lean backwards, resting your palms against his knees behind you before quickening your pace and bouncing needily.

“Shit, honey,” Aaron murmurs, taking in the sight of you before him. Your tits jiggled in his face, threatening to jump out of the fabric covering them, and your head was thrown back in utter pleasure while you rolled your hips. Some of the sweetest sounds Aaron had ever heard in his life were leaving your mouth, a mix of babbled words and moans.

“‘Mma, I’m g-gonna cum, ba-baby,” You whisper, too blissed out to form proper words. “I’m gonna—fuck—gonna c-cum, Aaron.”

Aaron could practically feel how close you were, your walls clenching and unclenching around him repeatedly as you pushed through the pain shooting up your thighs and continued bouncing on his cock.

“You’re going to be the death of me, sweet girl,” he mutters, stopping your irregular movements before pulling you into his chest and taking over for you.

A loud, practically pornographic moan echoed through the apartment as he began thrusting up into you, settling himself further down the couch for a better angle. The only sounds that could be heard were his low grunts and your high-pitched moans along with the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing in with the squelching sound of your pussy.

Repeated strings of ‘yes, yes, yes’ left your mouth, teeth digging into your bottom lip harshly and toes curling as you felt your orgasm approach you violently. You shook in his hold, adding to his thrusts by bouncing up and down again as best as you could.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers into your ear, tightening his hold on you. “Come on my cock, you wanted it so bad, right?”

You nod dumbly, eyes shut and face contorted into pure, utter bliss. You quiver when another slap is delivered to your ass, and it doesn’t take long for you to finish right then and there. You squeal in his arms, body stuttering and shaking as your orgasms rips through your body and invades all your senses.

Aaron presses a chaste kiss to your cheeks, not letting go of his hold on you as he continues thrusting up inside your gushing cunt, his own movements becoming sloppy as he feels his own high approach.

“Aaron,” you sigh, “Come in m-me. P-Please, fill me up,” you throw your head back, “Want it so bad.”

All it takes are those words for him to unload inside you, another groan escaping as white, hot ribbons of his come spurt deep inside you, mixing in with your own release.

You both lay still there, his cock still inside you as you attempt to regain your breath. After a while, you giggle breathily, coming up to wrap your hands around his neck and lay your head on his shoulder tiredly.

“What a shame you have to go back to work tomorrow,” you say, the pout on your lips evident despite Aaron not being able to see you properly.

This next part he knows he shouldn’t say, but he can’t help himself.

“I, uh, gave the team the rest of the weekend off.” He feels you freeze in his arms. “I’ll be home, honey.”

You sit back up, your eyes holding that hunger again as you stare up at him and tilt your head to the side coyly. “Really?”

He nods, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You giggle again. “Well, looks like we’ll have a lot of time to ourselves then, no?”

Aaron groans when he feels you begin to clench around him again.

When he goes back to work the next Monday, he’s approached by a confused looking Rossi, the older man’s brows furrowed as he takes in his appearance.

“You look more tired than before?” He says, the observation coming out as a question.

Aaron sighed.

Yes, you were insatiable. But he was, too.

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

atta girl | emily prentiss x reader

summary: you and emily try a new way to use your strap-on.

tags: smut (18+, mdni!), fem!non-bau!reader, top!emily, established relationship, mommy kink (sorry, not sorry), nipple play, vaginal fingering, strap-on use, no use of y/n, second person

word count: 1.3k

a/n: regular text size and capitalization under the cut. the premise of this was inspired by a tik tok i saw by @/siliconeslinger and the title is a twist on atta boy by red velvet :)

cross-posted on ao3

Sex with Emily was always amazing. The first time the two of you slept together, something had just clicked. Even though there was still much to learn about each other, that was part of the fun. Every day, you discovered something new about the other person. And every day, your affection grew.

Emily had been away on a case for nearly a week, leaving you with way too much free time on your hands. On this particular night, you had been scrolling on your phone when you came across a video explaining an alternate way to use a strap-on.

Your thighs clenched at the thought of trying this with Emily, and you filed away the idea for her return.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

A few days later, the team had finally wrapped up their case. It was getting late, but you couldn’t fall asleep knowing that Emily would be getting home soon.

So, instead of going to sleep—as you probably should have—you prepared for your girlfriend’s return.

First, you took a nice, steamy shower with your favourite body wash and scrub. Then, you put on your best nightwear and lit a candle before settling into bed with a book while you waited (im)patiently for Emily’s arrival.

