vicsnook

[vicsnook]

"A little blood never hurt anybody"

Jake helps Caledonia with her period cramps in the best way he can.

WC: 2.7k (I don't think I'm physically capable of writing something less than 1k for these two lmao)

Warnings: Smut, fingering, period sex, Jake being a wonderful boyfriend, you get the gist

Masterlist

Author's note: This is a fun little idea @cherrycola27 brought up in my DMs :) and I’m on my period, so art imitates life I suppose lol. It's been a while since I last posted something for these two, so apologies for the wait

You gently rubbed at your lower abdomen as you reached for your car keys. The slight drizzle and overcast skies seemed to echo the blanket of hormone imbalance and steady bass of dull pain in your body as you walked to your car. Frankly, all you wanted to do was get home and curl yourself into a nest of blankets after a long day at the lab.

You rubbed at your forehead, taking in deep breaths. Your phone buzzing as your ignition purred to life. 

Well-fed Raccoon <3: Hey Lass, I’m making lasagna tonight. You want to come over? Couch is pretty lonely without you ;)

Your grin spread. Lasagna did sound amazing, and spending time on the couch with Jake sounded even better. 

Sending him a quick text, you shifted your transmission and headed towards Jake’s home near the shore. 

—

Jake’s head perked up at the sound of the front door lock clicking out of alignment. He finished putting the lasagna on the stovetop, stripping the oven mitts off of his hands with a soft thump on the counter. 

“Hey, Lass, dinner’s ready.”

You breathed out a sigh of relief, as you got your shoes off. You moaned out. “Thanks, I’m starving.”

His lip quirked as he poked his head around the corner to meet your smile. 

You leaned down to dig out a pad from your purse, wincing as the pain throbbed in your abdomen.

“Everything going alright, Lass?”

His eyes were comforting as you looked up at him, that same molten, evergreen shade of green you loved. 

“Yeah, I got my period today.” You winced trying to shrug it off, but the pain was starting to weigh down on you. 

His eyebrows furrowed, a slight frown tipping his lip. “Take a seat,” he gestured to the sofa, “I'll grab you some dinner.” His soft tone eased your mind as you took a seat on the plush cushion. 

The ache of your abdomen pulsed throughout the rest of your body. Letting your body lean back and eyes drift shut to salvage some comfort in this state. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. Your mind had been what felt like a dinghy in rough seas; no control and being easily swayed by the emotional waves that rivaled the accompanying pain. 

“Here you go, pretty girl.” His comforting tone opened your eyes to him holding out a plate of steaming lasagna, a small bottle of painkillers, and a hot compress. 

His smile grew as he saw your eyes light up at the sight of food. The term of endearment almost makes you tear up. You’d been feeling like God’s perfect little monster the entire day, ready to take a bite out of someone for looking at you the wrong way.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, giving him a half hearted smile. Jake gently laid a blanket around you as you continued to eat, leaving you to get a slice for himself. As he settled himself on the couch next to you, he offered you a glass of water for your meds. You thanked him, before nestling into his side with a deep sigh, bringing the heat compress to your abdomen, searching for any form of relief as you finished off your lasagna.

“Cal,” he said softly. You hummed in acknowledgement. He placed both of your empty plates on to the coffee table. “Come here,” his broad hands grasping your waist, encouraging you to lay with your head on his chest. You nestled further into his body heat, letting his warmth soothe the steady ache in your womb, your compress nestled between you both. His fingers gently running through your hair, each comforting glide of his fingertips through your hair easing you that much more. 

“Feeling any better, Lass?” His tone soft as he began rubbing his hand along your waist and stomach, trying to ease any discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, tipping your head up to look at him. “Yeah, a bit. My cramps are still bothering me. They’re always the worst on the first day.”

Jake gently pushed some stray strands away from your face. “I know something that can help with the cramps.” His lip tipped up at the corner. 

You furrowed your brows at the spark in his eyes. You knew that spark all too well. Playfully shaking your head. Frankly, you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about that remedy during your day at the lab. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He smiled, giving your thigh a squeeze. 

“Sex on your period feels pretty fantastic from what I've heard, Lass. Makes all of the pesky cramps go away.”

Pesky is one way to describe them. 

“I'm game if you are,” he said after a beat of silence. His green eyes were bright as his hand rubbed soothing circles on your waist. You bit your lip, fighting with your limbs feeling like jello and your core heating with excitement. 

“I don't know, Jake, it sounds kind of messy, and I don't want to clean up blood right now.” Your lower lip pouting out slightly as you soothingly rubbed your stomach, holding the compress in place. 

“Who says there’d be a mess?” He grinned. 

“Besides,” he drawled, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hips, excitement dancing beneath his eyes. “A little blood never hurt anybody.” 

—

Jake let your bra fall to the tile floor of his bathroom. His hands clutching at your hips and exposed tits as he littered your neck with kisses. “Jake, they're sensitive,” you whimpered out as he gently rolled your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, stiffening in the cool air conditioning. 

“Sorry, princess, just got a lil excited,” he murmured into the soft skin of your neck, his thumbs softly strumming over the sensitive, taut flesh. Your nails scratched at the back of his neck and thick shoulders. He guided you inside the shower stall, twisting the knob to bring on the onslaught of warm water onto the both of you. You bit your lip as he backed you up against the wall, letting his mouth and hands claim you as you ran your nails along his back making him shiver. He littered kisses along your neck, softly sucking hickies onto the flesh. His broad, warm hand opened up your thighs, wrapping one around his waist. He gently brought his hand down to your pussy, letting his thumb run over your puffy clit in electrifying, tight circles. Your head leaned back against the wall, hums of contentment leaving your lips. Jake brought his forehead to rest against yours. 

