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kimstills · 4 months ago

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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.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #maddie’s stills

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tbartss · 6 months ago

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Underrated moments in AFTG upon reread:

- Allison calling Kevin’s tattoo a tramp stamp

- Seth laughing his ass off upon hearing Riko was on the Kathy Ferdinand show

- Nicky suggesting Allison and Kevin hook up and they both react with intense disgust

- Aaron shrugging to Neil coming back absolutely battered from Evermore

- Kevin wanting to ask what Neil and Andrew talked about at Eden’s twilight after Andrew confessed to Neil, then seeing Neil’s face and being like “you know what? Not my business.”

- Dan, Allison and Renee basically fake dating platonically their first year to defy the sexist guys on their team

- Neil finding math interesting

- Kevin giving Neil the most scathing elevator look that Neil feels shame about his wardrobe for the first and only time

- Dan punching a Raven in the dick after they made a sexual comment about her past

- Matt’s mother being so grateful to Andrew for getting Matt clean that she pays Aaron’s bail

- Nicky calling Kevin a brat

- Wymack making Dan the first female captain despite the rampant misogyny in Exy

- Andrew stroking Neil’s back after Neil stood up for Kevin at Kathy’s Interview

- Wymack and Matt being the original Andreil shippers

- Neil giving Kevin his binder before going to Evermore like HELLO???? That was some INSANE trust

#aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #the raven king #the kings men #Neil josten #Kevin day #Seth Gordon #Allison reynolds #Dan wilds #Renee walker #Nicky hemlock #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #david wymack

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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 months ago

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A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse. It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

#aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner fluff #mine🌟

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tojicide · 7 months ago

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OBSESSED. ☆ SYLUS.

📰 extra, extra! why is your bodyguard so obsessed with you? girl, you wanna know...

warnings. fem!reader, popstar!reader, bodyguard!sylus, established romantic history ( very brief ), pet names, semi-public, fingering, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v. wc. 4.6k.

an. reused the header and a bit of the plot from an aaron hotchner fanfic i wrote on wattpad in like… 2021??? tweaked most of the details obvs but ig i was born as a bodyguard au lover

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Your bodyguard was such a buzzkill.

Dragging you out of every party you make an appearance at, replacing your shots with water once he believes you’ve had one too many, watching you like a hawk no matter where you are or who you’re with...

You despise those who have an inability to have fun, so as far as you’re concerned, Sylus is the devil reincarnated. You aren’t exactly shy about your opinion of him either, and perhaps in hindsight, that is exactly why he was currently pacing through the party you’re in attendance of to try and ruin your night yet again.

(Ruin your night or… do his job? Hell if you care about the logistics of it all. Two sides of the same coin, you think.)

His protective instinct only grew more intense ever since the two of you shared a kiss before a concert of yours that left your lipstick smeared over your face like there was no tomorrow…

And what did that asshole do? Nothing. It was in his nature to make your life miserable after all. Sylus let you walk out in front of your thousands of fans, makeup messy and appearance disheveled all from his mouth on yours alone.

And boy, did the tabloids have a time with that one… Who was the culprit? A new fling of yours? Fiancé? Possible baby daddy? Each and every news outlet had some uniquely wrong to say. Can’t a girl have a makeout session with her bodyguard in peace?

Unfortunately for you, the paparazzi have been hounding you ever since that day, itching to get the 4-1-1 on your love life.

And ever since, you haven’t given many people the time of day—including Sylus. Tonight, you’ve managed to stay two steps ahead of your dear bodyguard and evade eventual capture for just a bit longer. You’re currently surrounded by a few of your friends, socialites and actors alike.

Your lips seem to flap freely when you have a few drinks in you, but tonight, you’re sober but even more talkative than ever. Your chosen topic of conversation? Your overbearing and stupidly handsome bodyguard, of course.

Too lost in your story, waving your arms around to your theatrical pleasure, you hardly noticed the way your friends’ faces paled to a ghostly shade of white, their eyes nearly bulging out of their heads and their lips parted as if they had something to say but… couldn’t.

All the while, you were too busy blowing off the steam that you’d acquired from your last encounter with the forsaken bodyguard. “…And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?”

As fate would have it, you hear a throat clear behind you followed by an annoyed sigh that you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand. You spin around, already wearing a scowl.

“Obsessed with you, hm?” Sylus says, his voice low and seemingly dangerous, though your utter distaste for the man rids him of his intimidation. “You’re quite self important. I could never live in a world where I’d fall at the feet of an egotistical popstar.”

You roll your eyes at that. Who does he think he is? Everyone loves you—all except for the disgustingly handsome man standing in front of you.

“Mm… well, you can always die an untimely death and never have to work for me again,” you reply, giving him the most passive aggressive smile known to man. “Hopefully that gives you an ounce of hope.”

“It does,” he replies, returning the same expression that you gave him.

It’s borderline infuriating how undisturbed Sylus was. No, it is infuriating. No matter how many insults you chucked his way, he never cracked. (And the one time he did, it led to the two of you playing tonsil tennis in your dressing room...)

You shake your head, huffing in utter annoyance. You then hold your wrists up for display, cocking your head to the side as you give him a mock puppy dog expression. “Sooo… are you here to take me away, Officer Buzzkill?”

Sylus merely blinks in response to your taunting, taking a firm grasp on one of your wrists before he tugs you through the sea of partygoers. He laces your fingers together, squeezing tight as to not lose hold of you.

“Must you always make things so difficult?” he asks, keeping his eyes ahead.

You shrug your shoulders. “More or less.”

“More or less?” he echoes, glancing over his shoulder to properly look at you. “I suggest you try a different style of communication, sweetness. Your clipped attitude will get you nowhere.”

“Oh? But it’s gotten me so far already…” you trail off, glancing at his lips for a few agonizingly long seconds before a smirk tugs on the corner of your mouth. “In fact, I think it can get me even further.”

Sylus’s jaw tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he tears his gaze away from you. He can’t handle the way you’re looking at him—so unbelievably beautiful with those siren eyes of yours, the mere sight of you already stirring something unwanted within him.

He turns around to continue leading you through the crowd without a reply. You begin to glance around yourself, attempting to plot your brilliant escape.

“Don’t,” he flatly states, his iron grip tightening on your hand.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a strong tone of defiance.

Sylus gives your hand one solid tug before you’re standing in front of him, his free hand pressing onto the small of your back as he keeps you pressed to his chest. “If you haven’t noticed, you brat, I will always chase you. I’ll find you just the same.”

You almost deflate under his intense gaze, his deep red eyes piercing through your own. It wasn’t often that Sylus manhandled you, but when he did, it made you feel… different. Intrigued, maybe.

“How touching,” you deadpan, “but you still get on my nerves.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Tch. Oh, I’m sorry… when have I ever cared about what you think?”

“Never,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You know… if you hate me so much, you should just quit on me.”

Sylus rolls his eyes, his red irises drawing you in like no other. “I don’t… hate you. You should be rather thankful that I don’t, because I’m doubtful that anyone else would want this job of mine—you’re quite the handful.”

“Mm, I’m only saying,” you murmur with a shrug, giving his hand a harsh squeeze as if the roughness of your grasp would make him let go, but he, of course, does not. “You don’t need this job, and yet, here you are.”

He raises a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

You smile, the same shit-eating grin that he has grown to be all too familiar with. “Give me your wallet.”

Sylus huffs, his broad shoulders deflating as he fishes his black leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it over to you. You take it with ease, taking your hand from his as you crack it open.

You slip his Black Card from the sleeve, proving that he truly didn’t need the job for any monetary gain. And then, a triumphant smile graces your lips as you pull out none other than a Polaroid photo taken of you—backstage at your concert just before the kiss you two shared.