Finally, you heard the front door open and some rustling in the entrance of the apartment. Soon enough, Emily appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted, but the second her eyes landed on you, they were lit with a spark reserved only for you.

“Sweetheart,” she started as she made her way over to the bedside, “you didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“I know,” you replied, “but I wanted to.”

Emily took your face into her hand, stroking the skin of your cheek softly.

“You’re too good to me, you know that?”

At that, you giggled slightly, but you were soon silenced by her lips on yours. The kiss was gentle at first, but you deepened it quickly, perhaps due to all your pent-up energy. The book you’d been reading was soon discarded, and your hands made their way into your girlfriend’s silver locks. You hummed at the feeling of her tongue on yours, happy to know that she was just as hungry for you as you were for her.

Soon, however, Emily pulled away—albeit hesitantly.

“Honey, we should both get some sleep,” she said softly, “don’t you think?”

You shook your head, a pout forming on your lips and your eyes pleading.

“Oh? Does my girl have something else on her mind?”

You nodded in response.

“Words, honey.”

“Y-yes.”

A pause. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, mommy.”

“There she is.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

In a flurry of mouths on necks and shoulders, and hands just about everywhere else, you soon found yourselves naked under the soft covers of the bed.

With her lips latched snuggly around your nipple, Emily’s hand wandered down until her fingers reached your warmth. She moaned around your nipple, surprised at just how wet you were, which in turn sent a jolt through your body.

With urgency—but still tenderness—she gathered your wetness before inserting a finger into your entrance. You gasped at the feeling of her already beginning to thrust the digit in and out, curling it upwards as well. Already, you were beginning to shake.

She released her mouth from your nipple. “Oh, baby,” she cooed, “missed me, huh?”

You nodded, entranced by her low, but dulcet tone. Her slight teasing seemed to do something to you, as you clenched around her finger—which didn’t go unnoticed.

Just when you thought you might get to cum, she pulled out, and you felt yourself clenching around nothing. You whined at the feeling, eyebrows knitting together as you looked at her.

Her lips curled up. “We’re just getting started here.”

And maybe it was a blessing in disguise, because as she got up to get the strap, you remembered your little idea.

Soon, she joined you back on the bed, kneeling beside you as she adjusted the harness.

“Em?”

She paused her adjustments, looking up at you.

“Do you think you could put the ring a bit lower? Apparently, it, uh, makes it feel better.”

“Yeah?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, “Sure, why not?”

Once she had repositioned the ring and inserted the dildo, she got some lube from the bedside table.

“Hand.” She instructed.

When you stretched your hand out, she poured the lube into your palm, and you immediately knew what to do. Emily inched closer, and you wrapped your hand around the strap, spreading the lube along its length. This, all while maintaining eye contact with her.

Once satisfied, you laid down on your back, and she followed you down. Carefully, she swiped the strap through your folds a few times before putting it into the hilt in one fell swoop.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed immediately at the feeling.

Already, you could feel the difference in depth due to that small change in angle. In contrast to the intensity you were feeling, Emily stroked your forehead softly, waiting for the go-ahead to start thrusting.

“I’m ready,” you rasped out.

Without delay, Emily pulled back out before pushing in even harder this time. She set a brutal pace, with each stroke hitting you so deeply you were nearly seeing stars. Feeling the need to be closer, you wrapped your legs around her waist, bringing her down further. She was now close enough to capture your lips in a somewhat messy kiss, but the way her lips moved freely against yours just added fuel to fire.

You moaned into her mouth, feeling yourself getting close already. But then, she pulled back, slowing her thrusts slightly.

“On your hands and knees for me, sweetheart,” she ordered.

And you followed her orders quickly, getting into position and arching your back just how she liked it. You looked back to see Emily eyeing you like you had hung the moon and stars.

“Look so pretty like this for me, baby,” she said softly, “you ready for me?”

“Always ready for you, mommy.”

With that, she pushed back into you with no hesitation, resuming the pace she had set previously. This time, however, the position you were in led to the strap hitting your sweet spot better than ever.

“Oh, fuck,” you whined as she kept up the pace, “feels so good.”

“That’s it, baby,” Emily said in a surprisingly steady voice, “can I go faster?”

“Yes! Please!”

And before you knew it, you were actually seeing stars because of how well she was fucking you. You knew you wouldn’t last much longer, and deftly brought your hand to your pussy, a finger immediately circling your clit.