“So wet, baby,” he cooed, gently easing in a finger, letting you adjust to him with a soft moan as you pressed your lips to his. He gingerly added a second one, watching intently as your eyes fluttered shut at the thickness of his digits. He tenderly began thrusting, setting a slow pace, giving you time to savor each wonderful inch of his fingers. 

“That feel nice?” he cooed. 

You feverishly nodded, bringing your hand up to his hair, before pulling him down to meet your lips. He groaned into the kiss as you bit at his lower lip. His fingers increased their tempo, his lips swallowing your moans making him smile into the kiss. He gently pulled away from your lips, your teeth hanging onto his lower lip making him smirk. He looked down, watching his fingers hypnotizingly leave and enter your flushed folds. He increased the tempo, feeling your walls clutch at his fingers. Your pussy drooling beautifully for him. 

“There we go, such a good girl, Lass.” 

You panted as his two thick fingers diligently fucked into your welcoming cunt. The cascading water barely drowning out your moans and the sopping wetness of your flushed pussy. Your head leaned back against the tiled wall, your lower lip trapped beneath your teeth, eyes clenched shut. 

“God, I can't believe I haven't fucked you in the shower till now.”  He groaned out, bringing his lips to your neck. His fingers changing their angle to hit that delicious spot unimaginably deeper. The overwhelming feeling made you moan as Jake continued his assault on your neck and pussy. His body and bulging arm separating your quivering thighs, preventing you from clenching them in oversensitivity. 

“Jake.” You moaned out. 

“Shh, sweetheart, I know. I can feel how close you are-don't want my fingers to fuckin’ leave.” He graveled out a chuckle. 

“Fuck, I love feeling you fuck me with your fingers.” You mewled out with that same simpered tone that had Jake's cock stirring against your inner thigh. You were sure the water was getting cooler now, but you were too preoccupied to care.

“Fuck, baby, you just need someone to take care of your pretty, little cunt, and you’re just right as rain again. Isn’t that right?” He cooed, grinning smugly at your pleasure-struck face. You feverishly nodded, lips parted far too prettily, and nails gripping into him harder with each glide of his fingertips against your walls. His salacious words and intoxicating lips along your neck make you shiver, and your walls clench harder around his fingers. His grip tightens around your thigh enough to leave marks. Your nails digging into his shoulder and base of his neck, his taut muscles flexing under the sharp impressions of your nails, the pain spurring him on. His bulging arm moving like a piston, pushing the engine of your impending orgasm into overdrive. The thick blanket of condensation making your mind hazy, mixing with lust into a potent infusion that had you clutching at his body, your mind spiraling higher and higher.

“I got ya, pretty girl, I got ya.” 

Your eyes clenched shut, your upper body curling into his own. Whimpers and moans leave your lips as Jake littered soothing kisses along your neck as your high washed over you, electrifying your fingertips. 

“Such a good girl, sweets.” He murmured into the soft skin of your neck, his lips grazing your ear as your breathing settled. His body heat radiating onto you, an atmosphere of comfort along each inch of your body. 

“Ya feeling better, Lass?”

“Much better.” You murmured, feeling out of breath and like your cheeks were on fire. 

You smiled, feeling him smirk into your neck before raising his head, cheeks flushed and pants leaving his lips as he gingerly let his fingers leave your pussy. Words were lost on you as a hiss left your lips at the new feeling of emptiness settling in your stomach. He gently let your leg come down to the shower floor, his hands holding your hips steady. Running your fingers through his soaked hair, you nodded languidly, a content smile on your lips with hazy eyes. The sight made him chuckle as his hands teased their way to the underside on your thighs that felt more like jelly than anything. 

“Do you trust me?” His lust-blown eyes met yours. The water soaked his dirty blonde tufts of hair to his forehead as he kept his comforting, but firm grip on the underside of your thighs.

You nodded, gently running your hand over his forehead to push his hair back. Your nails tantalizingly scratch at his scalp, making his dick twitch against your inner thigh. 

“I trust you, Jake.” You simpered out, the cool tile at your back making goose flesh start to rise along your skin. 

Jake suddenly lifted you up, holding the underside of your knees as leverage, keeping your back pinned to the tile wall, a muffled gasp leaving your lips against his own. His biceps and shoulders bulging at the exertion. 

“I’ll take care of you, I promise.” He graveled out against the shell of your ear, your nails digging into his shoulders and upper back. You had no doubt he would. Being around him and feeling his body heat against your own was enough to help soothe the ache that followed the arrival of your monthly visitor. 

“Jake,” you whimpered, feeling him try to line up his cock at your soaked entrance. His eyebrows pinched together in concentration as he tried to angle his dick inside of you. Pinching the inside of your cheek with your teeth in amusement at his failed attempts.

“Here, let me,” you simpered, reaching between the two of you, grasping his fat cock, giving him a few corkscrew pumps that had his breath stuttering and eyes threatening to flutter shut. Leaning up to kiss him as you led his aching, bulbous tip to your entrance. “Fuck, Lass, so fucking hot,” He groaned at the feeling of your flushed cunt, grasping and pulling him like your own siren call, leading him to the depths of the ocean. He let his hips rest against yours, his thick length fully encased within you, making you giddy with lust. He pushed your thighs closer to the wall as he found a rhythm that had you mewling against him, your nails digging ever so deeper into his taut shoulders and triceps. 