“Ooh… what’s this?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

Sylus reaches forward to try and snatch the tiny photo from you, but you are far too quick. “What are you revealing exactly? That you were secretly snooping in my wallet prior to now?”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation, “and that you’re secretly rich and in love with me. Does that make us even?”

His jaw sets, his piercing gaze set on yours. He works to snatch the photo from you, tucking his belongings back into his wallet before he slips it into his pocket. “No. Maybe if you were less of a pain, we could be even.”

You wiggle your eyebrows in suggestion. “You’re not denying being in love with me, dear bodyguard of mine.”

Sylus gives you a deadpan expression. “Must you always be so self righteous? God forbid I am proud of you and your success.”

The genuine nature of his words set you back a step, your brows knitting together and your lips parting. If Sylus noticed the shift of your expression, he didn’t mention it. Thankfully. His cold fingers lace with yours once more, continuing the stride towards the exit of the party.

“Rather than putting on this show of yours, you truly should be thanking me for saving your reputation,” he quietly adds, his hand now curled around your waist as you approach the exit. “There is a swarm of paparazzi outside who are desperate to get their grimy hands on a picture of their beloved popstar doing something remotely scandalous.”

(And if Sylus knows anything about you, it’s that you love scandals. According to you, they ‘make life worth living’. Tch. Diva.)

You chuckle. “Aww, you care!”

“Do I care, or is it my job to look after you?” he asks, plucking his sunglasses from his pocket to place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the rapid camera flashes of the paparazzi. “Public intoxication numerous times a week is not a very good look for you, sweetie. Incredibly frowned upon.”

Your jaw sets as you listen to his words. While they are undeniably true, you don’t have any plans for admitting that—not now or in the near future.

“Making out with my bodyguard is frowned upon as well, but you didn’t seem to be complaining about that bit,” you say under your breath.

Your voice was low enough that your weighted words were almost drowned out by the booming music of the party and by the chatter of the photographers you’re about to be engulfed in. Almost.

Sylus flashes you a glare. “You shouldn’t mumble. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You heard me,” you state.

He did hear you, that was exactly the problem. It was no coincidence that the two of you haven’t spoken much since your very intense lip lock. You’ve been avoiding each other, evading the invisible string that connects the two of you like both an electric current and a noose.

The tension between the two of you was tangible, palpable even—you could practically taste it just as well as you could still taste his lips on your own. It was intoxicating, imprinting, searing.

It managed to distract you from the flashing lights of the cameramen who were swarming you, capturing flick after flick of you being led through the crowd.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “You know, you can help me out with all of this,” you murmur, gesturing towards the paparazzi. “My publicist came up with an idea that will get them off my back for a while. Give them the answers they need and… whatnot.”

“Is that right?” he asks, glancing your way. “Do tell.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tuning out all of the chattering paparazzi who are currently surrounding you. “Be my impromptu mystery man for the cameras. I’ll give you anything you want in return, I swear it.”

Sylus hums, the sound omitting a deep rumble into the air. “Anything I want? My, my, sweets, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

You huff, grasping onto the collar of his jacket as you pull him into you. “Just go with it.”

“Just go with wh— mmph!” Sylus’s words were muffled by your lips slotting against his in a searing kiss, his hands instinctively finding their home on the curve of your hips.

The kiss was… tame. It was supposed to be, after all. It was merely for the cameras, a way for you to put an answer to the questions that have been flooding your inbox and left your name circulating in the news for days on end.

But when Sylus’s tongue brushes against your bottom lip, you slightly pull away, muttering a faint, “Sylus, what’re you…” before he pulls you right back in, his large hand now resting on your cheek.

“If you’re going to use me like a whore at your disposal, I’d suggest you let me enjoy myself and taste you properly,” he sporadically says into your mouth, his hand shifting to tangle in your hair as he tilts you to his liking, your tongues meeting in with gentle swipes. “See? I knew you could do better than that.”

True to his suggestion, you kissed him like there was no tomorrow, your hands fisting his shirt in your palms as your lips moved in tandem with his. Lipstick and paparazzi long forgotten, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands give your hips a firm squeeze.

The moment he hears that sweet, impossibly faint sound of your pleasure, he knows that he’s in for it now. That’ll do it for him.

He abruptly pulls away, clasping his hand onto yours as he continues pulling you through the now stunned crowd of paparazzi. Sporting an erection and your lipstick smeared on his lips makes no difference to Sylus—if anything, he enjoys the world knowing that he has the hots for the woman who he has sworn to protect.

Sylus helps you into the passenger seat of your black SUV, closing the door behind you before making his way to the driver’s seat. He peels off, driving with intention through the streets of the city.

It was now evident to you that he was driving the SUV in pursuit of his favorite lookout spot, one that overlooks the bustling city from a distance. Sylus had taken you there once before as per your request to ‘stay out a bit later’. Nothing happened then, but you have an inclination that your luck has changed.

“I know what I want from you,” he states, placing a hand on your thigh.

How did he already manage to figure out what he wants in return for helping you? A raise? A car? The blood of his enemies? You’re intrigued, raising a brow. “You do?”

“I do,” he confirms without missing a beat. “Get into the backseat.”

A gasp leaves your kiss swollen lips as you mull over the utter implications of his words. It didn’t take a genius to understand them, but you were… surprised to say the least. “I think you’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Qin.”

In a literal sense, sure he was. But if the two of you were going to judge based on what you two want, he absolutely wasn’t—you both knew that.

He chuckles, the sound low yet infuriatingly sexy. His hand slips beneath your skirt, his middle finger brushing along the damp spot of your panties. “Your body seems to disagree with you, ma’am.”

And if you weren’t already wet before, hearing him call you ma’am was more than enough to do it for you. “Shut up,” you grumble.

“You can make me,” he suggests, setting the vehicle into park before giving your thigh a few pats. He nods his head towards the backseat. “Go on.”

Without hesitation, you kick your heels off and crawl into the back of the vehicle, thumping down on the seat with a sharp sigh. Sylus follows you within the blink of an eye, his knees settling on the spacious floor of the car.

“What’re you…” you ask, though your eyebrows raise as the pieces of the puzzle click together in your mind. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he repeats, his warm hands rubbing your knees as he spreads your legs apart, his lips finding the tender skin of your inner thigh. “You know… you truly should be resting for your show tomorrow evening.”

“Should I?” You bite on your bottom lip as he leans forward, nosing at your clothed pussy with a muffled moan of his own. He inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal driving him to the brink of insanity.

“You should,” he answers, pressing an open mouthed kiss on your cunt through the fabric of your panties. “You should stop talking too. You need to rest your voice just as much.”

You swallow hard, whimpering ever so softly as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to give himself access to your glistening core.

His eyes are set on your heat, his cool hands hiking your thighs over his shoulders. He rests his cheek on the warmth of your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “Because believe me, sweetie, the things that I want to do to you will not be in favor of that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Oh?” you ask, titling your head. “What will they be in favor of?”

He grins, wicked and devilishly handsome. “I’m glad you asked, because there’s someone else I’ve been wanting to hear from.”

Before you have the chance to reply, he’s already got his face delving deep between your legs, the filthy sounds of squelches and slurping filling the otherwise silent car.

“Oh, I— mmh, you didn’t answer my… my question,” you stammer out between breathy moans, your head tilting back on the headrest as your eyes flutter shut.

Sylus smiles into your pussy, pointing his tongue to accentuate the squelching noises that your heat was making, entirely wet and dripping for him.

“Can you not hear her?”

Never in your life did you think that having a man on his knees talking to your cunt would be this arousing, but… you’re fucking soaked.

“I-I can,” you gasp, cracking your eyes open to look down at him. “Fuck, you can talk to her in fifty languages for all I care, holy shit.”

He quietly chuckles, the sound sending a spark of vibrations onto your already sensitive clit. Your thighs tense, aching to close on him, but he keeps them spread with his strong hands on your thighs.