“Atta girl,” Emily encouraged you, “gonna cum for me?”

You couldn’t get any words out at that point, opting to moan out instead. She got the message though, and kept thrusting at the same angle and pace.

With one final stroke, you were falling apart. You shut your eyes as you reached your peak, an explosion of colours dancing behind your eyelids. Emily fucked you through it, words of praise adding to your pleasure.

When you finally came down from your high, you collapsed onto the bed. Emily pulled out gently, all while holding your waist, a thumb stroking your side to ground you.

She disappeared from the room for a moment, coming back with a warm washcloth and cleaning the excess lube from your centre. This simultaneously brought you back down to Earth.

When she was done cleaning you up and had discarded the cloth, Emily came to lay next to you. Almost instinctively, you lay your head on her chest—her heartbeat comforting you.

“How’re you feeling?” Emily asked after a stretch of silence, hand now stroking your back.

“Mmm, good,” you all but moaned, “really good.”

She giggled softly, amused by your dazed demeanour.

Not long after, the two of you dozed off, bodies entangled and hearts warm.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

to me, James Wilson is the epitome of that post where it's like "I only think about killing myself the normal amount"

and the people around him going "the normal amount is zero"

and him straight up not believing them at first

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Me as soon as I step foot on campus

fighting the “should i skip class” demons 🙁

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

how do you think Aaron and reader who are married, react to both being called ‘Agent Hotchner’ and they both answer? That’s so cute, I could just imagine Derek smirking and Rossi having a proud dad moment

the hotchners

AHHH I LOVE THAT cw; bau!reader, established relationship, typical cm case talk, playful banter/fluff 🥰

"The unsub is devolving, they’re getting more reckless," Derek thought aloud, clicking his pen in hand. "He dumped the last victim in a public place, rather than the usual, secluded spot."

"They're losing control." You inputted in agreement, your eyes darting across the conference room table to him.

Aaron leaned down on the table, still standing, but with his palms pressed against the surface. He was next to you, and this stance allowed him to be ever so slightly closer. Your heart warmed by his proximity, as any displays of affection were at a minimum when in the field. You were happy he was just close by. "The next victim will probably be someone they can’t control-"

"Agent Hotchner?" A voice came from behind, hindering the conversation.

"Yes?" Both of you answered swiftly, out of habit, though it was a new habit for you. Your tickled eyes met Aaron's, your nose scrunched up slightly in amusement.

Derek grinned, swiveling back and forth in his chair in observance. Rossi raised his hand to his mouth casually, concealing a chuckle.

The voice in question, one of the local police department's officers, even hesitated himself, as if he didn't know which Hotchner he were to rely the information to.

As soon as you and Aaron got engaged, the discussion of whether or not you'd take his last name was on the table. To avoid confusing situations like these, or to prevent any reputable prejudices. It was rare, but every so often you received grimaces from bystanders, both in the field and in the office back home. Marrying your boss? Either tremendously romantic or something to be frowned upon.

But in the end it was unanimous; you wanted his last name, and as did Aaron. It was even more important to him. A symbol of a bond he couldn’t wait to share with you; an acknowledgment of the life you were about to build together. You and him. The Hotchners.

"Uh- sorry to interrupt. The victim's fiancé is here for their interview. They're waiting in interrogation." He stammered, his gaze switching between the two of you.

"Thank you. We'll send someone in shortly." Aaron replied, politely dismissing the officer. He kept his trained demeanor, but you could hear the laughter underneath his voice.

As his footsteps trailed away, you nudged Aaron, humorously bumping your shoulder into his upper arm.

He kept his gaze on the files laid on the table, his lips spread in a soft smile as he slowly shook his head.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, Dave." He didn't even need to look up.

"Hey!" Dave commented, his tone light as he spoke. He held up his hands in surrender, but that didn't diminish from the proud gleam in his eyes; it also happened to be the same one he had adorned on your wedding day. "I didn't say a thing."

"Oh, but it's written all over your face." You quipped also, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

"Just when I thought the two of you couldn't be any more married." Derek rolled his eyes, playfully as his lips pulled back into a grin. "What's next? Have you mastered the art of the ‘yes honey’ yet, or is that still a work in progress?"

"Please, that was perfected before we got married." Aaron remarked as he relaxed his posture, straightening up. He flashed a smile in your direction, speaking over Morgan's cackle. "Isn't that right, honey?"

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Y/N: Here’s a fun Christmas idea. We hang up mistletoe but instead of kissing, you have to FIGHT whoever else is under it.

