#Humidity Regulation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aureatelys · 4 months ago

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as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c.: 6k a/n: inspired by that one gifset of hotch desperately needing some moisturizer on his neck im so sorry. also my first time writing hotch's pov, pls be gentle. c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, kinda sunshine/girly!reader, mutual pining, alcohol mention, author pretending like they know about skincare, hotch is whipped and touch starved af, no y/n

summary:

You think Hotch needs to take better care of himself. Hotch doesn't know what to think. Or, 5 times you teach Hotch about skincare more than he wants to and 1 time he teaches you.

read below or ao3 here

one.

When Hotch first walks into the conference room ready to go over a new case, there’s something different that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Words dying in his throat, he sweeps his eyes over the entire room and doesn’t see anything significantly out of place. Then he’s passing over everyone’s faces, mentally keeping a note on how exhausted most of them are looking, and then landing on you.

Having only joined a couple of months ago, you were still fairly new to the team. However, with your sunny disposition and eagerness to learn, you blended right in. Hotch had watched in amusement as you were able to keep up with Reid’s ramblings, Morgan’s flirting, and Garcia’s antics. You were insightful, able to give new perspectives that Hotch would never have even considered, patient with victims and their families, and Hotch admired you for that.

Today, however, you look considerably suspicious as you give him a sheepish smile and a little wave. “Morning, Hotch,” you say, eyes sparkling, followed by a round of greetings from the rest of the team.

“Morning.” And then he spots a machine on the table near the wall, shaped and designed like a cat and spouting off what looks like steam at a steady and continuous rate.

Now that he’s noticed it, he realizes the conference room feels significantly stickier, the sudden humidity a stark contrast to the dry winter air outside. He can sense the slight congestion he’s been waking up to the past several months gradually disappearing.

“It’s a humidifier,” you explain after spotting the slightly confused expression Hotch was wearing, as if he’s never seen one before. To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s seen one in years as Haley was usually the one who dug it out of storage when Jack wasn’t feeling well. “I brought it from home, I thought it was a little dry in here. Is that okay?”

“I hope so, I was worried about getting a nosebleed the other day.”

“It’s good to have it around during this time of year, Hotch. Did you hear Anderson coughing this morning?”

“It’s also beneficial to have one on while you sleep, both with the white noise and being able to clear your sinuses and breathe easier with its optimal humidity levels.”

Truthfully, Hotch doesn’t care and he’s sure there isn’t some ridiculous regulation about not allowing a small humidifier, especially when Garcia has two space heaters in her office that you’ve had to ask to borrow at least twice a week.

However, the way you’re glancing up at him now from your spot at the round table, eyes wide and fluffy pink scarf wrapped around you because you apparently run colder than the rest of the team, Hotch would probably let you get away with anything.

He immediately sets that thought aside, not wanting to dwell on exactly what that means right now. He takes the only empty seat left that just happened to be right next to you, making sure to keep a respectable distance. “It’s fine. Just make sure to turn it off and empty it before we go.”

You give him a blinding smile that momentarily distracts him from the bubbling humidifier and the clouds of mist that are nearly falling into his face. “Sure thing. Did you know that it can also help with dry skin? So technically, we’re just taking care of our bodies if they ask why we need it.”

Although it makes sense now that he thinks about it, Hotch didn’t know that. He also doesn’t remember the last time he put on lotion or moisturizer, no matter how dry his hands felt.

Just then, Garcia wobbles in with her yellow heels and coffee mug, immediately launching into the brutal details of the case and where the team will be headed out to for the next couple of days.

When Hotch gets up to grab his go-bag from the office, he tries to ignore how it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

two.

“God, it’s freezing in here.”

Hotch glances up from his laptop mid-report to witness you taking the seat next to his with a resounding oof. You’re wrapped up in a blanket that you had brought from home that has somehow taken permanent residence on the jet, shivering despite the heater being on full blast. The corner of it lands on his knee, soft and warm.

The team had just finished a case in rural Montana, surrounded by mountains of snow and the wilderness. You had remembered to pack warmly at least, as Hotch had witnessed you struggling to take off the several layers of sweaters every time you arrived at the precinct. He remembers frowning in the car on the way to apprehend the unsub as you shivered in the passenger seat, having had to wear only a layer or two due to the bulky Kevlar vest and needing to be quick on your feet.

“It’ll warm up here in a second,” Hotch says, already wracking around his brain to see if there was another blanket hidden in a compartment somewhere. “A cup of tea will probably help.”

You slouch down further in your seat, cocooning yourself even further under the thick blanket. “I don’t want to get up.”

Hotch is almost tempted to lock his computer and get up to make you that cup of tea himself, however he glances around the cabin and notices several knowing pairs of eyes on him. He doesn’t have to be a profiler to know what the rest of the team thinks—that he’s gone soft on you.

You with your fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape and the thick socks that you put in your bag specifically for the plane ride home. He knows he’s not imagining the lingering glances you throw at Hotch or the way you occasionally stay late as an excuse to bother him in his office.

And he doesn’t necessarily mind. There’s a strange, innate pull that tugs in his stomach when it comes to you, causing him to watch you more carefully and seeking out your presence at almost every opportunity. The sheer grip of panic on his heart when you were shot after taking down an unsub by yourself and without backup several months ago had Hotch re-evaluating everything he knew about himself.

He’s aware of the possible repercussions, which is exactly why Hotch has learned to be patient when it comes to you, who has threatened him to forgo his patience altogether with every bubbly laugh he can hear from his office or knock of your shoulders against his in the conference room.

So he doesn’t get up to make you that cup of tea despite knowing how you take it with a splash of milk and two sugars, and instead turns back to finish the action report.

It’s only several minutes later when he notices you rummaging around in your bag out of the corner of his eye before you pull out a small and colorful lotion bottle with a triumphant noise. You pop the cap open and slather some on your hands before you’re turning to face Hotch again, the novel that Reid recommended to you untouched on the table. “Do you want some?”