Your lips part as a string of breathy sounds leave you, beautiful moans and needy whimpers alike—all of which play as music to Sylus’s ears. It was nice to know that your mouth was good for more than just singing and bickering at him…

Teeth nibbling into your bottom lip, you glance down at him, only to be met with the most crazed eyes known to mankind. So disheveled, your slick leaking down his chin while his tongue delves into your heat like a man starved. He looks like he’s in his own pussy drunk heaven.

When you feel his pointed tongue begin to curve and lick in ways it hadn’t before, you do your best to follow his movements.

S-Y-L-U-S he spells on your puffy cunt with his writing tool of choice—none other than his stupidly talented tongue.

“You’re so—”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, his voice more like a husky whisper now. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, sucking on your clit before releasing it with a harsh pop.

Filthy sounds fill the air, your own breathy moans spilling from your swollen lips in tandem with the messy sucks of Sylus’s lips on your cunt. Not to mention, your girl truly was loud.

“Singing so beautifully for me,” he rasps, his eyes flitting up to watch your blissful expression. Lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin—an absolute wet dream of his come to life.

You bite your lip, hardly focused on the words coming out of his mouth. “Mmh, what…?”

“Quiet, sweets,” he repeats, hooking his hands even tighter around your thighs as he gives your heat a few more harsh licks. “I told you I was talking to her, didn’t I?”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, your core grinding against his wet muscle as you chase your release.

Sylus was more than eager to give it to you, redoubling his efforts while locking his hands over your legs to keep you steady enough for him to pleasure you effectively. The warmth pooling in your belly was far too much, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“Mmh, I… I’m coming,” you warn through an airy whine.

And when you do, Sylus swoops in even more greedily than before, his flat tongue lapping at your honeyed release. There was no way he would ever be able to go without tasting you like this now that he has. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

As you come down from your high, you grin with a few pants. “Look at you, falling at the feet of your ‘egotistical popstar’—mmph!”

Sylus plunges two fingers into your mouth to shut you up, rising to plant himself onto the seat beside you. “That’s hardly an insult to me anymore, my dear. I know what I am.”

He pulls his spit slick fingers from your mouth, bringing them to your pussy as he gently circles your sensitive clit. His free hand guides you through the motion of straddling his lap. With a simple nod of his head, he gestures for you to lift your shirt up, and you do.

“And what’s that?” you ask, watching as he leans forward to mouth at your breasts through the fabric of your bra.

“I’ve already told you,” he murmurs, bringing his free hand to his belt to free his cock from the confines of his pants. “A whore at your disposal.”

“I knew it,” you chuckle, though the sweet sound is interrupted by a breathy moan that he coaxes out of you once he slides his fat cockhead along your folds.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side. “Are you not going to reciprocate my affection?” he teases, grasping tightly onto your hips. “Or do I have to work a bit harder for it, ma’am?”

Your knees would have certainly buckled if they weren’t firmly planted on the leather seats of the SUV. Who would have thought that you had a thing for white-haired bodyguards who call you ‘ma’am’?

Sylus raises a brow, a cocky smirk tugging on his lips. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You feel your face heating up more and more the longer you look him in the eyes, shifting your hips so that the tip of his cock finally meets your entrance. “Just… shut up and put it in.”

“How demanding,” he hums, smirking ever so slightly as he uses his grasp on you to make one sharp snap of his hips, burying balls deep inside of your heat. “But as you wish, pretty.”

You cry out immediately, the burn of the stretch fading into unfolding pleasure. Eyes locked on each other’s, breaths mingling with ease, skin slicked with sweat, it was…

“Perfect,” he whispers, smoothing his hands along your hips before one reaches up to cup your cheek. He pulls you into a deep, searing kiss. “So, so perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, you were merely testing the waters that had yet to be explored. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing your deepest points with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Sylus begins to help you move a bit quicker, rocking your hips forward in smooth rolls, earning moans from the both of you that seemed to come straight from your guts.

“Give it to me how you like it, baby,” he encourages, both of his hands planting firmly on your waist. “Use my cock however you need it, sweets, it’s yours.”

His words have your clit pulsating around his thick shaft, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you begin to work up a pace of your own that has your heart beating wildly.

“I always… fuck—I always knew you were obsessed with me,” you jest, your grin stretching wide.

Sylus hums, the sound low and deep, his iron grip on your hips helping you maintain the intensity of your movements whenever your muscles beg for a break. “Yeah? Needed me to be buried inside of you to have that bit of confirmation?”

You nod with a smile, hands wrapping around his neck as you plant your forehead against his. He smiles too, a breathy moan leaving his mouth as you circle your hips in a way that has him seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah, I’m obsessed with you,” he admits without a semblance of shame, tilting his head back on the headrest.

Already feeling your second orgasm approaching, you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat that made a musk that was so beautifully Sylus. His hands smooth over your backside, giving your ass a squeeze.

“Tch, let me see that pretty face,” he demands, nudging you with his shoulder so that you were sitting up once more. “You look so beautiful like this.”

You struggle to form a sentence, bouncing unabashedly on his cock, skin slapping together in an erratic pattern that spurred you even further. A string of whimpers and whines leave your puffy lips. Though your reply lacked words, it perfectly communicated what you wanted to say.

“Oh, I know it, baby,” he rasps, tilting his head back again as his eyes slip shut. “Pussy’s addictive—shit, I’m obsessed with her too.”

You begin to lose yourself all together, reduced to nothing more than a blissed out woman riding her bodyguard’s cock. “Sylus, I… mmh, I’m gonna cum.”

He nods in understanding, smoothing his hand through your hair as he brings you in for another kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and drooling in the most beautiful way possible.

“Gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like this, baby,” he warns, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, as if it were confirming his words. You don’t do this often, contrary to popular belief, but you are on the pill. Luckily. “Please do.”

Sylus pants through a smile, licking his lips as he guides you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Huh… you really are something special.”

A deep groan leaves his mouth as he dips his head, grip tightening on your waist as you ride him through your shared orgasm. You aren’t sure where yours ended and his began, or if you had gotten the order wrong entirely. All you know is that in that moment, the two of you became one.

Panting, your hand plants on the fogged up window of the vehicle, leaving your handprint in its wake. Sylus lets out a breathy chuckle, raising his own shaking hand to the window.

You watch through lidded eyes as he draws a tiny heart, writing his and your first initials inside of it with a little + in the middle. How cute.

Sylus then turns to face you again, bringing his hand to your cheek. You nuzzle into his palm, placing a kiss on his skin. “I have something to admit.”

He nods his head a single time, beckoning you to continue. “What is it?”

You give him a wry smile. “My publicist never gave me the idea for that publicity stunt.”

“…I figured that much, sweetie.”

note. bodyguard!sylus, my glorious king… ok i lowkey hate this but it holds no purpose saving up space in my drafts so :D pls interact if you enjoyed, rbs are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for readingggg !!!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

#♥︎ tojicide #sylus x y/n #sylus x you #sylus qin #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus smut #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #love and deepspace #love & deepsace x reader #love & deepspace #lnds smut #lnds #lnds x reader #au

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supportgaza · 5 months ago

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Another Talk at my Irish College About Gaza and my Family There Reopened My Wounds

Note: Vetted by:

1. @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi # 151 on the spreadsheet of Vetted Gaza Fundraisers List].

2. @riding-with-the-wild-hunt Here .

Giving a recent guest talk at my Irish college about the horrors my family and I have endured, the war, its aftermath, and the hellish conditions of life in Gaza, was beyond heart-shattering. Speaking about it felt like performing surgery on myself without anesthesia, reopening wounds, and bleeding in the process.

What pains me the most is the unimaginable suffering my family continues to endure—living in constant fear and uncertainty, unsure whether the war will resume or if the people of Gaza will be forcibly displaced from Gaza.