Sam: Y/N no.

Dean: Mistlefoe

Sam: Please stop encouraging them

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Y/N: It’s really muggy outside today

Annabeth: If I go outside and all our mugs are on the front lawn, we’re done.

Y/N: *sips coffee from a bowl*

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Different phone, who dis?

Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!reader / 0,5k / fluff

Summary: Spencer and reader haven't told anyone about their relationship. What happens when Spencer answers reader's phone when they get called in for a case in the middle of the night.

Warnings: Secret relationship (well not anymore), blushing, mentions of growing old together.

My masterlist

You were deep in the trance of a dream when suddenly you were awoken by a buzzing of a phone on your bedside table. 

Ugh.

You were just about to reach your hand over to answer it when Spencer beat you to it.

“Doctor Reid speaking” His tiredness is evident in his groggy voice. He continues speaking into the phone until he pulls it from his face and covers the microphone.

“It's Hotch, we have another case” He says, now addressing you instead of the phone.

You let out an annoyed groan and try your best to wipe the sleep from your eyes. It's then that you notice that the phone that Spencer was talking into was in a pink case.

Fuck.

Your eyes go wide as the realization hits you. Spencer notices and gives you a puzzled look. You gesture toward the phone in his hand and try to mouth “my phone” to him but he doesn't seem to get it, only looking more and more perplexed by your theatrics.

It's only after Spencer has hung up that you can explain to him.

“You answered my phone!” you exclaim, clearly nervous about the confrontation from Hotch that will inevitably happen when you get on the plane.

Spencer looks down at the phone in his hand, only now he is awake enough to notice that it is not his. You and Spencer have the same make and model of phones, and you even have the same type of phone case, the only thing that distinguishes between whos is whos is the fact that your phone case is hot pink and Spencers is plain black.

A blush creeps up Spencer's cheeks as the realization seems to sink in.

“Hotch is going to kill us” Spencer groans as he brings his hands up to his face.

“And make us sign a lot of paperwork.” you add, half jokingly.

Just then, a phone starts ringing, only this time it's a different one, one that still sits on the bedside table. Spencer's phone.

Spencer picks up. “this is doctor Reid speaking.” only this time he's more sheepish.

“Mhm. Yep. i'll tell her” his blush grows deeper every second. Spencer pulls the phone away from his face, covering the speaker. “Its Hotch, he says you have to come too, even though you didn't pick up the phone personally”

You nod and he puts the phone back to his face “we’ll be there, Hotch. Sorry for this, it uhm… won't happen again”

“Good.” You hear Hotch's reply through the phone. You know exactly what face he is making and it makes you even more nervous for the inevitable meeting about fraternization between coworkers.

“He sounded really disappointed” Spencer says after he hangs up

“He always sounds disappointed, don't take it to heart. He's in a constant state of being disappointed” you joke, trying to make light of the situation “And besides, we'll probably look back on this moment when we're old and we’ll have a good laugh.”

“Yeah you're probably right” Spencer smiles, the thought of you two growing old together was more than enough to make him forget about the current situation.

A/n: Lmk if you would like a part 2 about how the meeting with Hotch goes! (i will probably maybe write it even if nobody wants it)

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

THE QUEEN IS BACK

SMILING LIKE A FOOL - A.H

a/n: heyyyy home slices it's me back from the dead! finals are killing me, and this was my procrastination piece. needed to write about my bombshell baby! but surprise she's the one getting flustered this time! gasp!

(for those of you who saw me spell write like right NO YOU DIDNT!!!)

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: um none i think idk friends its been too long since i've done this

wc: 1.8k

The knock was more a formality as you nudged the door open with your hip, juggling a stack of neatly organized files and a coffee cup with a pink heart sticker on the lid (discreet enough that only Hotch should see). Your gaze naturally gravitated to Hotch first, as it often did, lingering just a moment longer than necessary as you offered him a subtle wink. He cleared his throat awkwardly, adjusting his tie as he muttered something inaudible under his breath, his hand half-covering his mouth, though the slight color rising to his cheeks did not go unnoticed by you.

"Hi, good morning!"

You rounded the table, a sway in your step as you approached Hotch's chair. Setting the stack of items in front of him, you leaned in--closer than strictly necessary--your fingertips brushing his shoulder lightly. Your hair, delicately scented with roses, grazed his jawline as you shifted. His posture stiffened, his expression unreadable, though you caught the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhaled sharply. 