The bottle in your hand looks somewhat familiar, most likely something he’s passed by at the store or on your desk, but Hotch balks at the pink flowers painted all over the bottle. He’s lucky the undoubtedly suffocating smell hasn’t hit him yet. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But you don’t put the lotion back in your bag, instead shifting in your seat until you’re fully facing him. Your blanket is nearly draped over Hotch’s thigh. “Are you sure? You know, it’s really important to make sure your hands are moisturized, especially with how cold it is here.”

He doesn’t know why you’re so adamant about this, peering up at him with bright and eager eyes and the open lotion bottle poised over his hands. He’s never liked putting on lotion, or any kind of creams, as it always made his hands feel uncomfortably greasy. He would eventually wash it off anyway.

He turns his attention back to his laptop, yet wordlessly puts a hand out towards your direction.

He thinks you’re going to pour a generous dollop and let him rub his own hands together, but instead, he nearly jumps in his seat when you’re grabbing onto his hand with both of yours and slathering whatever’s leftover on your hands into his palms and the back of his hands.

Your hands are cold, even moreso than his, but the sharp tingle that runs up his arm at your touch causes something warm to bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t want to waste it,” you respond to the confusion on his face. You’re thorough; making sure to slather the cream in between his fingers and even down to his wrists. He senses the sneaking glances the rest of the team are throwing his way, maybe even smug, but he’s painstakingly distracted by the way your hands look in his, the way he can feel both of your hands gradually warming up.

And then you’re pulling away, and Hotch suddenly misses your tender touch.

Like he expected, his palms suddenly feel gross, unpleasantly slippery like he has oil all over them. He wants to rub his palms on his pants or go wash his hands, but your watchful eyes stop him.

And then it hits him— the sudden scent of you, floral with some hints of vanilla, overwhelming his senses. It’s undeniably the same scent as your perfume, the one that seems to linger every time you stride past him at the office or when you’re leaning over Hotch to laugh at something Morgan said. Now, it causes him to sharply inhale, chest feeling unnervingly tight as he unconsciously marks it to his memory.

You’re still watching him with an expectant smile, bottle stored away in your bag for you to pull out again after you’ve gotten up to use the restroom and used the cheap hand soap that you’ve repeatedly complained about before. You look unfazed, as if your simple touch hasn’t sent Hotch’s brain reeling.

“It’s nice,” Hotch manages to say, voice only slightly strained. The smell is not as strong as he expected, but it’s still doing strange things to his heart more than he’d like to admit.

If possible, your smile widens. “Just nice?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite my signature scent.”

You hum and turn away, picking up your book despite Hotch knowing you’re not going to read a single page of it today, the spine already creased from where you’ve been laying it face down multiple times over the past month. “No, your signature scent already fits you.”

Hotch says nothing, not entirely sure how to respond to that, but your attention is already caught by the game of cards Reid and Emily are playing several seats away. You immediately set your novel down and scramble up and out of your seat to be their enthusiastic audience, leaving a trail of vanilla behind you.

Hotch immediately misses the warmth of your blanket.

three.

“What are you looking for now?”

You’ve been digging through your bag, your pink personal one that’s almost as big as your go bag, for the past five minutes. Hotch can hear the various items clinking around and the crinkling of multiple old receipt papers as you curse under your breath. He frowns, tempted to encourage you to clean out your bag if only to make packing more convenient for you. He couldn’t count the number of times you’ve exclaimed on the jet that you had forgotten something.

The team had gotten called to another small rural town in North Dakota for an unsub that’s been killing during the protective guise of blizzards, which is why Hotch was driving so painstakingly slow that Morgan would’ve surely had an aneurysm if he was in the same car. Despite the roads having already been salted, there was still a concerning amount of ice on the roads that had Hotch sitting ramrod straight in his seat and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were nearly turning white.

Luckily, it was only you and Hotch in the car, heater on full blast. You’re wearing at least three sweaters today with your coat draped over your legs and haven’t even complained once about it being too cold, citing how you’ve never seen this much snow before in your life. Hotch found it all extremely endearing watching you nearly jump in your seat at how the evergreen trees looked covered in snow. Like a Christmas movie, you had said.

“Found it!” You pull out a travel sized bottle of sunscreen, hurriedly twisting the cap open to squeeze and draw lines down three fingers.

Hotch glances at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in confusion at your strange method. “Sunscreen? Are we going to the beach?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit.” You roll your eyes while slathering the cream on your forehead, cheeks, down your neck, and even strangely over your ears before rubbing the rest on the back of your hands.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Hotch clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to be so invested in your skin health.”

“It’s called skincare, Hotch,” you tease, screwing the cap back on but suspiciously leaving it out on your lap. “And it’s important to take care of your skin. Did you know that snow reflects UV rays, so even during winter you should put on sunscreen?”

Hotch chuckles before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“Did you want some?” You’re twisting your body again to face Hotch, eyes sparkling despite it being horribly dreary and cloudy outside.

The only times Hotch has worn sunscreen was during especially hot summer days when he took Jack to the park or to go swimming. He’s seen you apply sunscreen in the office even when it was raining outside and the sun wasn’t forecasted to come out that day. He’s grown to learn not to ask questions.

“I’m okay, thanks.” The answer’s immediate, partly because he doesn’t need sunscreen and partly because he is concentrating on not crashing into a ditch.

“Come on, Hotch, it’s good for you!” He knows this is exactly the same thing you said on the jet several weeks ago, and since then, every time you’re putting on lotion and he’s somewhere in the near vicinity, you’re already squeezing some on his hands before he could respectfully decline. Luckily, you haven’t tried to apply it for him again.

You’re incredibly stubborn and Hotch wonders if you’re persuading the rest of the team to invest in expensive and fruity-smelling creams in an effort to have everyone properly take care of their bodies like you are with him.

“Alright.” And then he’s pulling his foot off the gas pedal just a bit to compensate for the distraction of having to put his hand out, desperately hoping you’re not going to lean over to apply it to his own face.