Moans and slapping of skin on skin ricocheted off of the walls of the tiled bathroom. Breathing in each other's breath, consuming each other through your kiss swollen lips. 

You lathed kisses at his neck, biting into the thick column and taut muscle of his shoulder, spurring on his groans and thrusts, and leaving marks that Jake would wear with pride in the locker room tomorrow.

“Fuck, Jake, always fuck me so good.” You moaned out as he hit a particularly deep spot inside of you. Your period pain ebbing away with each rub of his cock against your walls holding him in a chokehold. He held your thighs in an iron grip, making you take each inch Jake gave you. His teeth scraping against your neck with each kiss. Your eyes drifting shut, focusing on the feeling of his strong, warm body pressing you against the tile. His heavy pants, guttural groans, and the thickness of him inside you makes your head spin and cunt wrap ever more so tightly around him. Your nails gripping harder into his biceps and thick shoulders as he claimed you.

“That's it sweetheart, that's it-fuck.” He graveled out. Your lips agape as the tell-tale molten heat spreaded from your toes and fingertips to your clit, your head spinning impossibly faster as your high hit its crescendo. Your lips parting in a silent moan as your walls clamped down on his throbbing cock. “Fuck, Lass, squeezing me so goddamn tight.” He groaned out as tremors wracked your body as he steadily eased you through your high. Your nails clutching at what felt like every inch of his body as his pace slowed, but still hitting deep inside you. Savoring the intense throbbing of your walls around him as he found his high. 

“Oh-shit!”

He pressed his hands harder into the backs of your thighs, his hips coming to a halt against yours as he spilled himself deep inside of you with a groan. His eyes clenched shut as he gave a few languid thrusts inside of you. You softly opened your eyes, seeing his closed ones as his breathing came back to him. His gaze met yours as you rubbed soothing circles on his cheeks with your thumbs, a content smile on your lips as you brought his lips to yours. He sighed against your lips as he melted into the kiss, swallowing your whimpers at the new feeling of emptiness as he let his softening cock slip from your flushed pussy. His release following as it dribbled down your folds and inner thighs. He gently lowered your legs till they reached the ground, effectively breaking your kiss as he smiled down at you. You both looked down at the streaks of red flowing down towards the drain, moving along with the shower water. 

“Sorry, about that-” 

Your breathless, guilty tone made his eyebrows furrow.

“What for? You don't need to apologize for having your period, sweets. Plus,” he leaned down to kiss you, whispering against your ear, “It's my job to take care of you when you're hurtin’.” He drawled, his smile growing with the blush on your cheeks. “And if that means I fuck your pretty brains out in a shower stall, then that’s what I gotta do.” 

-

Thank you for reading <3

Tagging those who might be interested:

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@jkbindigo11 @princess76179 @clancycucumber230 @teacupsandtopgun

@chaoticassidy @superskittles @cherrycola27 @h-ngm-ns @emma8895eb @djs8891 @novastories @urmom-999 @taytaylala12 @zombicupcake3 @abaker74 @kmc1989 @hangmanshoney @caidi-paris @i-wanna-be-your-muse @shara-ne @memeorydotcom @memoriesat30

@shanimallina87 @whoeverineedtobe @gigisimsonmars @slippinginto-theairwaves @phoenix-rising-starbird-one @cardi-bre91 @marbledaesthetics @novagreen04 @kaelatargaryen

[vicsnook]

Cowboy Casanova (Tyler Owens x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You grew up in the same town as Tyler Owens, so you heard the stories — the heartbreaks, the ghosting, the breakups. Back then, he tore through girls like a storm. Now, eight years after graduation, you’re a rising country music star, and he’s out chasing real tornadoes. He might be older, hotter, and more charming than ever, but there’s no way you’re falling for any of that. WORD COUNT: 4.4k WARNINGS: Cussing, Miscommunication, Suggestive content and making out but no smut. NOTES: Uh- I'm scared to write smut, but I'm tempted to make a part 2 of this as a first attempt. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

She had been told her whole life that Tyler Owens was a trap. Men who know they’re good-looking are nothing but trouble. And that was a very apt description of Tyler Owens. He wasn’t only famous for his livestreams ‘tornado wrangling’, but for all the women across America swooning over him on their screens. Frankly, she found it cringeworthy. It was an ick. 

But he was the local celebrity in their small Oklahoma town. She was in second place as a famous local singer, but she only took second because all the girls in town were still drawn to him like flies to honey. Even though every girl and their mama have heard the stories and rumors about him. ESPECIALLY in high school. Tyler Owens was the dream bull rider that every girl fawned over. 

Not her. Yeah, she’d always admit that he was objectively attractive, and only got better with age. But she saw the tears of poor Becky Mitchell at her locker in high school. She heard about the phone-call breakups and the dates he stood up. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that she’d be different. She didn’t care to fix or tame him.

So when he and his film crew came in during one of her sets at the local country bar, Miller’s Place, she just looked passed him unfazed. She was sat on a stool, just her and her guitar, when Tyler stopped halfway through the bar to turn and listen to her. The rest of his crew walked to the pool table and looked back at him, confused.

She pretended not to notice him and continued singing. It was a simple cover of Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. Every girl who’s picked up a guitar has sung this song. She felt that she was nothing special, but her voice rang out beautifully. The wood of the bar created great acoustics for her voice. Many had told her that she sounded similar to Natalie Maines, the lead singer of The Chicks, and that’s somewhat how she got her start. But she now hated that people saw her as a copy or an impressionist. That’s why she went from softer pop to harder country rock. At least, that’s what her label wanted her to release. 