"Sorry for interrupting," you said with a sweet smile that didn't match the glint in your eyes.

You weren't sorry, and the way Hotch's lips pressed into a thin line told you he saw right through the fib.  When he leaned back, almost imperceptibly into your space, his shoulder brushed against your stomach. His muttered thank you was low and gruff, and it almost felt like an admission of defeat. You smirked, basking in the victory of knowing how effortless you could unravel the infamous Aaron Hotchner with just a touch and a perfectly polished smile.

You smiled warmly at the team before straightening, your perfectly styled hair bouncing as you rolled up the sleeves of your sparkly sweater. The conference room was always too warm, and today was no exception. 

"Oh honey, you could never interrupt." Garcia was the first to butt in, followed by a few other sounds of agreement.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Well, hey there, good looking." It was then that Morgan stepped into the room. His eyes sparkled as they landed on you, smile growing wider as he crossed the room. Without missing a beat, he slung an arm over your shoulder like it was second nature. "You feeling better?"

The past week had been a miserable blur of you twisting into every position imaginable to appease a stomachache that refused to budge. The first morning had been the worst--waking up suddenly, barely making it to the bathroom, and sparing Aaron's freshly washed sheets from catastrophe. For a brief, terrifying moment, your mind had spiraled to the possibility of pregnancy. But the nine-dollar test from Rite Aid had quickly put that fear to rest.

Before you could respond, Hotch cut in, "I told her she need to take more time off."

You gave him an exaggerated huff, placing a hand over your heart. "I'm totally fine, pinky promise."

Spencer, frowning slightly, chimed in, "When I asked for more time off to complete my latest paper on cognitive psychology, I had to justify every hour in writing."

Hotch ignored Spencer's grumble of favoritism (that was definitely true), clearly uninterested in entertaining the complaint. His gaze fixed squarely on you, his eyebrow raising as if to say, Go ahead, lie to me.

You edged closer, letting your smile grow sugary sweet. "Oh, don't worry about me, boss man! I have this weird ability to recover from sicknesses super quickly, like magic."

The blatant lie hung between you, and you could see in his eyes that he wasn't buying a word of it. That was part of the fun, honestly. He knew better; after all, he'd been there every step of the way through your so-called recovery. But still, his gaze lingered on you, jaw tightening as he swallowed back his words. He knew that saying too much would tip the scales, and he wasn't about to risk exposing what was to stay hidden. 

In truth, you weren't exactly quick to bounce back from illness--autoimmune disease problems and all--but you didn't mind too much. Not when it meant you got the full Hotch Care Package. You savored the attention and coddling. He held your hair, made you soup, rubbed your feet--all without a single complaint. The man was practically a saint, and honestly, you were tempted to milk it just a little bit longer.

"Hotch can say what he wants, but the rest of us are just glad to have you back, princess." Morgan released your shoulder with a tight squeeze before nodding toward the others. "Hendrick found something on the Anderson case in the lab, wants us to come check it out."

You lingered by the table, watching them file out one by one, leaving behind a trail of disorganized files and lukewarm coffee in their wake. Aaron stayed behind, turning his chair toward you as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment. Once the coast was clear, you hopped up on the table, swinging your legs slightly.

You flashed him a smile, pressing your palms onto the table and leaning in just a little, coking your head to the side as if studying him like a puzzle. He was watching you, of course--he always was. His lips twitched in that way you loved, forming the smallest smile, something that was becoming more and more common these days (which you proudly took credit for).

With a dramatic sigh that was probably a little over the top, you swung your legs around and plopped your high-heeled feet right in his lap.

"You know, Mr. Hotchner," you began, batting your lashes like it was second nature, "skipping the goodbye kiss this morning almost made me forget how much I really love your adorably grumpy face. Are you willing to have that on your conscience?"

Aaron let out a long sigh, gently easing your feet out of his lap, leaving them to swing idly. "You are going to get me in trouble."

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest, the motion making his gaze linger on your tits before quickly returning to your face. "Well, you're already in trouble with someone."

He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be clueless. "And who might that be?"

You blinked innocently, not aware that it was a rhetorical question. "With me, duh!"

Hotch stood, closing the small space between you, and just like that, your pulse was racing like you were in high school all over again. How did he still have this effect on you? 

"Duh." He was teasing you now. You tried to glare at him, but it wasn't convincing--not with the way you were fighting the urge to grin like an idiot.