Some of the slides I displayed:

I also spoke about how the war has left Gaza in ruins, where the bones of Palestinian victims lie scattered across the land. My family, like so many others, has been living without a single hour of electricity for months, their lives completely shattered.

As I spoke to Irish students, my heart ached for my family. All I wish for is to reunite with them here in Ireland, where we can finally live a peaceful, normal life. And I remain determined to make this dream a reality.

But I cannot do this alone—I am only human. I urge you to support my campaign in any way you can. Whether by donating, sharing, or simply spreading the word, your help can save my family’s lives and future. That is my ultimate number one mission.

As of 15/2/2025, we are almost at 70% of our final fundraising goal, and we expect the Rafah crossing into Egypt to reopen in the coming weeks. This could be our last chance.

Unfortunately, funds have slowed down at a critical time, and the future of Gaza looks bleak and uncertain.

Please share, donate, reblog, and help us reunite in Ireland where we can Finally live safely.

Tagging for reach! Please reblog my post and help reach our final goal and finally reunite. <3

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @mothblossoms @aleciosun @fluoresensitive @khizuo @lesbiandardevil

@transmutationisms @timogsilangan @buttercuparry

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@ghosthoodie @rickybabyboy @etchif @fromjannah

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@worm-suggestion @nyaskitten @ibtisams

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@commissions4aid-international @ghost-and-a-half @troythecatfish @rebecca-levin-art @ana-bananya

@mangocheesecakes

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abi-renirk · 2 months ago

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Thinking about Wymack putting up with Neil, alone, during his senior year. None of the other foxes are there to deal with his antics. Kevin isn’t there to talk about everything Exy related. Andrew isn’t there to keep him grounded and sane. Allison and Nicky aren’t pushing him out of his comfort zone with his style, appearance, etc. Matt isn’t there to be a friend. Dan can’t help him captain his team. Aaron isn’t there to annoy him. Renee isn’t there with her gentle, reassuring smile.

I know that some of the freshman from the EC become Neil’s friends, but it isn’t the same as the OG Foxes.

So, he turns to one of the few people he trusts, Dad Wymack™️. Neil joins him in his office for lunch and tells him all about Andrew’s most recent Exy game. “Did you see how many saves Andrew made last night?” 38. It was beautiful.” *heart eyes* Coach returns his attention to the paperwork he was working on when Neil walked in. He half listens as the striker explains a movie that Nicky said he needed to watch to understand current trends.

After a game night, Neil goes home with Wymack, who now lives together with Abby, and stays for dinner with the couple, yapping about everything that plagued him that day. “I talked to Andrew last night and he was telling me about this drill his pro team does at practice. He thinks it’s stupid, of course, but I think it could help us get through the other team’s defense easier.” He goes on to explain the drill between bites of pasta and sauce.

When Neil leaves, Coach looks at Abby, feeling slightly dumbfounded, “I never knew the kid could say so many words in such a short time.” Abby lets out a chuckle.

“I don’t get any paperwork finished anymore with him around so much.” He explains with fake annoyance. She gives him a soft smile, “He just misses Andrew and the rest of our Foxes. I think it’s says a lot that he trusts you with the details of his private life. We all know how hard that is for him.”

Dad Wymack sits in his thought for a quiet minute, thinking back to the locker room in Millport with the brown-haired, brown-eyed boy who was scared to live. To the airport before the new year with the red-haired, blue-eyed boy who was fighting for his family. To a cheap motel in Baltimore with a boy covered in scars who fought to stay and live. Neil has come a long way and Wymack’s chest swells with pride and love for the striker.

Two days later, on Monday, Neil shows up right on time for Wymack’s lunch hour, but the older man doesn’t mind the sound of Neil’s chattering over their shared lunch. “Allison told me my hair is getting too long, but the shampoo she sent me is making my curls look “delicious”. I don’t know what she means by that, how hair can look edible, but Andrew says not to worry about it. Speaking of Andrew, do you know how much he has been bench pressing in the gym? He’s up to—“

Wymack lets out a quiet, exasperated sigh as he leans back in his chair, accepting his fate for the next year as Neil continues talking. He may act annoyed about his new lunch time guest, but it means a lot that Neil feels safe with him, even if that means learning about pop culture and Neil’s distaste for broccoli.

#neil josten #coach wymack #dad wymack #aftg #all for the game #psu foxes

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ssahotchnerr · 1 month ago

Note

Aaron texting reader on his way home after a case that he has some “minor bruises” on his face from something that happened on the case and him coming home and reader’s reaction being like “we need to talk about our definitions of the word ‘minor’” and then taking care of him even though he insists he’s fine??? I love a hurt/comfort moment!!!!!!!

a matter of perspective

ugh aaron you stubborn man 😣<3 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, injury and blood descriptions, hurt to comfort, fluff!!! wc; 1.1k

I don't want you to freak out.

Your heart stopped. A second text chimed in soon after.

And I'm fine. Please don't worry.

Frowning, worry deepened in your brows as your fingers flew across the keyboard - What happened????

Minor altercation. Minor bruises on my face. Thought I'd warn you so it's not a surprise.

You exhaled heavily as a sinking feeling settled in your chest, simply replying with a :( . Your phone went off again seconds after.

I'm just fine darling. Be home in thirty. I love you.

Anxiously awaiting his return you settled into bed, book in your lap as you attempted to pass the time. You mindlessly stared at each page, not absorbing any of the plot or dialogue whatsoever. Instead, you were distracted with one singular thought: if it had actually been a small bruise, he wouldn't have said anything.

You've seen your fair share of injured Aaron - scrapes, pulled muscles, bruises. You've been the one to re-dress his wounds as needed: re-bandaging, cleaning, massaging the knots out of his tense areas.

If he gave you a warning, it had to be bad. And when he finally entered your shared bedroom, it was clear you'd been right.

Dark bruises shaded his cheekbones, different hues of color painting his skin. The same was present along his chin and jawline. His lip was a tad swollen, the coloring indicating a lip bleed as well. Whoever had it in for him, clearly targeted his face and successfully landed the punches. Your heart plummeted into your stomach, book falling forgotten to the side.

Reading your face, he attempted humor to alleviate the situation. Although coming from him, his joking fell flat, sounding rather defeated. "You should've seen the other guy."

"Aaron." You squeaked gently, throwing the duvet off yourself and hurrying to him. Your hand cupped his cheek, tilting it towards the light. "Oh my god."

It was worse up close, vivid purple with pink spotting, and a black eye in the making. Your stomach lurched again, feeling sick due to the sight and pain he must've felt.

He winced, mustering up some normalcy in his voice. "It really doesn't hurt."

"Yeah, and I'm suddenly the director of the Bureau." You sighed, running your thumb ever so carefully across the broken surface of his skin. "This is what you call minor?"

His gaze held yours, a faint guilt flickering in his brown eyes. "Yes?"

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" You did a quick scan, gently grabbing his wrists and taking a small step back. "Concussion? Did you see a medic?"

He shook his head, regretting the brisk movement immediately. "Nothing else. No concussion, and yes, I did. Figured my wife would have a fit if I didn't."

The words lightly left him, a soft smile on his face, meant to soothe. It kinda worked; still were you gravely unsettled, but at least he had been cleared by a medical profession - that eased some of your worry lines.

You tutted softly, a sigh leaving you as your hand found his face once more. "Get changed, do what you need to do, and get into bed. You need to take it easy." You began to retreat, until your next thought caused you to pause. "Or do you need my help-"

"I'm fine." He insisted, offering you a kiss in hopes of settling your worries further. He kissed you tentatively, in concern of his lip that 'didn't hurt', you were sure. "It looks worse than it is. It's just part of the job."

Yeah, and you hated that.