But when she was here? Doing a set at Miller’s? She could sing anything she damn well pleased.

As she finished, she leaned into the mic. “Thank you, I’m gone for the night, but you guys will be further entertained by the lovely Joe Scheel. Thank you so much.” She announced into the microphone before getting up. A few groans and sad boo’s came out from the audience. The timid guitarist coming up behind her gulped nervously. How was he supposed to compete with her?

She hopped down and walked over to the bar, leaning against the countertop. 

“Usual?” Nate Miller, the owner and beloved bartender of the place, asked her. 

She nodded. “Yes, please. Long day.” She grumbled.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a tall Tyler Owens-shaped figure coming up to her, “And I think it’s about to get longer.”

Tyler came up to the bar and leaned his elbow onto it, looking at her. She pretended not to notice him. Simply humming along to the Johnny Cash song that the new musician was playing. He chuckled. 

“Hey, doll, remember me?” His voice was low with that twang of the accent they shared. She remembered it all too well. 

She looked over, and gave him a scathing up and down. A skeptical brow raised on her.

“I wish I didn’t.” She finally said as Nate passed her her favorite beer.

Tyler looked over at him. “Put it on my tab. It’s a high school reunion.” 

Nate went to slide the receipt tray to him, but she quickly caught it. “I don’t need your help.” She said bluntly.

Tyler smirked, and his eyebrows raised. He liked this. He was liking this too much. He tried to grab it again, but she had already slammed her card down and signed the receipt. 

“I don’t need to owe you anything, Owens.” She said 

“You know, I don’t remember you being this standoffish in school.” He said, pulling out the barstool and sitting down. 

“I remember you being this annoying.” 

He chuckled. “Honestly. That’s fair.” He said that, and that slightly surprised her. But she just stared ahead as she took a sip of her beer. She treated him like a toxic hazard. If she spent too long looking at him, maybe whatever mania these girls experienced would seep into her brain. It wasn’t worth the risk.

He looked at her for a slight second more, then ordered himself a beer. He looked forward at the wall just like her, not wanting to stare holes into her like a creep. “You gonna stand and drink, or are you gonna sit down like a normal person?” 

She shook her head. “I’m fine standing.” 

He shrugged, “Just trying to make friends.” As if it were her fault… He took a sip. 

That made her look over. For some reason, that line made her angry. Tyler Owens didn’t make friends. He made women he kicked out in the morning. He made names in a little black book. 

She huffed, downed her beer, and grabbed her guitar case. She stormed out. Oh, she was one hell of a tornado that was not going to be reined in by Tyler Owens. 

A few seconds after her gravelly footsteps faded away, Tyler looked up at the bartender. 

“Is she always like that nowadays?” He asked

Nate shrugged. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy. She doesn’t date.”

“God…” Tyler started with a small nostalgic smile forming on his face, “You know, I had a big ol’ crush on her when we were in high school. Always got me nervous cause she was on the science team.” He confided.

The bartender huffed a laugh. “Missed your chance.” 

“Yeah. Guess I did.” Tyler said.

The second time she saw him was at the community picnic. She was in much more formal clothes than she was at Miller’s Place the week before. Her mother insisted that she come, help set up, perform a few songs, and make the rounds. So, as she put down the heavy crockpot on the long buffet table, her neck snapped when she heard her mama go:

“Oh, there’s that Owens boy. The storm chaser.”

“What?” She asked, turning to see Tyler walking towards their area of the park. A bunch of the kids ran up to him excitedly. No doubt they had all seen his YouTube videos. She rolled her eyes.

“Jesus, he got real big. He’s built like a brick shithouse.” Her mama said

“EW! Mama, stop. You already know he’s bad news.” She said, but she knew she was right. That night at Miller’s had her realizing just how built he was compared to high school. And back then, he already had an athletic body from the rodeo riding. This was another level, as his grey Henley stuck to his skin like wax paper. 

Her mama smirked and raised her hands in innocence. She fixed the tablecloth, then looked back at the whole table. It looked perfect. Everything was set up. She made a mental checklist- cutlery, plates, the ribs, the corn, the brisket. Checking up and down that everybody’s potluck items made it onto the table. 

She turned and looked at everybody. “Alrighty! Come eat, everybody!” She announced with a smile. 

Tyler turned around at that sweet voice and noticed her. He didn’t know she was coming, granted, he didn’t know he was either. He was supposed to be doing a livestream, heading west towards the plains. But Boone and Lily had gotten a bad case of the stomach flu, so he was stranded back in his hometown with nothing to do. Until his doting aunt suggested he come check out the community picnic going on. 

She looked gorgeous. Even more so now in the daylight than when she was shrouded in the darkness of Miller’s. In a brown halter sundress with white polka dots, she was decked out in gold jewelry. Undoubtedly, it had to be real considering she was a full-time country singer. Her hair was up in a messy little up-do with little strands out that blew in the breeze.

Tyler couldn’t help the fact that the corners of his lips upturned into a smile when he saw her. Even though she had left in a confusing firestorm of rudeness, he still saw the talented, smart girl he liked way back when. 

“That’s Ms. Y/n.” One of the little boys who had been excitedly talking his ear off about tornadoes said, noticing where his gaze was. The kid couldn’t be much older than six. “She-she sings for us sometimes. She’s real pretty.” He said, kicking his feet in the dirt.

Tyler looked down at the kid, “That she is.” He nodded, and when he looked back up, he noticed her staring. He tipped his hat at her, and she rolled her eyes before quickly looking away. He smirked and started heading in line for food. 