"So, are you going to make it up to me, or do I need to find someone else to keep my bed warm tonight?"

You arched a perfectly shaped brow, watching with barely concealed glee as Aaron's jaw tightened and his gaze darkened. He opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but you smirked and pushed further.

"Well, I'm sure Spencer or Morgan would be happy to—,"

You didn't even get to finish before his lips slammed into yours, silencing you with a kiss that made your heart flutter, and your mind go blank--forgetting every word you just said. The kiss was firm, yet urgent, as if he was trying to prove a point. You melted without hesitation, a giggle bubbling from your chest as your arms looped around his neck. His hands steadied you at your waist, and he pulled back, his expression had softened in that way that made him look ten years younger.

Still smiling, you pinched his side. "Mr. Hotchner! We're at work! Tsk tsk!"

Aaron exhaled a deep breath, pressing a fleeting kiss to your cheek. "I'll see you at home."

He straightened up and turned towards the door. You admired the view for just a moment, and you couldn't stop yourself from smiling--who gave him the right to look that hot while walking away? Determined not to be left behind, you quickly clattered after him, heels clicking (and probably echoing obnoxiously) across the floor.

"Also, can we order Chinese tonight?" You called out, pitching your voice a little louder as Aaron's annoyingly long strides widened the gap between you. 

Aaron response was a familiar, low grunt--one of the many unspoken agreements in your relationship that you'd grown to understand. Translation? Yes, dear.

"Oh, wait!" you blurted out, fumbling with your phone as you tried to type out your thoughts before they disappeared like soap bubbles. "And face masks! Can we do face masks? And--wait, wait, wait--The Holiday! Can we watch The Holiday?" 

You were juggling your phone, purse, and wild ideas all at once, scribbling your mental to-do list into your Notes app with one hand while the other flailed in an effort to keep balance. Aaron, still unbothered and impossibly composed, moved ahead like some well-dressed gazelle.

"Wait! I just had another idea--"

Aaron came to abrupt stop. You let out a squeak as you barely avoided plowing straight into his back, his forearm shooting out to steady you just in time. 

"Can we table this conversation for later?" he asked, that stoic voice doing absolutely nothing to hide his fondness for you.

You opened your mouth the protest that this was important, but he cut you off. "But yes--to all of the questions."

You gasped like you'd just won the lottery. "All of them? Even The Holiday?" You wiggled your eyebrows, grinning ear-to-ear. "I knew you loved that movie."

Aaron stopped you before you could say another word, his hand settling lightly on your arm as he leaned just a fraction closer. "No," he murmured, voice dropping low enough to send a shiver through you, "I just love you."

Your cheeks flared instantly, warmth blooming across your face as you blinked at him. "Oh."

Aaron watched you squirm for a moment, clearly enjoying your flustered state, far too smug for someone who'd just dropped the L word at work.

"I've told you I love you, haven't I?" He was teasing, knowing he had said it more times than you could count.

"Yeah, but you've never said it so... so loudly. And at work," you hissed, glancing over your shoulder as if someone might pop out of a closet and catch you.

He arched a brow. "That's loud?"

"For you it is!"

Aaron shook his head, laughing softly as he turned back towards the direction of the lab. "You're too easy to fluster. Go back to work before I decide to really embarrass you."

You were sure you had landed in a different dimension. You? Easy to fluster? 

"Ugh, you're the worst." You pressed your palms to your warm cheeks as you turned on your heel to head back to your desk.

But you were still grinning like an absolute fool the whole way.

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join my taglist here!

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Hii

How are you doing?

I just read your shy reader and Hotch work and it's beautiful.

If you don't mind can I request something in a shy reader and Hotch setting? So, my request is that during a case reader and someone else on the team (other than Hotch) gets injured but the reader gets a concussion and other injuries and that's why she's not lucid. No one notices that R is injured and they focus on the other person until R just faints like Hotch did after the explosion on the show and the aftermath....

Thank you!!

tw: blood, cannon typical violence, poor writing after a too-long break

The room is spinning and Morgan is on the ground, clutching his arm. In the distance, you watch JJ drag the unsub over by the arm, his hands cuffed behind his back and a smug smirk on his face.

"Got you," the unsub barks at Morgan, spitting on the ground near his feet before JJ yanks him roughly toward the police cars.

Slowly, you stand, refusing to use the wall near you as support as you stumble to Morgan.

"Medic over here!" Hotch yells, jogging over and beating you to Morgan.