You luckily don’t squeal in excitement like he expected, just silently squirting the cream into careful and meticulous lines on his three fingers. Hotch can tell it’s definitely more of an expensive brand than what he was used to during the summer—lightweight and smelling like nothing.

Hotch carefully slathers it onto his face, starting at his forehead, down his nose, and then out to his cheeks and his chin. There’s still quite a lot left on his fingers and he remembers how you made sure to spread some on your neck, so Hotch does the same thing. However, he is definitely not going to put some on his ears.

Satisfied, you put the sunscreen away and twist as best as you could underneath your thick layers to put your bag in the backseat, because the floor of the car was too wet from the snow from your shoes.

“Happy?” Hotch’s face inexplicably feels greasier than he would like, but it’s not as bad as the vanilla-scented lotion or the cheap sunscreen laying forgotten in his closet. It’s already absorbed into his skin and when he rubs a hand along his jaw, he realizes that it must have had some moisturizer in it as well because his face feels softer than he was used to.

“Ecstatic,” you say, turning your face towards the window to hide the wide grin spreading across your face.

four.

The fourth time Hotch learns about skincare from you was completely and utterly by accident.

It had been a long and brutal couple of days chasing a serial in Tennessee, one that had nearly as much technological experience as Garcia. He had been two steps ahead of them until tonight, when they had finally caught a break and caught him before he could take any more women to hold hostage.

The all-consuming relief was palpable during dinner at the hotel restaurant despite the underlying knowledge that the same thing was going to happen next week. Conversation flowed, drinks were had, and Hotch was adamantly ignoring the fleeting looks you were throwing his way across the table.

Hotch and you had been dancing around each other for months, tension so tangible that the rest of the team were starting to feel uncomfortable. He’s been able to brush off Dave’s sly remarks in the privacy of his office, Morgan and Emily’s raised eyebrows tossed in his direction at every interaction he had with you, and Garcia’s elbow jabs at every possible second when you were in the room.

It's been frustrating for him, to say the least. He can’t tell them that he can’t make that choice for you, that he’s too conscious to not cross any of those professional boundaries himself. If that means that Hotch has to wait for several more months for you to make the first move, if that even happens, then so be it.

When Hotch watches the way you throw your head back in laughter at something Dave says at dinner, eyes bright and face slightly flushed from the wine, he thinks he’d be willing to wait as long as you wanted.

After being nearly kicked out of the restaurant from being too rowdy and Hotch hinting at being able to take the rest of tomorrow off once they fly back in town early, the team quietly shuffles back to their respective rooms. He knows there’s about a 50/50 chance that most of them will sneak out to a nearby bar in ten minutes, but at least he warned them ahead of time.

“Night, Hotch,” you had said, giving him a little smile and wave before your door across the hallway clicked shut.

Something warm settled in Hotch’s chest at that, so he did the most reasonable thing to cope with the unfamiliar and turned the TV on to a random news channel. With the volume on low and his laptop and files laid out on the rickety table, he got to work.

Several hours pass like that as he throws himself into the fine print, going over everyone’s action reports from last week and shuffling through old crime photos to make sure everything matched. It was a familiar process, and almost concerning with how much comfort he’s found in it—the scratch of his pen, the drone of the city several floors down, and the growing smudge of ink on his hand from his thoughts running faster than he could write.

When he gets to your report and notices it’s missing several key points of the case, as well as your loopy signature, he frowns.

The immediate thought that comes to mind would be to just put the file aside and move onto the other one. It wasn’t as if the report was due this second and he knows there were plenty of others that required more immediate attention.

The other thought that emerges, almost reluctantly, was that Hotch could easily go across the hallway and ask you to take a look at it and finish the report rather than waiting for the following morning on the jet when the rest of the team was undoubtedly going to be hungover. Prentiss was most certainly going to be cranky and demand everyone to be quiet because the hum of the jet was already grating enough. He’d just be doing the team a favor.

That’s what Hotch tells himself as he stands up from the low desk, neck and back aching, and makes his way out his room and to yours across the hall.

He briefly pauses, straining his ears as if he could hear anything through the door and over the erratic thumping of his own heart. Hotch is suddenly aware that you may be sleeping, or even out with the rest of the ladies to a sleazy bar, and he’s about to turn back around with defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders when he hears the click of the bathroom door open and your humming, faint even through the thick wooden door.

Feeling confident that he’s not disturbing you and something else Hotch can’t name at the fact that he’s going to be seeing you in the privacy of your hotel room, he raps twice against the door.

“Just a second!” And then the door swings open.

Hotch’s attention is immediately caught by the fluffy headband you’re wearing, light pink and with a comically large bow in the center. You’ve clearly just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash infiltrating Hotch’s senses and causing him to tighten his grip on the files he forgot he was holding in the first place.

You’re wearing a matching set of light blue pajamas, short and clinging to your body in a way that has Hotch immediately tearing his gaze away and back to your bare face. Your lips are glossy, slicker than normal, there’s a drop of water slowly trailing down the side of your neck, and a dab of cream on your cheek that you seem to have not noticed.

“Hotch?” you ask, confused, before letting out a squeak and crossing your arms over your chest in an effort to hide your modesty. Hotch ignores the fact that it just makes everything worse. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me there’s a case.”

The droplet of water has disappeared underneath the collar of your shirt and the scent of vanilla nearly suffocates him. “No case. Just needed to get your final touches and signature on this report.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained to you as it does to him as he remembers why he was standing in your hotel doorway in the first place, the files in his hand suddenly weighing like a ton.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong, if anything, a slow smile spreads across your face that has Hotch’s stomach flipping.

You look radiant, the intimacy of being near you in your pajamas when you were clearly in the middle of your nighttime routine not going unnoticed. He peers over the top of your head to notice your go bag on your bed, clothes and your personal laptop strewn all over the comforter, and the TV being tuned to what you’d call an “entertaining yet trashy show.”