She was waiting, letting everybody else get their plate ready. She helped hand out plates to the little ones, and if they couldn’t reach something, she’d walk over and help them. But at the moment, she was just waiting, watching the line go. When, inevitably, Tyler reached her, she looked away into the distance with a pout on her lips.

“Well, you look awful pretty today, Y/n.” He said. And when she didn’t answer him, he raised his brows. A scoff escaped him as he shook his head with a confident smile. “I don’t get what I’ve done to piss you off so damn bad.”

She finally looked at him after that and tilted her head. “I’ve heard so much about you that you’ve got a list.” 

He shook his head, blinking in surprise. Several things? What on Earth? He could barely get the balls to talk to her growing up, never mind disrespect her. But if these were things she heard about him… he couldn’t do much to disagree. 

“Well, if you got to know me, you might discover that you actually like my company. You never know.” He swiftly recovered.

“God knows. Warned us to stray away from temptation.” 

“So you’re saying I’m tempting?” He caught her with a smirk. 

Her eyes widened, and she tried to say something, but the words got caught in her throat. A flustered blush bloomed on her face as she looked up at him and his stupid green eyes. They practically glistened in the sunlight. She understood why girls could like this. He was witty, on top of his looks. But she also felt embarrassed at her own blunder.

He tilted his head toward her, “And don’t give me that. You are the furthest thing from a religious woman.” 

Oh.

She shook her head and looked away. 

He smiled, sensing he was getting to her now. “I remember you falling asleep in Sunday Mass so much that your mama started letting you stay home.” He said, recalling.

It was true. How’d he remember such an insignificant detail of her life? And more importantly, why? She was curious now. There was a deeper part of Tyler Owens she was discovering, but that scared her. This must be where the girls got trapped, when he’d remember little details about them and look at them with that deconstructing gaze. He must do this to all the girls.

“Go get your brisket, Owens.” She said before walking off with her arms crossed. 

The third time they saw each other was two weeks later. Tyler’s team had wanted to go back to Miller’s Place, having liked the atmosphere and live music. But as he pulled up in the truck, he saw a frustrated Y/n with her face in her hands, looking down at the open hood of her car. The porch lights of the bar illuminated the steam hissing out the front. Her flannel was wrapped around her waist as she kicked the front tire. 

“Stupid fuckin-” She whined.

Tyler parked immediately and stepped out. “Need any help?” 

Great. Just who she wanted to see. She was between a rock and a hard place. She felt morally obligated to ignore this man. But she was also stranded at the bar in the middle of the night, not wanting to stay much longer. She had her fair share of creeps and superfans who would be eager to see her this late and alone.

“Just a damaged hose causing a coolant leak. But it happened at the worst time ever.” She explained, crossing her arms, backing away from the car. “I made it just down the road before it started steaming, and drove it right back. None of the auto shops are gonna be open. So-“ she smacked her hips exasperated “I’m stuck.”

Tyler walked over slowly, assessing the damage. She was completely right, and though he didn’t doubt her for a second, it was nice to know it was just the hose and not the engine overheating.  “I could take you home. Drive you here in the morning.” He offered.

“And I don’t suppose you think you’re staying over?” She said, suspect.

“I don’t.” 

She was silent. She looked down at her boots and tapped her foot. Her guitar case rested on the pavement behind her. As much as she felt bad about making the assumption, how could she not? She would’ve with any other man- that wasn’t just a Tyler thing.

How pathetic was this? Needing to rely on Tyler Owens for help after she had been so stubborn. The crickets of the night chirped like the ticks of a timer as she thought about it. 

“Come on.” He groaned, “Stop being so stiff-necked and just accept the help.”

She looked at him. Then looked back at her car as the steam died down, but there was no way she’d be able to drive it back. 

“Fine.” She huffed, closing the hood, grabbing her guitar, and walking past him towards his own truck. She held herself as if she owned the place. Tyler watched her with a little smile as she stopped at the passenger side door. There was a moment of silence before she said, “Thank you.”

He ambled up to her with a smug look on his face. Before she got the chance to get in, his hand landed on the roof of the truck, preventing her from opening the door.  Wow, he was tall. Had he always been this tall? 

“You’re welcome.” He said before opening the door for her. 

She sighed, tired as she climbed in. 

When he closed the door, she looked around the truck, and it was strange. She had seen the clips of it online, but it felt surreal to be actually in it. There were all the switches and buttons that she’d rather not press, unknowing of what any of them did. 

He climbed into the driver's seat and started the truck. She pulled down the overhead mirror to check how frazzled her appearance must be, and was suddenly showered in a stack of glossy papers that fell out. 

“Wait-” He said, an embarrassed flush came over his face.

She picked up one of the papers and turned it around to find that it was a picture of Tyler with his autograph. A giggle made its way up, and it eventually turned into a full sent laugh. Sure, she had to give out autographs, too, but she didn’t have them all in her car like this. He put his thumb and index finger to his eyes and rubbed them, embarrassed. 

“Always at the ready, huh?” She said, her voice sweeter.

Huh. Was that? A joke? A real joke that wasn’t a direct insult? Sure, it was a tease, but it was lighthearted for once.

He gave her a small, embarrassed smile and took the photo from her fingers. “Look, they sell stupidly well. I look like an asshat, but if it makes enough for my team and relief aid that’s all I care about.”

“Relief aid?”

“We travel around the area. If a town’s been hit, we give out food and merch to wear.” He explained, and there was a sick feeling in her gut. Maybe… just maybe… he wasn’t a bad guy. Because that was just about the most decent thing she had heard from someone in a long time. 