"It's just a graze," Morgan reassures Hotch, lifting his hand from his bicep and revealing the wound. Blood is trickling out in a slow stream from the wound, painting his dark skin crimson.

You nearly gag at the sight, nauseous from slamming your head against the ground. The fight is blurry in your memory, but you vaguely remember missing a step chasing the unsub down the stairs and knocking to the floor. You think the man might have pushed you, but you're unsure, the details lost in the loud bang from his gun, pointed at Morgan.

You drop to your knees near Morgan, pushing his and Hatch's unexperienced hands away and forcing your eyes to focus on the wound.

You were added to the team to fill several gaps, an experienced medic one of them along with another profiler on the team. While you wait for the paramedics to arrive, you can at least staunch the bleeding.

You think you hear Hotch asking questions but you can't focus on the low register of his voice over the ringing in your ears, solely prioritizing slowing the blood steadily pumping out of Morgan's bicep.

"Hey, sweetheart," Morgan nudges you away from his arm. You look up, confused. "Your boss is asking if you're alright." Nodding toward Hotch, Morgan smirks and rolls his eyes, "You know I'm good. Hurts like a bitch, but I'm good."

"Yeah," you mutter, nodding at the ground before refocusing on your task, "I'm alright."

You don't want to bring attention to the throbbing in your head, sure it's fine and even more sure that nobody saw you fall. The embarrassment of bringing attention to it is more then you could bear with the pounding between your ears incessant in its annoyance.

"If you're sure you have this handled, I would like to go talk to JJ." You wave Hotch off, catching sight of the paramedics rushing over.

He walks off, purposeful in his long strides, following JJ where she's leaning over the unsub in the back of a cruiser. You notice, in a fleeting moment, that his hair is rumpled, his shirtsleeves wrinkled. Hotch disheveled is a rare but welcome sight, one you ache to see more often, and you let yourself fall back and away from Morgan to admire it while the paramedics tend to him.

Blood has dried on your hands and you wipe them absently as you settle onto the ground. Nobody has quite noticed your sluggish movements in the awkward space of releasing adrenaline fading after days of building. The emptiness of it, the sudden space for more emotion and thought, is something you usually relish in. You enjoy having a puzzle to focus on, a problem to solve, simply for the pleasure of the release of that worry at the end. The solution is more satisfying than the untangling but you can't focus on that now, eyes unfocused as you watch Hotch cross his arms.

His muscles flex under the fabric of his shirt pulled tight around them. It's this distraction that you'll blame on the haziness of your thought, ignoring the consistent pain at the side of your skull.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, trying to bring your mind to focus on your actual priorities. You have processed you should be following, things to focus on, something important that you need to tell someone. You can't remember what, though, everything buried under the ever present haze of pain.

A call of your last name has your eyes snapping open. Hotch is looking at you now, eyes concerned. You struggle to think of what you've done to bring that look to his face.

Slow processing brings you to remember that you should probably be over there, reporting on the fight that he didn't see.

"Sorry," you say, louder then you wanted, scrambling to stand up.

"For?" Hotch asks, striding toward you. You could have swore that he was further away, that the space between you two was vast, far enough that your vision had reason to blur and you had enough cover to be staring at anything - not obvious that you were ogling him.

"Hm?" You ask, confused already, ignoring his offered hand to stand.

"Are you okay?" He asks, eyes flickering over your face.

You flush, blinking hard once and then again, slowly, nodding before attempting to walk closer to him, stumbling on your steps.

The world tilts, spinning, focused around Hotch (always, always focused on him) and you see his face catch on panic as you fall before everything goes dark.

----

You wake up in a hospital, the fluorescent lights familiar and unwelcome. You groan out, upset.

Your name catches your attention, a voice you would know anywhere. God, why is he here? You're sure you look a mess and whatever injury caused this visit is certainly not enough to warrant his attention and worry.

"Come on beautiful, it's time to wake up," a hand passing over your forehead reminds you that you shut your eyes against the lights and you warily open them again.

Hotch is in a sweatshirt, leaning against the railing of your bed, a kind smile on his face.

"Hi," he says, voice soft. "I'm very angry at you."

"Yeah, seems like it," you say, sarcasm dripping, before you remember who you're talking to. Your face warms rapidly, "oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say that."

Hotch looks overjoyed, though, a smile widening across his face, warm and sweet. "Who knew a concussion is all I needed to crack that shell of yours?"

"Concussion?"

"Exactly the reason I'm mad, actually."