“You’re still working even though you’re the one who suggested having an early night? It’s late.”

Hotch blinks at you because what else would he have done if not attempt to catch up on the seemingly never-ending pile of papers and reports? “You’re still up late too.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just about to go to bed before you knocked, so technically I have better work-life boundaries than you.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

You study him—still wearing his suit sans the jacket, tie only slightly loosened and sleeves rolled up his forearms. He hadn’t even bothered to put his shoes back on, comfortable enough with the hotel’s reputation to be in his room and take the two steps across the carpeted hallway in his socks.

“As long as you make it fast.” And then you’re stepping aside and opening the door further, the sweetness of the vanilla nearly pulling Hotch in.

Except he’s somehow distracted by the dollop of cream still on your cheek, right underneath your eye. Witnessing first-hand the twinkling of your eyes as you glance up at him and the way your pink headband has your hair pushed back, baring the most of your face he’s ever seen, has him sidetracked.

“You have a little…” He motions to his own face, hoping that you will take the hint.

And you don’t, not exactly, because of course you don’t. You immediately swipe at your face but on the wrong cheek and stare down at your hand when you don’t catch anything. “What?”

Hotch is a problem-solver, meticulous, and always thinks things through. That’s his job, to always be two steps ahead of anyone and everyone. So he’s not sure how or why he’s suddenly reaching a hand out to swipe at the cream on your face with his thumb, his touch lingering on the warmth of your cheek.

Whatever Hotch was going to say dies in his throat at the very audible hitch of your breath, the way your eyes widen at his close proximity. Your skin is smooth, softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he ignores the way you’re staring into him as he pulls back and absentmindedly rubs the moisturizer in the palm of his other hand. If he tries hard enough, the cream on his own skin nearly replicates the feeling of yours.

He's about to clear his throat to apologize, maybe even mention something about how the report can technically wait until tomorrow and turn right on his heel back into his room to ignore the adamant weight pressing down on his chest, when your expression changes.

Something almost akin to smugness tugs at the corners of your lips, the shininess inexplicably different and more distracting than your usual lipstick. Your bright eyes dance with amusement before your arms fall from where they were crossed on your chest to your sides.

“You know, I’m wearing a lip mask right now if you want some of that too.”

“Excuse me?”

If possible, your grin widens, causing Hotch to internally deny that he was suddenly feeling breathless. “I use a lip mask every night. They just make them look so kissable, right?”

Something in Hotch snaps, because if that wasn’t a clear invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

When he finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him, you’re slowly backing up until you’re pressed up against the nearest wall with that infuriating grin on your face.

You’re playing with him, you’ve been playing with him, but he doesn’t care and can’t even think about that when you’re peering up at him with soft eyes.

When Hotch brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, he thinks his stomach nearly twists itself into a knot at the immediate way you lean into him and the way your eyes flutter shut.

When he finally kisses you, he can smell the sweetness of the raspberry lip mask before he tastes it, seamlessly blending in with your vanilla body wash and making him feel more drunk than he’s felt in a long time.

You place your hands on his chest, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and something about touching him has you unconsciously parting your lips to deepen the kiss, causing the smell of raspberry to become stronger.

Hotch can immediately feel the stickiness of your mask on his mouth, and he’s tempted to pull away at the unfamiliarity of something on his lips, but then you’re sighing into him and his hands are suddenly on your waist where the bottom of your pajama top has barely lifted. The warmth of your skin was intoxicating.

You have to be the first one to break the kiss, and when Hotch opens his eyes, you’re staring at him, your smirk having morphed into a smile of disbelief. His eyes flit to the almost imperceptible smear of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

“You have a little…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to his own lips, your smile doing nothing to calm the erratic rhythm Hotch’s heart has taken.

Hotch wonders how much you had put on yourself because the amount that he can feel on his lips makes him immediately want to swipe at his mouth. But that would mean having to take his hands off of you and he doesn’t think he has the willpower for that.

Instead, he rubs his lips together in an effort to spread the tackiness equally over his lips before he says “I like it, but I don’t think I got enough.”

You huff a laugh at that, your fingers tightening from where they’re gripping the lapels of his dress shirt. “I think I can help you with that.”

five.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Just five more minutes, I promise!”

That’s what you had said ten minutes ago. It’s not like Hotch is impatient per se, just content that you had agreed to sleep over again after another late date night and there wasn’t a looming case coming up.

You had only slept over one other time when the team had gotten back from a case late and Hotch wasn’t going to let you drive yourself home when you could barely keep yourself standing. You had dozed off the entire car ride home, head leaning against the window which caused Hotch to adamantly avoid all the potholes and tight turns, and yet you still managed to do your skincare routine in his ensuite bathroom before coming to bed.

After that night in your hotel room, you’ve become bolder. You’re now sitting next to Hotch on the jet, you make your way up to his office when there were still plenty of people milling about in the bullpen, and the way you peer up at him through your eyelashes during case briefings has him itching for a cold shower.

Neither have you said anything to the rest of the team, but at this point, Hotch doesn’t think he has to with the way both Dave and Morgan have patted him on the back the day after you laughed at something Emily had said and leaned against him, leaving his shoulder thrumming from your warmth for the next hour.

Another five minutes pass and Hotch can still hear the clinking of your serums as you rummage through your cosmetics bag. He silently sets aside his phone to get up from his extremely comfortable spot in the bed to pad his way over to the bathroom.

The sight that greets him has Hotch’s stomach plummeting all over again.

You’re sporting that same headband with the pink bow again, however this time, you’re wearing one of his old academy shirts that had mysteriously gone missing from his dresser several weeks ago. You’re freshly showered and you’re holding onto some kind of strangely shaped metallic instrument that you’re scraping over your cheekbones and then down your neck. The way it drags over your skin has Hotch cringing sympathetically.