You hurried to the kitchen, in search of the ice pack kept in the freezer. For Jack - susceptible to soccer and your normal kid bumps. And evidently for your husband, with his dangerous occupation. Before heading back up, you grabbed a few other necessities.

When you returned, Aaron had changed, sitting up against his pillow. After placing a cup of water and ibuprofen on his nightstand, you climbed onto his lap, straddling it.

"Oh?"

"You're funny." You laughed as his hands went to your hips, scrunching your nose at him before pressing the ice pack to his cheek. Gingerly - he flinched at the contact. "We're discussing the exact definition of what constitutes a minor injury."

He leaned back, letting you take charge. "Alright."

"Minor injuries. Paper cuts, a nose bleed, I'll even throw in a goose egg, but that can vary. Maybe a small bruise." You narrowed your eyes teasingly, so he wouldn't run with the idea. You moved the ice pack to his jaw, wishing you had one that would dote on all bruises at the same time. "Not minor injuries: everything I didn't list."

A stiff chuckle shook through his chest, but quickly faded. He nodded once, "understood."

"I'm serious," you stated firmly, brushing a few of his cowlicks back. Your tone at end of your sentence hinted you had more on your mind, and you had intended on continuing, yet you stayed silent.

Aaron felt it, the way your body dropped. The small drag of your finger on his wrist, a self-soothing measure. The subtle, tense swallow in your throat, a clear sign you were holding back tears.

"Hey," his hand squeezed your hip, indicating he wanted to see your eyes. "I am okay. Don't cry, sweetheart."

"I know," you said as you met Aaron's gaze, his thumb lifted to pad away a lone tear. "I just... don't like it. Or will I ever get used to it. Seeing you in pain... seeing the pain. I hate it. I hate it so much."

He nodded apologetically, his eyes full of quiet remorse. "It comes with the territory, unfortunately."

His words were a simple reminder that this wouldn't be the last time he would come home covered in blood, contusions, or worse. Much much much worse. You shook the thought from your head, not wanting to dwell on it.

"I want to reassure you that I am being careful, I promise. I wouldn't put myself in grave danger unnecessarily. I want to come home to you in one piece."

You nodded, your gaze dropping once more to the patterned duvet below. A whispered hey passed his lips, lifting your chin with his index finger before his hand slid softly against your skin, his palm cupping your cheek.

You offered him a weak smile, your eyes full of sympathy as you leaned into his touch, your expression only softening further when you got a closer look at his injured face. "I do appreciate you letting me know though."

"Of course. Please let me know if there's anything I can do more."

"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, causing a soft crease of curiosity to form between his brows. "Think you could suggest adding a layer of bubble wrap to agent uniforms?"

He laughed warmly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll see what I can do."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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incognit0slut · 1 month ago

Text

Room for three

Nobody knows about the contract you signed to be your boss’s sub until Spencer finds the document. Aaron proposes a deal in exchange for his silence.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 4.8k Content: threesome, sub/dom dynamic, female and male oral, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, creampie(s) a/n: kinktober in may because it’s @lavenderspence birthday who helped me brainstorm this fic months ago but hey it’s never too late so here is the long awaited fic that i’m dedicating to the birthday girl. ily<333

The wordless creed of submission was a scripture you could never decipher.

That is, until you met Aaron Hotchner. Five years of sterile professionalism, save for one fateful night with too high adrenaline and a sex drive you hadn’t even known you possessed. He’s disturbingly good at coaxing it too (pinning you against his office door, bending you over his desk, binding your wrists to the headrest in the back of his car), and soon a new normal of three sexy times a week for two breathless months doesn’t seem quite enough.

Surprising, for someone too independent to ever trust a man so completely. But twenty-four-seven isn’t ideal, was what he’d pointed out with a wry little smile when he realized there was no sign of jest as you offered — no, begged — to be cinched to his hip every single day. Tempting, but some ground rules still had to be laid down.

That’s when the negotiation starts.

Night after night you find yourselves talking, and suddenly your vocabulary is filled with terms you’d never imagined discussing outside bureau protocol. Hard limits and soft boundaries. Carefully planned visits. He even tested a few daring suggestions you’d never imagined yourself fantasizing about, intriguing you as much as they embarrass you.

Although mortification isn’t the problem. You’re a born profiler with an inconvenient instinct to study every new stimulus; curiosity is your ruin, so to speak. If shame were meant to deter you, it should’ve chosen a less enticing disguise.

Granted, you’re not exactly surprised when you slip into Aaron’s motel room and spot another presence waiting. You find Spencer like that, standing warily at the foot of the bed, looking strangely out of place despite the fact your knees had brushed in the SUV only an hour ago.

But your heart does a little somersault. A silly patter that spreads through your chest with the dizzy certainty that an idea you’ve only read in ink is about to be written in flesh.

The clause was tucked near the end of the contract — “the introduction of a third participant at the discretion of the primary.” You’d half-skimmed those last few pages, disbelief blurring the words when you couldn’t quite fathom that your fantasies had been printed and bound like actual paperwork.

It’s one thing to discuss it verbally, another thing entirely to see it embodied in your hands like an actual scripture.

“I just want you to feel safe,” Aaron had said, which struck you as almost redundant. You already felt safe without having these stipulations spelled out in twelve-point font. Still, you picked up the pen, humored his need for formalities, and wrote your name in deliberate strokes.

And with Spencer hovering a few unsure steps from the bed tonight, that small flourish of ink seems to glow on the page in your memory.

“You’re late,” Aaron greets from the other side of the room, and closes the space between you in three easy strides.

“Emily cornered me in the hallway," you say, meeting him halfway for a kiss before nudging back, a wry smile on your lips. “So I’m guessing he knows about us?”

His gaze flicks to Spencer before settling back on you. “He found our contract.”

Your brows curve into a frown. “You mean… he found the thing just lying around?”

“Not exactly." He gives a curt shake of his head. "It was on my desk. Didn’t think he’d come in without knocking.”

"Aaron."

“It was an oversight," he tries to defend himself. He spares you the detail that Spencer apparently read enough to memorize every clause and condition. You’re already eyeing him dubiously.

“And why is he here now?”

The same logic that led Aaron to keeping him here.

“For his silence.”

"You’re blackmailing him?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Of course not. I’d call it leveraging a situation for mutual understanding."

“That is the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone describe blackmail.”

A soft shuffle of shoes answers you from behind.

“It isn’t blackmail,” Spencer interjects. “He didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to understand what was going on and—” He falters at the subtle, expectant tilt of Aaron’s head, then clears his throat and finishes, “—and now I do.”

Aaron’s hand finds its way to your waist. “Are you okay with this?”

Are you?

You don’t answer immediately. It isn’t indecision that holds your tongue to the roof of your mouth, rather the slow crawl of anticipation that coils low in your belly. Skittering around your hips.

Oddly enough, the prospect doesn’t rattle you the way it once did when you first traced those lines in the contract. You’d just never thought the day would actually arrive, and certainly not today, with Spencer, of all people.

You can almost hear the flutter of his pulse from here, see the quiet calculations ticking behind lowered lashes as he tries to stand perfectly still. He’s cinched into his cardigan that's smoothed flat over narrow shoulders, and you’d be lying if you claimed you’d never wondered what hid beneath all those layers of neatly pressed wool.

Pure curiosity, you reason. Curiosity fed by the sparks you’ve caught in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. A sweep of hazel that dips down your neckline, or by the restless twitch of his fingers whenever your perfume drifts too close. And you’ve idly speculated, maybe more than once, whether those fidgeting hands would feel rough on your skin or as soft as the flush rising in his cheeks.

You let the quiet stretch for one more heartbeat, watching his gaze snag on the top of your blouse before darting back up.

Heat coils languid and sweet inside you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Need you to be sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” you repeat, trying to smooth out your voice. Maybe saying it once more will solidify your confidence. “I’m really okay.”