She was quiet, stewing in her regret before saying, “Oh… Well, that’s great.” 

“Yeah.” He replied softly, putting the pictures back in the mirror and closing the flap, “You don’t need the mirror. You look nice as always.”

She swallowed, and he started driving. 

“You still live with your parents? Near the school?” He asked

She nodded, “Yeah. On the corner.”

“Now, what’s a big country music star doing still living with her parents?” He asked curiously.

“Really taking advantage of our first proper conversation, huh?” She chuckled, looking out the window. She watched as they drove down the familiar streets. The baseball field. The small plaza of shops where she got her prom dress, and eventually some of the sundresses she wore on her first tour. The gas station where she and her friends would get slushies after school. “I don’t like living alone. Went to Cali for almost a year to record, and felt sick every day. It only got better when I came back home.”

He nodded, “You know, it’s supposed to be the opposite. Most people spend their whole lives vying to get out of here.”

She shrugged, “They don’t have my mama’s cooking out in L.A.” She put it simply.

There was a silence. It seemed like both of them were trying to come up with something to say because the silence felt… tense. Whether it was because she was thinking about all the stories, feeling a little bad about how she talked to him, or something else entirely different was unclear. 

“I need some music.” She said, reaching over to press the play button on his car stereo.

“Wait- wait- wait- don’t-” He said, but both of his hands were on the wheel, and he wasn’t about to just slap her hand away.

She pressed play and was surprised to hear her own voice echoing back through the speakers. God, she hadn’t heard this in ages. It was her very first album before she signed with the label. It was one of the many CDs that she and her mom spent hours burning the recordings onto, and slipping the handwritten sleeves into the cases. She’d sell them at the country fair after her sets, hoping that somebody… anybody would buy them. She couldn’t remember Tyler buying one, but it had been so many years that she couldn’t say for sure.

“You listen to me?” Her voice was soft and full of surprise. She looked up at him.

Tyler took in a deep breath, and he just stared dead ahead at the road, scared to look at her. It felt like he was in high school again, and his schoolboy crush had just been revealed. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He finally admitted, “I like this one. I don’t like the country rock you’re doing right now.” 

They listened to the song for a second. Her voice sounded so young and airy. Especially paired with her teenage songwriting. She chuckled, “Everyone said I sounded too much like The Chicks.” 

“You don’t. You sound like you.” He insisted. “And I like you-” 

He didn’t even realize what he just said at first. He was trying to say that he liked her voice, but ended up confessing a completely unrelated layer by accident. His eyes blinked rapidly. Jesus Christ, Owens, what are you doing?

There was a small silence. 

“And how many girls have you said that to?” She asked, not sounding like a know-it-all, but with a genuine concern for her behalf. 

Suddenly, the truck screeched as he pulled over to the dirt side of the road and parked so fast it could give her whiplash. “JESUS TYLER-” She screamed. He parked, and the music cut out.

“Why do you hate me? Huh? Who talked to you?” He asked, frustrated.

She looked at him with frantic eyes, “I-I don’t know! Everyone! Becky Mitchell, who you dumped over the phone. Jessie Roberts, who you stood up. Meghan Brinkley, who got ghosted-” 

He put his forehead to the steering wheel and let out a humongous sigh. After a moment, he sat back up. “Look, I’m not saying I didn’t do any of that… But has it occurred to you that high school was nearly eight years ago? And that I was completely fucking stupid and didn’t know what I was doing?”

She sat in silence. He was right. It was so long ago. Yet the stories had stuck so deep within her. The truck was too quiet except for the muffled cicadas outside the windows. As he talked, he made direct eye contact with her, and it made her chest tight.

“I’ve been in two actual relationships since. Not those baby play dates we all used to do.” He said, “And I regret… a lot. I know I hurt a lot of people… Except for Meghan Brinkley, she actually cheated on me.”

Yeah. Made sense for Meghan Brinkley. 

“I’m not some stupid kid anymore. And I’d just like it if you didn’t act like I was the devil incarnate because of some stupid gossip.” 

She watched him for a moment, unsure if he was going to say more. Until she swallowed and spoke, “I’m so sorry.” She finally said, “I-I was completely and utterly awful to you based on these stories and rumors that I had heard… That wasn’t fair to you.” Her hands were shaking slightly. The guilt ate at her. She wasn’t normally like this. “Would you like me… to say potentially why?”

He looked at her now with a sense of curiosity. His breathing was still a little hard, but he was calming down. It’s not like he was angry at her. He was more angry at himself that he was ever so reckless in the first place. 

“Every relationship that I’ve ever been in has been a bust. I keep trying to believe in these guys when they say they want something serious with me, but then they never do. Either I’m led along, or I’m cheated on, or I’m just completely ghosted.” She explained, then put her face in her hands, “God, this sounds so pathetic.”

Tyler shook his head. “No. No, I believe you. I am quite literally a first hand account of how shitty guys can be.” That made her chuckle, and he was glad to ease some of her tension. 

“After my boyfriend from a few years ago cheated on me with my best friend and they immediately got engaged after, I swore off men. I would never let a man make me cry that hard ever again. It wasn’t worth it.” She said, crossing her arms, nervous to be so vulnerable, “It’s not… It’s not an excuse. I still shouldn’t have been so rude. But it’s a reason why when I hear of a man who did that sort of thing, I get so mad.”

There was another bout of uncomfortable silence. 

Until Tyler looked deep into her eyes. “He’s a complete fucking idiot.”

“What?” She asked, a little surprised by his reaction.