You immediately spot him, meeting his gaze through the mirror, and the way your eyes immediately light up has a small smile forming on Hotch’s face before he can help it. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” Hotch leans against the doorway, content to watch the clearly practiced movements of you rubbing your skin with this strange contraption. “It’s been over five minutes.”

You pout. “Sorry, I’ve been holding this off all week and I need to do it tonight.”

Hotch was sure that “need” was a strong word, but he doesn’t question it. He stopped questioning your thorough skincare routine months ago.

And then you turn to him, something mischievous tugging at your glossy lips. “Wanna try it?”

Apprehension thuds in his chest, but he takes a step forward into the glow of the bathroom anyway. “And what is it exactly?”

Detecting your hesitation a mile away, you give him a warm smile as you hold it up to him. “It’s called a gua sha. It’s supposed to help with blood flow and getting rid of toxins and all that.”

Hotch may not be a beauty or skincare expert, but he has doubts that this piece of metal can actually do all of those things. To be fair, he’s had quite a few doubts about most of the items you use and not so subtly make him try.

The delight painted clear on your face though has Hotch tucking those thoughts away. He’s sure he has no right to question one’s own method on how to relax.

“Okay.”

You immediately muffle a squeal and turn to grab some other serum you left out on the sink, a light gold swimming around in the bottle.

“I’ll only do half of your face, I promise.” You squeeze some of the mysterious liquid on your hands and reach up to pat the left side of his face.

It’s thicker than your usual products, most likely some kind of oil that smells like roses, but the heat from your hand and your close proximity has Hotch feeling inexplicably warm all over.

“Okay, now you just use this side to run up your cheekbone like this.” You demonstrate for him and he adamantly makes note of the light pressure you’re using. “And then you run it down your face and down your neck.”

When he attempts to copy your movements with the warm metal, he doesn’t notice any difference in how his skin feels or the blood flow in his face, but you’re studying him so closely that Hotch is tempted to say he does.

It’s a strange sensation, but honestly it doesn’t feel any different than if he used his own fingers to rub up against his cheekbone or jawline.

When he puts the piece of metal back in your open palm, you’re nearly teeming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”

He pauses. “I don’t think it’s for me, sweetheart.”

You pout but he can tell that you’re not offended. “Boo. Fine, I’ll meet you in bed, handsome.”

Hotch is about to turn back to go to bed before he remembers the thick oil covering half of his face, evenly dispersed but still uncomfortable and will surely stain his pillowcase. He attempts to discreetly wipe at it with his hand as best as he can before quickly rubbing it off on your arm and escaping.

The screech you let out echoes in his bathroom as you try to swat at him and narrowly miss, and the way he feels heat tinge at the tip of his ears is better than any metallic contraption’s claim to improve blood flow.

On his days off, Hotch much prefers spending as much time as he can at home, either with Jack, you, or, more recently, both. Even if Hotch technically sees you every day in the bullpen, you at work is much different than the you at home.

Or at least, he likes to think there’s a difference as you drag him to the grocery store during what was possibly the quietest afternoon he’s had in several months.

I just have to pick up a couple of things, you had said as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger side. We’ll be back home in a jiffy.

Never mind the fact that the word home coming from your lips has Hotch’s mind reeling. You’ve been seeing each other for several months now and he’s almost sure that you haven’t stepped foot in your own apartment for at least a month. You’ve taken up half of his dresser, most of his closet space, and the entirety of the counter space in the bathroom with your multi-colored serums and skincare tools that don’t work no matter what you claim.

He follows you around the store, dutifully pushing the grocery cart, as you mentally go through your checklist on all the toiletries you’re almost out of. Which is why he finds himself in the cosmetics aisle when you exclaim “Oh, I forgot about tomatoes for taco Tuesday!” and scamper off before he could say there were plenty of tomatoes from last time in the fridge because Jack has suddenly decided he doesn’t like them anymore.

He's content to wait, maybe check his emails on his phone, when he spots the familiar label of his face wash out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a brand that Haley had recommended for him when they were in college and Hotch knew absolutely nothing about skincare then, so he just continued buying it. He’s gone through countless bottles over the years, having used it nearly every day, yet Hotch finds himself frowning as he stares at the bright orange bottle.

The large bold letters advertise the cleanser being able to effectively combat oiliness, but Hotch distinctly remembers you offhandedly mentioning how lucky he was to have dry skin and not a combination like you.

Honestly, he had no idea, but it would make sense with how you were constantly slathering him in lotions and creams any chance you got.

He browses through the available cleansers, keeping an eye out for those that treat dry skin, when you sidle up next to him with a bag of tomatoes that were undoubtedly not going to get eaten. He can hear the hesitation in your voice when you ask “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something different.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I was wearing you down, Hotchner. Soon, you’re going to be begging me to take you to Sephora.” You’re joking but Hotch can detect the underlying seriousness in your voice.

He continues as if he didn’t hear you. “I’ve been using the wrong face wash for my skin so I’m looking for a different one. I probably haven’t been doing my skin any favors all these years.”

A pause. And then, incredulously, you say “Who taught you that?”

Finding one that was a good size and affordable enough to try, Hotch grabs it and throws it into the cart. When he meets your eyes, you’re staring up at him with a disbelieving smile.

“You did.” And it’s true—Hotch would’ve never thought about the long-term benefits of having a humidifier in the bedroom or the importance of sunscreen everyday if it weren’t for you. Taking care of your appearance was clearly important to you, which meant it was now important to him.

You stare at him, lips parted as if you’re at a loss for words. Your skin is glowing even under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lighting. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?”

You toss the tomatoes in the cart, making him wince, and loop your arm through his to tug him along the aisle. You smell sugary sweet with maybe a hint of his cologne from where you had slept in one of his old shirts last night. Hotch remembers how he had felt lightheaded, fondness flooding his chest, when he woke to you laying on his chest this morning. He tugs you closer into his side.

“Does this mean that you’ll try that new light therapy mask that I bought?”

“One step at a time, honey.”