Aaron’s palm tightens at your waist. “Color?”

It takes you a while to understand what he means, but when you do, you feel the answer rise with the next breath you take.

“Green.”

“Good, if at any point it changes, you tell me.”

You give him a slight dip of your head.

"Reid, come here."

Spencer obeys before he seems aware he’s moving. One cautious step, then another, until you can feel the anxious energy rippling off him. He’s close enough now that the crease of your knee nearly grazes the front of his slacks. Close enough you can catch the soft quiver in his limbs.

Your own chest tightens at the sheer proximity, but whatever butterflies flit through you aren’t half as fierce as the ones etched across his tense shoulders and downturned gaze.

“Spence, it’s okay, you can touch me," you offer.

He curls his fingers into fists, chords of tendon shifting under skin gone too pale.

He’s overthinking, of course. Mental gears grinding loud enough to drown out his own pulse. It’s his nature to second-guess and dissect unfamiliar situations from every angle. He did it when he first spotted the contract on Aaron’s desk, when Aaron quietly invited him here, even when he agreed to come of his own free will. But standing in front of you knots those gears tighter.

Enumerate risks, assign probability, choose the safest option.

The safest option, though, he realizes, is the most dangerous one.

But the real danger isn’t the touch itself. It’s how a single brush of fingertips will shatter his neatly ordered rules.

Consent redraws the margins while he continues to study. You give him an expectant look, Aaron seals it with a nod, and suddenly the universe has shrunk to three conspirators orbiting a single point of contact.

So he closes the last inch between you. Pulls in the same measured breath he’s perfected on the firing line. One, two, three — on four his fingertips drift forward, brushing the sleeve of your blouse. The cotton vibrates under his knuckles, yet even through the fabric he can feel the pliant warmth of your skin. He coaxes higher along your arm, sliding past the cuff and onto the bare flesh of your shoulder.

You’re warmer here, silken, and the softness doubles when his hand cups the delicate column of your neck, thumb resting in the hollow below your jaw. Softest of all, though, is the sight that meets him when he finally lifts his gaze. Plump, glossy petals of dewy lips.

Gone is every ounce of hesitation.

He steel himself for the question hanging on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Useless, of course, when you’re already leaning in.

So he does, carrying the bite of burnt motel coffee and a trace of whatever dessert he demolished tonight. You also catch the tang of his nerves on your tongue. He’s a jumble of sensations — confused, curious, ravenous, and that ripple of hunger makes itself known as he nudges his cock against your hip. The pressure loosens your knees, and just as you begin to sync with the eager pull of his mouth, another hard pressure claims the space behind.

Aaron’s obvious bulge slots perfectly between your ass, as well as the way his mouth latches along the spot where your pulse flutters the most.

It’s nearly impossible to keep your heartbeat steady when attention comes in perfect pairs.

Two mouths tracing heat.

Two cocks hemming you in.

Two sets of hands shaping your body — a pair cupping your breasts firmly, another holding your hip while the last hand dips over the fabric covering your mound.

It takes a drowsy, blinking inhale before you realize it’s Spencer coaxing pleasure through the damp cloth. A new type of pleasure that comes with new territory as his fingers slide in patient circles, translating curiosity into confidence with every slow stroke. It’s a novel kind of surrender that eclipses the rules you thought you understood with Aaron alone.

This is a submission refracted through two different types of needs. Circumstances might look like you’re completely helpless with two men manhandling you, but somehow you've never felt more powerful.

And that power consumes you, bleeding warmth into your skin until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. Flooding every nerve, soaking through your pores until even the hum of the air conditioner feels weak against the sweat beading at the small of your back.

Aaron feels the tremor beneath his palm.

“Too hot?”

You manage a weak nod. “Mhm.”

He quickly moves to remedy it. He won’t have his sweet girl suffering for even a second longer than necessary. His fingers skim down your blouse, carefully slipping buttons through holes before Spencer’s eager hands join him — unhooking, unbuttoning, and sliding the rest of your clothes off until there’s nothing left between you and the open air.

Your lungs finally fill without the last scrap of fabric, though each inhale stays shallow. The stark contrast between your bare skin and the layers of their tailored shirts and pressed slacks only sharpens the ache gathering low in your belly. You’re so wound up that a slow, insistent throb of liquid seeps between the snug folds of your cunt.

Aaron is quick to notice, too. He’s already attuned to your body by now, the way gooseflesh ripples up your thighs the moment you try to squeeze them together for relief. Before you’ve even fully registered it, his arm loops around your waist, guiding you a step back toward the bed.

In one smooth pull you’re lifted, settled astride his lap. “I think we should show him how wet you are.”

You lean back, heart hammering in your chest.

In another life, shame would color your cheeks, but in this one, you’re too keenly aware of your own arousal as his hands hook under your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

Spencer falls to his knees. And wets his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the sheen glistening between your legs — pretty and glossy without a single touch from either of them, and he wonders how much more of a mess he can make of you. That thought sends two fingers pressing against the swollen outer lips, gently stretching them for a better view of your anatomy as he breathes in your musky scent.

God, you smell delicious.

He bets you taste just as good too.

As if drown to a magnetic pull, he leans in and lets the tip of his tongue flick against the tender spot of your clit.

You’re not sure if the gasp that escapes your lips is louder than the rush of blood pounding in your ears. Spencer hears it, feels it, and takes it as permission. He lingers, gently at first, tracing delicate circles that coax your clit into a throbbing fullness until the once shy nub swells under the next pass of his tongue.

The hammering behind your eyes barrels down your veins, skimming collarbones and ribcage, rushing through your gut before pooling right where his mouth is working. Broad laps that drag from your slick entrance to the tip. Sucks a plush fold of your labia into his mouth, testing delicate skin with gentle tugs.

Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and Aaron marvels at the sound. “Feels good?”

Good is an anemic word — barely a quarter of what’s sluicing through you when Spencer curls his tongue inside your tight walls. Pleasure radiates in hot pulses, and language dissolves on your tongue as your head lolls helplessly against Aaron’s shoulder.

He tries to press you again. Hooks a finger beneath your jaw to tilt your chin up, leaving a ghost of space that tempts you to close your mouth around him. He pulls away when you lean in.

“Good, sweetheart?”

He clearly wants an answer. So you give him one — stretch your voice into the space he’s carved for you.

“S’good.”

“Yeah?”

Your hips stutter into Spencer’s mouth. “Yes—yes. Good.”

You're finally rewarded with a kiss and a groan between your legs.

Shame really has nothing on you. Your body is on fire, and the only thing that matters is the taste of his lips plastered against yours while Spencer’s mouth devours you in greedy lungfuls. Drags his tongue slow and heavy across the entire span of your cunt as the faint rasp of his jaw scrapes against your inner thighs.

You’re hardly surprised by how your orgasm coils fast. Starts as a scatter of static in your toes, slithers up your calves and welds the muscles of your thighs as Spencer’s mouth seals around you, lips locking, tongue pressing. Instinct has your legs snapping shut around his head, but a low disapproving sound from Aaron vibrates on your mouth, cuts through your blinding haze.

“No, no—spread them open,” he tuts, prying your legs wider. “Let him take care of you.”

You can only whine in response.

Your thoughts knot and unravel in the same breath, slipping through your grasp the moment they begin to form. Words dissolve. Time warps. You're reduced to pure reaction — tiny, involuntary gasps that stutter out between parted lips. You can't keep still. Can't breathe deep. Every inhale shudders. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, racing along nerve paths until your toes curl in suspended air.

Then it hits again. But his mouth doesn’t stop the mess he's made of you. Slick glistens down his chin, streaking into the shallow hollows of his cheeks, pooling in the groove where his jaw meets his neck. He tilts his head, adjusting just enough to keep you pinned with legs spread wide and twitching as he slurps you up with intense hunger.