“If you guys were thirteen years old, it’d be one thing. But for godssakes, we’re adults now! That’s a grown ass man! Playing games and hurting people.” He said, surprisingly angry. 

“It’s… fine.” 

“No, it’s not. Y/n, I was practically in love with you in high school! Some of those girls I blew off or rejected? I did it because I was too busy watching you sing in choir class, and was too scared to actually talk to you.” He explained, making her sit up, absolutely shocked. “And I know we’ve changed a lot since then, but I know deep down in my gut that any man who doesn’t realize that he has perfection with you is a goddamn fool!” 

He was practically simmering. What the hell did he just say? She sat completely up now, and they stared at each other, both in disbelief.

It’s unclear who dived in first, but their lips smashed against each other in a fury. They grabbed onto each other wherever they could with the awkward console in the middle. Face. Shoulders. Hair. It was all a mess of desperate and tangled limbs. God, she tasted like beer, and he tasted like lime. The perfect combination.

She pulled away slightly, “Can I?” She asked breathlessly, reaching over to gesture to his lap.

“Dear god, yes.”

Next thing she knew, she was climbing over the console and straddling his lap, lips barely leaving his. She wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his messy blonde hair. She felt his hands explore her back under her tank top. His calloused hands were so warm against her skin. He held her against him like he was scared she was gonna disappear any second. This was practically his dream come true. 

He moved down and started kissing her neck. A strangled noise escaped her that only made him smirk against her skin. He kissed back up her neck and returned to her lips a little more softly. After a series of much more gentler kisses, he pulled back.

“Here’s my plan.” He said, resting his hands on her hips, his thumb brushing circles, “I’m gonna take you home, I’ll pick you up in the morning to go get a new hose from the shop. Then we’re going out for breakfast.” GOD, why was that making her want to just drag him into her bedroom more? But she knew why. She couldn’t just jump into something like this after what she’s been through. And he had a point to make. 

She nodded slowly, “I’m sorry again. For everything.” 

“It’s okay.” He said, looking up at her. He put his hand on her cheek and shifted her face to look down at him. “You’re like an EF5. Headstrong and stubborn. Winding yourself up like this. That’s what I like about you.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed him back against the seat, leaning in close to his face. “God, I swore I’d never be wrangled by you.” 

“It’s quite the opposite. I think you wrangled me.” 

[vicsnook]

Look.

If I had a nickel for every time that Lewis Pullman starred in a summer blockbuster as a socially awkward character named Bob, who exists in the same universe as a fighter pilot character played by Danny Ramirez, then I’d have two nickels.

Which isn’t a lot, but it’s really fucking weird that it’s happened twice.

[vicsnook]

robert 'bob' floyd

top gun: maverick (2022)

[vicsnook]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[vicsnook]

Busy Woman | Aaron Hotchner x Reader

word count: 2911

warnings: 18+, Smut, unprotected p in v

notes: I am alive y’all! Just doing a lot more reading than writing lately (writers block sucks!). But since I was binging CM, I figured I’d take a shot at a little something with my favorite man aka Hotch. Also, fuck decided we would only get bearded Hotch for one episode (a crime). Hope y’all like it and don’t forget to like/reblog 🫶🏼. Thank you for all your love on my other posts!

Working at the BAU as a profiler was a blessing and a curse, more of a curse when you have an unrequited crush on your boss. Nevertheless, at least your coworkers hadn’t figured it out. That was until Hotch was shot.

4 hours before

“The unsub will most likely be scouting the area for his next prey now that there is a concert in town. That’s why it’s very important that we canvass the area.” Hotch said, as we all took notes. “We’re looking for a white male in his late 20s to early 30s, he will look out of place, possibly antisocial, blah, blah blah.”

I knew I had to pay better attention but Hotch had ditched his usual suit for a polo shirt today and it felt like the temperature dropped 10 degrees hotter when he walked in. Spencer kicking me under the table thankfully snapped me out of my daydream and signaled the end of the meeting. I shot him a painful but grateful smile as we got up and headed to the elevator.

“You know you really need to pay attention to those briefings, right? What’s gotten into you?” Spencer questions me as I quickly press the 1st floor button, hoping no one overheard him.

“I know Spence. I’m just having trouble sleeping.” I answer, trying not to blush as the dream I had last night rushes back into my memory. Running my hands across Hotch’s chest as he kisses my neck and- No! I need to snap out of it.

“Sexual frustration can lead to sleeping troubles.” Spencer mouths off and I will the elevator to go down faster in my mind.

“Ha ha, very funny. I’m not frustrated.” I say, stepping out of the elevator into the lobby and heading for my car before Spencer can answer or psychoanalyze me even more.

I swallow hard as I watch Hotch get in his car across the parking lot, the little bit of chest hair visible with that polo is doing things to me I feel shameful to admit. Maybe Emily is right and I just need to get laid with someone other than my boss.

-

The jet ride to Chicago is mostly uneventful except for the few times Hotch caught me staring. If the ground could swallow me whole, those would’ve been the perfect times. Nevertheless, I follow everyone out onto the tarmac and try to act as normal as possible. For fuck’s sake, I’m an FBI profiler, a workplace crush should not have this effect on me.

The day goes by quickly as we set up our perimeter and as luck would have it, I’m partnered with Hotch until we get the signal to move inside the venue inconspicuously and make our arrest. Thankfully CPD identified the suspect with DNA left behind at one of the crime scenes so this should be a pretty cut and dry case.

We don’t make small talk, our eyes focused on the door, every minute counts. But when our suspect runs out the building wielding a gun, the street fills with screams and I’m being pushed back behind the car, Hotch in front of me.