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#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x reader fluff #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fanfic #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #mine #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds fic

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mrsvante · 1 month ago

Text

The Long Game VII

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere, domestic bliss

summary: he’d prepared for this moment a thousand times, imagined every sound you’d make, every look you’d give. But nothing compared to the reality of you—standing in the space he’d shaped around your absence, breathing life into rooms that had felt cold without you. you had no idea. no idea what you’d done to him. no idea how far he’d go to keep you exactly where you were now.

warnings: domestic namjoon, there’s some fluff, breeding kink, oral f!recieving, possessive vibes on crack, namjoon is drunk off you, the life of luxury 😩

word count: 3,505

Namjoon could barely contain himself.

No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t containing himself.

His usual cool, collected demeanor had all but crumbled the second you stepped through the doors of his penthouse, your penthouse now, whether you realized it or not. He’d been practically vibrating since the moment you landed, eager anticipation simmering beneath every polite smile and courteous gesture.

Now, as he guided you through the space with your hand resting delicately in his, Namjoon felt like a boy showing off a science project he’d spent months perfecting. He watched you with hawk like intensity, hanging on every delighted sound that left your lips, cataloging every wide eyed glance and shy little smile as though they were treasures in and of themselves.

He was… ecstatic. And that wasn’t a word Namjoon often used for himself.

The penthouse had undergone a transformation in your absence, stripped of the sleek, cold minimalism that had once defined it. The walls were warmer now, soft grays and delicate earth tones replacing the harsh slate palette. The furniture had been swapped out for cozier, more inviting pieces, and tasteful personal touches were scattered throughout.

You couldn’t stop turning in slow, stunned circles as you took it all in.

“You remodeled… everything,” you whispered, breathless. “It feels so different.”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a soft smile, so unbearably tender it made his cheeks ache. He couldn’t help himself—he reached for you, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“For you,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet devotion. “Only for you.”

He led you next to your new office. Custom built ins lined the walls, housing art supplies, books, your laptop setup—everything you could ever need. The oversized window overlooked the city, allowing natural light to pour in, and Namjoon made sure you noticed the little details: the plush rug beneath your chair, the coffee warmer on your desk, the miniature fridge stocked with your favorite drinks.

“Now you can work without distractions,” he said, pleased, watching your mouth part in disbelief.

Then came the closet. He’d knocked down walls for this, expanded what was once merely impressive into something borderline decadent. Your clothes had already been carefully unpacked, organized perfectly, and your bags, shoes, and jewelry were on display like pieces of art.

You laughed in shock. “You remodeled your closet?”

Namjoon only smirked, tugging you closer until your back hit his chest and his mouth pressed against your ear. “What’s mine is yours. Besides,” his hand slid down your waist, squeezing lightly, “you take up so much space in my life already. Might as well make room everywhere.”

The greenhouse stole your breath next. He’d designed it entirely for you—lush with tropical plants you’d brought back from Singapore, softly glowing grow lights overhead, humidity carefully regulated. It was warm and serene, a perfect little haven nestled right in the sky.

Namjoon watched you press your hands to the glass of the windows, your eyes glassy.

“You did all of this… for me?”

“Of course.” He said it simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. In his mind, it was. There had never been a version of this life where he wouldn’t make every inch of his home ready to receive you properly.

But the real jewel came last—the bedroom.

You gasped when you stepped inside. Gone was the stark, cool aesthetic from before. Now, it was intimate and warm. Soft, airy curtains framed the windows, plush rugs covered the hardwood floors, and the walls had been painted in a muted, romantic taupe.

The bed was massive. Dressed in seductive silk sheets, pillows upon pillows, and a comforter that looked impossibly inviting. There was a stunning vanity fully stocked with all of your makeup and skincare. On your side of the bed, Namjoon had even stocked your nightstand. Your favorite lip balm, your water carafe and glass, your favorite snacks tucked away in the drawers.

But what made you laugh softly, tears threatening to spring into your eyes, was the familiar sight of your giant shark plushie propped up between the bed and nightstand.

You turned, overwhelmed and radiant, throwing your arms around Namjoon.

“Joon,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his face, his jaw, his lips. “You are… so fucking good to me. This is everything. You’re everything.”

His eyes fluttered shut, basking in your affection, but beneath his soft smile, something deeper stirred. Because as much as he adored your gratitude—the kisses, the words, the way you clung to him —it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Not for a man like him.

What he really wanted… was you. In this bed. Wrapped up in his sheets. Marking this space as yours in the only way that mattered.

And so, Namjoon kissed you back.

Slowly at first. Almost achingly tender.

His lips tasted of restraint and simmering hunger, a fragile balance he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain for long. He walked you backward with deliberate steps, the heat rolling off him in waves, until your knees bumped against the edge of the bed. You fell back easily when he guided you, trusting him, pliant beneath the weight of his stare.

His body pressed over yours, large hands spanning your sides as though they were meant to anchor you there, under him, with him. His mouth dragged lower, down your throat, lingering with greedy intent at your collarbones where his lips left slow, wet kisses. They felt like brands, like marks that silently screamed mine.

You giggled softly, breath hitching as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Greedy man,” you teased with a breathless laugh, your words threaded with fondness. “You already did all this for me and now you want more?”

Namjoon groaned, rolling his hips down against you, the thick press of his cock, still restrained by his sweats, grinding perfectly against your core. It pulled a soft gasp from your lips and immediately satisfied some deep, primal part of him.

“You know exactly what I want,” he rasped darkly, his voice already wrecked from need.

Clothes soon became meaningless. They were removed slowly, almost ceremoniously, his hands sliding across every inch of newly exposed skin like he couldn’t bear to leave any part of you untouched. Each patch of bare flesh was met with worship.

Kisses that lingered, touches that lingered longer.

He sucked marks onto your thighs, leaving evidence of his possession in tender bruises. He traced his tongue up your stomach, following the soft lines of your body with an almost devout care, and then buried his face between your breasts, inhaling like he could live off the scent of you alone.

It was intoxicating. You, laid out for him like this.