A keening cry rips free before you can swallow it.

Aaron notices it. Sees the way you nearly go cross-eyed towards the ceiling, jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose.

“Reid,” he warns.

Spencer barely blinks.

“Reid.”

His voice continues to fall on deaf ears.

“Reid.”

It isn’t until Aaron firmly pushes his head away that Spencer finally snaps out of it. His eyes dart up to meet Aaron’s, then to you, chest rising and falling as though suddenly realizing the state he’s left you in.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” there’s an edge of guilt in his voice. His gaze drops back to your swollen clit, overly sensitive from his relentless attention, and moves in to press a soft, almost apologetic kiss to it. “I’m sorry.”

Your hips jerk at the contact.

Aaron rests a hand over your thigh, “Let’s give her a minute.”

You finally manage to clamp your mouth shut.

It does seem wise to wait until your heartbeat evens out, let your pulse crawl back down from its wild pitch. Yet the space they leave empty aches just as sharply. All you can feel is emptiness and the gnawing urge to be filled, so you shift in Aaron’s lap, sliding forward until your hips brush the sharply pressed crease of his slacks.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I can keep going.”

Aaron’s palm spans your stomach. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

“You're not,” you insist, and with desperation digging its claws way too deep in your chest, you add, “Please?"

His lips curl into a knowing smile. You're practically bleating, and he’s absolutely smitten. "You're begging already."

You are, and you'd gladly do it again. Say it sweeter, say it filthier. You’ve learned to like begging, learned how easy it sits on your tongue when it earns you that look.

"Need you, Aaron."

He looks absolutely pleased.

“You need me?" His gaze slips towards Spencer, still crouched between your thighs, wetting his lips. "Or do you need him?”

Your mouth opens before you can think—

“Need you both.”

Which, after years spent of working alongside them, is something you never expected to admit.

But the honesty on your tongue tastes absolutely sweet.

Everything then unravels in a blur of impatient hands. Buttons pop, zippers slip, fabric rustles to the floor in a blur of motion you’ll replay later but can’t quite track now. Your own senses tunnel to the snap of Spencer’s belt, the soft thud of Aaron’s shoes hitting carpet, the sigh of crisp cotton sliding from skin.

By the time the last scrap of fabric has hit the floor, you’re stretched on your side atop the cool sheets with Aaron’s solid heat pressed along your back. He braces your leg up, while the blunt crown of his cock teases the slick seam of your cunt. You’re already dripping, so incredibly wet that one firm push has the soft flesh of your hole bulging around his girth when he sinks all the way.

It doesn’t dull the shock of intrusion, though. Aaron is all all weight and pulsing veins, and no matter how many times he’s fucked you senseless, you never quite get used to how he stretches you open. The burn hits sharp, then dissolves into a syrupy ache you drink down willingly.

You also swallow around the thick head of Spencer’s cock pressing to your mouth, feeling the bitter tang dissolve on your tongue as he pauses to gauge your reaction. Your first instinct is disbelief. It boggles your mind how someone built so lanky and lithe can carry such surprising weight, but instead you let a tiny, encouraging nod.

It's all it takes for him to nudge forward.

He lets out a tiny gasp, hips stuttering as your warmth envelopes the only part your mouth can comfortably take. A shiver races through his frame, and before he can stop himself, one hand threads into your hair with a desperate grip. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but his pelvis gives a needy push.

You choke around the force punching your throat.

Aaron immediately slows his own rhythm behind you. “Reid, control yourself,” he warns. “Won’t have you hurting her.”

You pull back just enough to steal a breath.

“No—” You swallow, eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s wide, worried gaze. “It’s okay. Do it again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I like it,” you manage, and Aaron’s brows lift slightly. He’s never taken you too roughly. Binding you with his tie is an exercise in restraint, a blindfold a test of trust, and when it comes to edging, his patience is almost cruel in its tenderness. He likes to think his dominance is a careful thing.

But clearly he underestimated you. Especially when you lift your gaze to Spencer with glassy, luminous eyes.

“You can use my mouth,” you say softly, a little bashfully. “I want you to.”

The confession snaps something loose in Aaron. He grunts, hikes your leg higher and plunges into you with reckless speed. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he grits out. “Didn’t know you liked it so rough.”

Your clammy back slides against his chest every time he drives into you. “I-I did, you’re just a big softie.”

He gives you another grunt against your bare shoulder while Spencer tries to catch your attention again, brushing a damp strand of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this certain.

Confidence has never felt so visceral when you know what you want, and the idea someone as awkward as Spencer surrendering to hunger enough to use your mouth only slicks you further around Aaron’s cock.

So you tilt your head back shamelessly, tongue slipping out in a languid sweep over your lower lip.

And how can he possibly resist?

He wraps his hand around the back of your skull, palm splayed wide and fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts forward. Sets a smooth languid pace, slow enough you can feel every rigid vein drag across your tongue. Most times he glides in with practiced care, more often than not, the bulbous tip of his cock bumps up against discomfort that lingers just the shy of pain.

Tears prick your lashes, a throbbing ache begins to set in your jaw, but you force your muscles to relax. Concentrate on the rush of air through your nose.

Inhale, exhale.

Gag.

Swallow.

Soft wiry curls brush the sensitive curve of your nose with each thrust as you continue to let him mold your throat into his own perfect fit. He fills your mouth with the same certainty Aaron fills your cunt, so that no inch of you remains untouched.

You’re a mess of body fluids. Spit runs from the corners of your mouth, sweat paints your bruising skin. But it’s your pussy that bears the most, swollen and slick beyond reason, you’re so thoroughly fucked that every plunge punches a shameless squelch into the air. Bounces off the faded wallpaper and the brittle plaster of an old building that has seen better days. Decades, even.

This place couldn’t be further from luxury. It’s a simple nondescript motel on the edge of this town that’s only available where the stench of cheap detergent and stale air barely masks the lingering scent of old cigarettes. Though the sagging mattress is more than enough to cradle you between two bodies in a sweaty, desperate mess.

And desperation thickens the air, thick as summer humidity. Aaron’s thrusts grow sloppy, grip bruising your skin as he pants against your ear, “Not gonna last long, sweetheart.”

You don’t think you’re going to last any longer either. Not when the sheer force of his pace makes it impossible to focus on anything else. It’s becoming too much, and Spencer seems to notice your fractured gasps muffled around his shaft. He looks at you through heavy lids and takes pity on your predicament, pulls himself out of your mouth and sits back on his heels.

You still catch the sight of him fisting his cock through the mist clouding your eyes, but even that melts away when Aaron’s lips find the shell of your ear, whispering all the filthy things that ruins what’s left of your fragile composure.

Always so good to me.

That’s it, taking me so well.

—my sweet, sweet girl.

But it isn’t until his voice drops lower that your body responds without permission.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” His teeth graze your earlobe. “You'll let me do that?”

Your cunt squeezes him so fiercely that he chokes on a grunt. Slides a heavy palm right at the supple flesh of your belly.

“Or you gonna let both of us fill you up?”

You feel your muscles tensing—

“Let him fuck my cum back into you?"

And moan unabashedly.

The sounds spilling from your throat hardly seem like your own. You try to marshal a proper syllable, but it simply melts on your tongue before it can crawl past your lips. What comes instead is an automatic stutter of nods, frantic little jerks of your head because he’s your boss, isn’t he? And good subordinates follow orders dutifully.

“That’s right,” Aaron croons. “Knew you’d take it. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

You nod even harder, grinding back against his ruthless thrusts while he keeps spinning those filthy words.

“Gonna be so full, sweetheart. Mess dripping out this pretty pussy."

The picture he paints is enough to tip you over the edge.