"What?" You ask, confused again, closing your eyes at a throb of pain.

Hotch chuckles, you're sure the sound of it will be your undoing, too hot as the sound of it bounces through your ears and straight to your chest.

"We'll talk about it later, rest now."

sorry I've been gone. I haven't proof read this, either, nor have I written in weeks. I missed you guys, though <3

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Have you done a drabble on Reid and bombshell r wedding day?? I just read the proposal one and :(( it warms my heart

Ty for requesting!!! fem

The morning of your wedding day isn’t the chaos you’d both pictured. Spencer wears the finest suit he’s ever had. You wear a white silk dress with drops of diamonds hanging in your hair like the rain. There are no morning drinks, no catastrophes to correct. 

You sit on a chaise lounge. He sits in a wooden chair, dragged to you, his hands on your knees careful not to wrinkle the skirt of your dress. 

“It's so quiet,” he whispers. 

“I know.” 

Somewhere in the venue, Penelope and Luke are waging war on the florists —you did not order yellow geraniums. Hotch is explaining to Jack that you and Spencer met years ago, and have been smitten with one another pretty much every moment since. Derek’s cradling his toddler before he takes stage as the best man. JJ, Emily, and Tara are debating the kiss; will you make a show of things, pulling him in by the tie for a smacker, or will Spencer tame the excitement?

There’s a whole team of people making sure today goes smoothly. And still, Spencer‘s worried about some thing. 

“You know how beautiful you look?” 

“I should say that to you.” You reach for his tie, rolling it gently between your fingers. “My beautiful husband.” 

“This is… I don’t really know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything, Spence.” Anything he has to say about you, you know it all. The same way you’ve told him every thought you’ve had about him for years. He’s part of your psyche. 

“I’m so nervous about my vows,” he confesses then. 

“Don’t be.” 

“What if yours are better than mine?” 

“They will be.” You raise your hand tentatively to his face, fingertips drawing in the hollow of his cheek. “But you’re the academic, baby…” 

“I can write them again.”

You smile at him keenly. “If you don’t like them, you can try again on our anniversary. Or in a few years when we renew them, yeah? It doesn’t have to be perfect. You’ve promised me all this stuff for years.” 

“My speech isn’t good enough, either.” 

“Your speech will be perfect. It’s Morgan’s you should worry about, he’s gonna rehash all the embarrassing things… Savannah said he’s been practicing when Hank’s sleeping. That he,” —you laugh, in love with not just Spencer but the world— “keeps waking him up laughing at his own jokes.” 

Spencer dips toward you at the sound of your laughing, he can’t help himself. “If it didn’t wrinkle your dress, I’d really try to have you in my lap,” he admits in a whisper, nothing salacious, just the honest truth. “We could sit on the floor, like we did that time in New York.”

“Where would we get dessert now?” 

“That’s what we’ll do tonight, right?” He looks for your thigh in the dress, squeezing nicely. 

“Yeah, Spence. Yeah, I’ll even put the dress back on.” You tilt your chin up and follow your nose down, meeting his gaze with an unnamed emotion. Total devotion, perhaps. Something too soft to describe accurately. “We’ll share the spoon, just like New York.” 

Three kisses and a careful hug, his hair tickling your forehead as he curls over you. “This is the best day of my life.”

“It’s the best day of mine!” You let your hands climb his back, aiming for the mop of his hair to play with. “You’re everything, sweetheart. You’re just perfect. I can’t believe you’re seeing me in my dress though, everybody says that’s bad luck.” 

But you and Spencer don’t worry about what everybody says anymore. Not for a long time. 

“It’s good to see it now. I… I know I’ll cry, but this is taking the edge off.” 

“Don’t cry, honey. You’ll make me cry, and if I cry up there I’m gonna feel so silly all day.” 

“Silly,” he says, beginning to rub your back in swoops. “If you don’t cry, I might feel jilted.”

“So I have to choose between mortal embarrassment or hurting my husband?” 

He hugs you tighter. You aren’t married yet, but by the end of the night you will be. You’ll order desserts to the hotel room and sit in his lap on the floor by the heater, your white dress surely wrinkled, his tie either side of his neck, undone, neck exposed to be caressed with the tip of your nose. 

“I can’t not cry,” he says now. “Don’t expect me not to.”

“I don’t really expect you not to.” And no one will expect it of you when you cry like a child as he slips on your ring, but it makes sense to him. You and Spencer always make sense to each other.