By the time he slid down between your legs, his control had frayed dangerously thin.

His tongue licked slow, calculated stripes over your pussy until you writhed for him, your moans bouncing off the walls and filling the newly christened bedroom. Namjoon hummed in satisfaction, fingers gripping your thighs tighter as he devoured you with slow, sinful expertise.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice muffled by your slick heat. “Let me taste home.”

You came fast and hard, body tightening beneath his mouth, and he didn’t stop until you were shuddering and tugging at his hair in desperation.

Only then did he rise, mouth glistening, eyes dark with hunger as he lined himself up and thrust deep in one long, claiming push.

You gasped, your legs instantly locking around his hips as your nails dug into his back.

Namjoon groaned harshly, pressing his forehead against yours, his hips barely moving yet as he savored the overwhelming tightness.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he breathed out, lips brushing against your temple. “You feel perfect… so fucking perfect for me. Always so warm, so tight. Like you were made for my cock.”

His thrusts began slowly, deep and rhythmic, dragging pleasure from both of you in slow, consuming waves. Your back arched off the mattress as breathy moans spilled from your lips, your arms curling around his broad shoulders like you needed to hold onto something, anything.

Namjoon couldn’t help but murmur into your skin, drunk off your body, drunk off you. His mouth dragged lazy kisses across your throat, lips swollen from how desperately he’d kissed you moments before.

“You’re my good girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Always so good for me.”

His hand slid down to cradle your thigh, holding you open as he rocked deeper into you, as if he could mold you to fit him even more perfectly.

“My perfect girl.” He kissed the shell of your ear, and the possessive tremble in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Back where you belong,” he rasped, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you. “Back where I need you. Where you’re safe. Where you’re mine.”

His thrusts slowed, deepened—less frantic now, more deliberate. Like he wanted to feel every inch, like he wanted to memorize this. You. The soft, sinful way you wrapped around him.

“I missed this,” he breathed. “Missed us. Missed being inside you where I’m supposed to be. Like I’ve been walking around empty without you.”

“You were made for me,” he whispered. “Just for me.”

You whispered his name softly—Joon, Joon, Joon—like you couldn’t say anything else, like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

But softness never lasted long with Namjoon.

Not when you clenched around him so sweetly. Not when your thighs trembled, your mouth hung open in pleasure, your face flushed from his love.

His pace grew rougher, more urgent, and he sat back slightly to grab your hips, angling you just right so his cock slammed into the perfect spot with every desperate thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the bedroom, joined by your breathy cries and his low, guttural grunts.

That’s when the shift happened.

That’s when he fell into it, that dark, obsessive place he rarely let show in front of you.

“Fuck,” Namjoon growled, his voice thick, drunk on the way your body responded to his every move. His eyes flicked down to where your pussy was stretched around him, flushed with hunger, taking him so perfectly. “Look at this. Look how you take me. Like you were born for me.”

His pace faltered, grinding instead of thrusting as he leaned closer, lips grazing your jaw.

“Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, his voice a sharp edge wrapped in silk. “Gonna fuck my cum so deep inside you, baby. You’ll be dripping with me for days.”

You whimpered his name, shaky and overwhelmed, but Namjoon wasn’t listening. Not really. He was gone, swept up in the idea of you.

“Imagine it,” he murmured, licking into your mouth as he continued to grind deep. “My wife. My perfect little wife, belly round with my baby, stuck at home because you’re too fucked out and swollen to do anything but wait for me to come home and fill you again.”

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Joon—”

“Imagine walking around this penthouse pregnant,” he continued, nearly delirious now. “Our home. Our bed. Every room yours… except you can’t even bend down to pick something up without my help because you’re carrying so much of me inside you.”

Your breath hitched, face burning with arousal and embarrassment.

“You’re insane,” you gasped, but your hips rolled up to meet his desperately, chasing the drag and press of his cock.

Namjoon groaned deeply, eyes fluttering as he lost himself in the idea.

“Insane for you,” he corrected, his thrusts suddenly brutal again, snapping into you hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall. “Fucking crazy for you. Want to keep you like that. Want to make you mine in every way there is. Want everyone to look at you and know who fucking owns you.”

You moaned loudly, clenching around him hard, and Namjoon cursed, losing what little control he had left.

“Gonna fill you up every night,” he growled, slamming in deeper, harder, his pace wild now. “Over and over until it takes. Until you’re knocked up and glowing and stuck right here with me.”

Your cries echoed around the bedroom, your body locking up tight as you came again, sobbing his name as your walls fluttered wildly around him.

Namjoon followed instantly, hips grinding down as he spilled inside you, a long, desperate moan falling from his lips as he emptied himself completely.

He stayed there, buried deep, panting against your shoulder, his arms tight around your body like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, pressing frantic kisses to your neck. “I need you.”

“You’re mine. Always mine.”

You whimpered softly, too wrecked to answer, but you pressed your lips against his jaw weakly and that was enough.

Eventually, Namjoon shifted, carefully easing out and gathering you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. He carried you to the bathroom, gently cleaned you up, and pressed soft kisses to your thighs and belly as you dozed off, too spent to protest.

When he tucked you back into bed, brushing your hair from your face and whispering quietly as you drifted to sleep.

“Sleep, princess. You’re home now,” he murmured, trailing his fingers along your arm.

—

The sun was still low in the sky when Namjoon stirred.

The penthouse was bathed in soft, early light, golden and warm as it filtered through the sheer curtains. The city beyond the windows was quiet, still asleep, but inside this bedroom, inside this bed, everything felt perfect.

You were curled against him, your face pressed into his bare chest, one leg tossed possessively over his waist. Your breathing was steady, lips parted slightly as you slept, blissfully unaware of the way Namjoon’s dark eyes traced every feature of your face like he was memorizing you.

Like he hadn’t spent the entire night tangled with you.

Like he didn’t already know every inch of your body and soul.