Pleasure snaps bright and violent. Your vision splinters into shards of glittering light as your cunt clamps down around him, walls fluttering in rapid spasms that slowly jerk his own release.

Aaron groans, fingers biting into the soft give of your skin while he keeps you chained. Holds you still as he floods your insides, heavy spurts that seem to pool deep in your belly before trickling down every fold of your flesh. Trickles weave along your swollen lips, mars the plush curve of your ass — stains your already wet thighs as he gently slips free.

You’re in no state to protest when he drags your limp body across tangled sheets. You don’t even have the strength to lift your head as he tucks you effortlessly under his chin, back to his chest, letting yourself dissolve between thick thighs. Your skin is burning fresh from the tremor clinging in your core.

Your lungs still stutter, but your pulse is clamoring for more.

Seldom have you seen Spencer move with such quiet certainty. He sinks to his knees between your quivering thighs, and the dim lamplight silvers the slick shine on his cock as he guides it through the creamy mess clinging to your folds. Quite repulsive, but nothing less than a wicked kind of fascination.

Clearly he sees the appeal — why else would he press the rounded crown against your hole, only to have you seize around him even after being stretched so thoroughly? Mesmerized is a better way to put it as he tries to rut deeper, and with every inch your pretty cunt swallows, he wonders why he’s wasted years fussing over germs when raw pleasure like this exists.

When you simply exist.

He lets out a pleased sigh when you finally stretch around him (takes a moment of more slow rocking and a hissed curse you’ve never heard from his lips) as your eyes hone in on the spot where your bodies merge. Hips flushed, pelvis snug, coarse hair pressed against your puffy clit, and you feel a stab of fullness that spirals straight into your spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to fuck you then.

Like a man possessed, too.

Your nails bite into Aaron’s thighs. Claws sinking into warm flesh as you brace yourself for every brutal thrust Spencer rams into you. The force sends your tits bouncing with each snap of his hips, and Aaron’s hands are there in an instant — rough palms claiming the soft weight, wicked thumbs skating over taut peaks. Rolls them between calloused fingers with just enough pressure to sting your eyes.

The rapture on your face is barely recognizable anymore. Pinched and overwhelmed, you don’t notice him abandoning your perky nipples to skim down your torso until the pruny pads of his fingertips find your soaking clit.

Your back arches off his chest.

“Fuuuck—” you wail, “gonna c-come.”

He can see that. It’s painfully, beautifully obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re right on the edge again for what must be the hundredth time tonight. And Aaron doesn’t think of himself as cruel. Far from it, really. But watching your body almost folded in half has him feeling absolutely wicked.

His voice is toothy sweet as he rubs firm circles against your poor, overstimulated clit. “I know, sweetheart. Gonna come again from being used?”

“Ah, ah—baby—p-please—”

“Gonna soak his cock for me? Show him how good my girl is?”

“Aaron—!”

“Mmm? What’s that?” He hums lazily. “You want me to stop?”

A desperate whine tears from your throat, and your shaking fingers clutch at the coarse hair on his forearm. His muscles flex beneath your grip, then loosen, then tighten. All it earns you is an amused laugh and an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, my pretty girl. Greedy little thing can’t even decide, can you?”

“I— I can— I want—”

“Shh,” he soothes, though his touch only grows faster. Rubs your tight little bud as your hips buck shamelessly into the twofold stimulation. “No need to think, sweetheart, that’s my job. Yours is to take it, isn’t it?”

Your words slur into a quiet sob—

“You can take it, I know you can—yes—yes, that’s it, sweetie, give it to us. Come on, just like that—”

—before it blares into the stale air.

The back of your heels kick the mattress the moment you come around his word.

Spencer does too, lungs pummeled when your cunt squeeze around his length, gripping him like a steel vise.

He feels it all the way down to his bones, feels the ache radiating from his groin to his thighs and into the small of his back with every pulse of cum that hammers into you. His hips jerk in a frantic rhythm that no amount of bliss can slow, even when the swollen head of his cock nudges the soft resistance of your cervical lip, seeking a depth that simply doesn’t exist.

Still, he grinds deeper, crushing the distance until you’re stuffed full with an ironclad grip on your thighs.

“S-Spence…”

“A bit more,” he rasps. “Promise. Just a little more.”

That little fills you to the absolute brim.

It feels like his own pulse is tangled in the tight press of your walls.

And you’ve never known the smell of sex this strong. The air all but congeals when he finally pulls out, a slow, sticky slide that draws silken filaments of white from your used, swollen hole as three pairs of eyes lock onto the streak.

Yours is a little bleary. You can’t tell which milky ribbon belongs to whom, whose thick release is swirling with the gloss of your own slick, or which heartbeat drums the loudest in the tight space between your bodies. Breath, heat, and sweat fold together until the three of you feel like a single organism with too many limbs and just one shared lung.

Not that it matters. None of you seem particularly bothered by the lack of space. Aaron reclines against the creaky headboard, cradling most of your weight across his chest while Spencer draws lazy patterns over your sated thighs.

You don’t mind in the least. In fact, you bask in them both, drifting in the strange yet comforting irony that it took a misplaced contract for you to realize intimacy could be plural. You never expected it to multiply so neatly.

Some connections, it seems, don’t fit into singular terms at all.

Later that night, when the two men almost twice your size crowd you in the cramped bathroom, you realize your thoughts are already rewriting the contract. You wonder if Aaron would let you make a slight revision, scribble the third-participant clause into something more permanent.

You really hope he does.

#lou writes #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #spencer reid smut #aaron hotchner smut #spencer reid x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #spencer reid x you #aaron hotchner x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner x female reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut

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luveline · 8 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks.

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.”

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out.

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask.

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says.

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world.

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation.

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person.

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about.

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.”

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him.

“He was nice,” you murmur.

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?”

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?”

“You’ll be alright?”

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands.

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare.

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought.

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage.

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little.

“Darling.”

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand.

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says.

Me, you think.

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.”

“You didn’t,” the woman says.

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.”

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense.

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says.

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.”

“Hardy-har.”

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks.

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?”

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.”

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.”

“Gentleman and the tramp.”

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.”

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape.

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth.

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water.

What the fuck?

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down.

Your head races with hurt feelings.

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman.

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees.

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched?

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is.

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.”

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky.

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in.

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal.

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing.

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse.

She was unbelievable.

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?”

“What?”

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.”

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.”

“I didn’t mean to come out here.”

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks.

“Sorry.”

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.”

“That’s romantic.”

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?”

“Scavenging for food.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.”

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…”

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones.

“I love you, too,” you say.

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.”

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…”

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable.

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it.

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath.

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands.

“These aren’t good tears,” he says.

He’d know. They’re not.

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out.

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not you.”

“But something does hurt?”

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs.

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.”

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not.

He looks sick.

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage.

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring.

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly.

“It’s so stupid.”

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?”

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.”

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin.

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.”

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.”

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.”

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh.

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble.

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.”

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.”

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says.

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying.

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.”

“Aaron.”

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.”

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.”

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown.

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.”

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.”

“Aaron!” you laugh.

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.”

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased.

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.”

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips.

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.”

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.”

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask.

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.”

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.”

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze.

”You said it.”

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.”

“I’m glad you asked me.”

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now.

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders.

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress.

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.”

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.”

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.”

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear.

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast.

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast.

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind.

“Are you eating that one?” you ask.

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?”

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.”

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?”

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?”

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.”

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.”

“Did you eat?” you ask.

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.”

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says.

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour.

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.”

“I thought Miss Jareau went?”

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.”

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks.

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.

“Hey,” Aaron says.

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw.

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe.

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?”

“I didn’t take any, sorry.”

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says.

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.”

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text.

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding?

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless.

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right?

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online.

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

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