His fingers trailed softly down your spine, barely grazing, but the simple act made his cock twitch beneath the covers. Not even from lust—though that simmered quietly, as always—but from pure obsession.

You were here.

You were his.

Back in Seoul, in his bed, in his life.

Namjoon swallowed thickly, heart aching in a way that wasn’t gentle or romantic. It was primal. A dark, desperate need that twisted low in his gut and whispered that he would never, ever let you leave again.

Not now. Not after this.

He stayed like that for nearly an hour, just watching you sleep, before you finally stirred, groaning softly and stretching like a lazy cat. Your eyes fluttered open and met his gaze immediately.

“Why are you awake?” you asked, voice scratchy with sleep, lips curving slightly at the corners.

Namjoon smiled, warm and devastating, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Not with you looking like that right next to me.”

You rolled your eyes but blushed anyway, hiding your face in his chest with a shy laugh.

“Gross,” you teased. “You’re gross in the mornings.”

“You love it,” he countered easily, his arms tightening around you. “You love me.”

You froze for a split second—then relaxed, heart skipping as your fingers trailed up his ribs.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Namjoon kissed your crown like he’d won something monumental. Like your sleepy little confession had satisfied something deep inside him that words couldn’t reach.

Breakfast was lazy. He ordered in, everything you liked, and insisted on feeding you bites straight from his chopsticks. He sat close, closer than necessary, his knee pressed against yours, his hand occasionally sneaking under the oversized shirt you wore, his shirt, to squeeze your bare thigh.

At some point, though, as you sipped your tea, you remembered. Your face warmed as you glanced over at him, watching as he polished off his own plate, annoyingly casual.

“…Joon?”

“Hm?” He glanced at you, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb, utterly at ease.

“Last night,” you began slowly, unsure how to phrase it without sounding too affected. “You said some stuff.”

His brows lifted faintly, clearly amused. “I said a lot of stuff, baby.”

You scowled playfully but your heart pounded. “You know what I mean.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then, slowly, a wicked grin spread across his face, so lazy and fond and dangerous it made your stomach flip.

“Oh,” he drawled, voice dropping slightly. “You mean when I told you I was going to make you my wife and pump you full of my babies?”

You choked on your tea, eyes wide. “Joon—!”

“What?” he asked innocently, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head, muscles flexing beneath his tshirt. “It’s true. That’s the plan. I want you barefoot, pregnant, and stuck at home so I can keep you all to myself.”

You stared at him, mouth opening and closing uselessly, and he just smiled like you were adorable for being so flustered.

“You’re serious,” you finally whispered, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Namjoon tilted his head, his grin softening into something more intense. “Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re mine. And soon, you’ll be mine legally too. That ring is coming, sweetheart. Soon as you even hint that you’re ready…”

His eyes darkened, voice turning rougher.

“I’ll put a baby in you so fast you won’t even remember life before it.”

You sputtered, your cheeks on fire.

“Joon, my parents haven’t even met you yet!” you blurted. “I haven’t even met your parents—how can you talk about marriage and babies like that?”

Namjoon blinked once, very slowly. Then, his lips twitched like you’d just said something very stupid.

“…Is that it?” he asked, voice low and amused. “That’s what’s holding you back from our future?”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer before he pulled out his phone.

You gawked. “Namjoon. Joon. What are you doing—?”

He was already typing. Already calling.

Within seconds, he had the phone to his ear and his tone flipped immediately. Soft, polite, almost boyish in a way that made your head spin.

“Eomma,” he greeted warmly. “Good morning. No, everything’s fine. Actually—yes. I have someone I want you to meet. Your future daughter-in-law.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, your stomach flipping wildly as he casually, shamelessly said the words like it was the most natural thing in the world. You couldn’t hear his mother’s response, but Namjoon’s pleased hum and knowing grin told you everything.

“Mm, yes. Soon. I’ll set up a day and time. Appa too? Of course. I want them both to meet her properly.”

When he hung up, he was glowing. No, preening. He looked absolutely smug and satisfied as he turned back to you.

“There,” he said simply. “Handled.”

You could only gape. “Namjoon…”

“What?” he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief and affection. “You said that was the issue. So now it’s not.”

You hid your face in your hands, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Namjoon reached forward and tugged your hands down gently, cupping your cheeks as he leaned in, his voice dropping low and dangerous.

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he corrected, kissing your lips softly.

You melted, just a little.

“…My parents…” you tried again weakly, but Namjoon didn’t let you finish.

“Tell me about them,” he said easily. “I need to know everything before I meet them.”

It rolled off his tongue so easily. As if he hadn’t done an entire background check on every single on of your living relatives. Immediate and distant family. He’d left no stone untouched when he was debating on making you an offer of being his sugar baby.

How drastically things have changed over the years.

You hesitated, and then started explaining that they knew about someone. You’d vaguely told them you were seeing someone exclusively, but you definitely hadn’t explained that he was your sugar daddy turned boyfriend turned obsessed husband to be.

Namjoon listened carefully, nodding along with a thoughtful hum.

“And they’re… traditional, you said?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Kind of. They’re not super strict but, y’know… they don’t like too much PDA. Especially when meeting someone for the first time.”

For a moment, Namjoon just stared at you. Then his lips curled in a way that made your stomach clench.

“No hands?” he asked slowly, clearly amused.

“No hands,” you confirmed firmly.

“No kisses?”

“Joon.”

“No fucking?” he added with a wicked grin.

You groaned, slapping his arm.

“They’re my parents, Namjoon. Behave.”

He laughed, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap again, his hands automatically sliding down to cup your ass possessively.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised smoothly. “But you know I’m going to be inside you as soon as they leave, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but your body betrayed you, heat flooding between your thighs at the thought. Namjoon kissed you again, slow and possessive, humming softly as he tasted your surrender.

“Soon, princess,” he whispered against your lips. “Soon you’ll be my wife. And then I won’t ever have to pretend to behave again.”

And the terrifying thing was… you weren’t sure you wanted him to.

six | masterlist | eight

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