“Stay down, I have a clear visual. Notify the team that I’m in pursuit.” Hotch practically yells at me as shots ring out ahead of us and he’s off running before I can muster a response.

I follow his instructions and against my own instincts stay back because I know better than to disobey Hotch. Thankfully I know Derek is right behind him. But my feet are running towards their direction, the second I hear “agent down” on the radio. Please don’t be anyone on the team.

I push past people and the chaos surrounding me as I try to get to where I see JJ on the phone. I know then, that it’s one of us. But I don’t even make it to her before Emily is grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the crowd and the rest of the team.

“What the hell are you doing!?” I yell at her as I try to get my arm loose but her grip tights. “You’ll thank me later.” She mutters, loud enough for only me to hear and we stop beside her assigned SUV. “Derek apprehended the suspect but Hotch was shot. Now look at me and calm down before we walk over.”

My legs feel like jello as it sinks in. Hotch has been shot. I look her in the eyes and see the concern etched in them. She’s known all along what I thought I hid well. “How?” I manage to ask, as my breathing slows.

“Please YLN, we’re profilers. I’ve known you were in love with him from the moment you saw him. For fuck’s sake you’ve brought him coffee just about every morning the past year.” She says, like I'm an idiot. I am.

“In love?” I question, knowing she’s right. I passed the crush territory a long while ago. But she just arches a brow in response and gives me a knowing smile. “Ready?”

Panic overtakes me again as I’m snapped back to reality. Hotch has been shot. And I nod, following her through the now mostly dissipated crowd where I catch a glimpse of the EMT’s. It’s just a shoulder wound, I realize as I lock eyes with Hotch and he shoots me a pained smile. Relief floods me as I come to a stop beside him.

“Always the one to take all the glory.” I quip, and he smiles at me again. The butterflies in my stomach are going so insane, I think I might throw up. Actually it’s probably the adrenaline.

“I bet you miss being a communications liason,” Hotch says as they bandage him up and I try to not stare at his shirtless torso. “It has its days. But JJ was right, the action is more fun,” I respond, doubting my words a little.

“You know we wouldn’t judge if you wanted to step down. Profiling isn’t for everyone.” He sure does know best, I think as he sees through my hesitation. “I know, but I wouldn’t want to be reassigned.” I shockingly admit. So much for not telling anyone.

“I’ll see to it that you stay with us if you decide to step down. We’ll talk more about it later.” He says, and I nod, handing him back his bloodied polo. “We will.”

-

2 weeks later

I pack my things up as the clock nears 7, long days at the field office are always the worst. But I’m still a profiler and that comes with the territory. Switching off my laptop, I hear Hotch clear his throat behind me.

“Can we talk?” He asks as I whip around my chair and I’m met with his waist at eye level. Don’t think about it. I raise my face and meet his brown eyes and my heart skips a beat or a few. “Sure,” I respond, as he moves back and I get up to follow him into his office. Noticing everyone else has already left.

I take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk and cross my legs to avoid him noticing my restless feet. He smiles softly as he takes a seat across from me.

“YN, I haven’t been honest with you and it’s hypocritical of me to demand anything from you day in and day out without being honest,” he starts and heart beats so loudly I’m afraid he might hear it. I nod, signaling for him to continue and he stands up, walking around the desk and taking a seat on it in front of me. “When you asked to be a profiler, it didn’t concern me as it was a natural progression of the job. But being in the field with you, truth is, I can’t concentrate because I’m worried about your safety and that compromises the safety of the rest of the team.” I swallow hard at his words. Am I getting fired?

“I heard Prentiss in the elevator. I apologize if I’m overstepping but after Haley’s death, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else go by because of this job.”

“What do you -?” But he silences me with a raise of a hand.

“I’m a little rusty in the dating department but what I’m trying to say is that I like you, in a not friend way. That’s why I selfishly asked if you wanted to step back down to communications liason because knowing you’re safe at the office, allows me to do my job efficiently and doesn’t conflict with me and you being more than friends if you’re interested.” He says, scratching his neck as he finishes his statement.

The part of my brain that is responsible for speech fails me as the words sink in. My boss, Aaron Hotchner just confessed he has feelings for me and I’m staring at him like a dumbass.

“Hotch, I-”

“You can call me Aaron,” he interrupts.

“Aaron” the word feels so familiar on my lips and he nods. Words are still failing me as I get up from my chair and he stands up too as I close almost all the space between us.

My hands grab on to his button up that was ironed to perfection just a few moments ago and then I pull him down to meet my lips. One of his hands immediately goes to my waist pulling me impossibly closer and the other is on the back of my neck as he kisses me senseless and I feel dizzy as every emotion I’d been holding back comes to the surface.

He pulls away for a moment and I notice his eyes darken as he pulls me in for another kiss and this time his tongue parts my lips to meet mine and he tilts my head, deepening the kiss and I moan into his mouth. Desire cursing through me as he turns us around and lifts me onto the desk and I wrap my legs around him wanting more. Needing more.

“Fuck,” he swears, breaking away from me, and we’re both panting like we ran one of the marathons he’s so fond of.

“Was that answer enough?” I ask, my hands coming to rest on his biceps. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.

“I mean it answered one of my questions.” He presses a kiss to my temple, and damn you Aaron Hotchner for being so hot.

“I’ll step down, but not because you asked, but because I think I do better work as a communications liason,” I say truthfully. A weight lifting off my shoulders now that I’m finally being honest not just with Aaron but with myself.

“So then, will you let me take you out for dinner?” He asks, and I smile whispering a quick yes before pulling him in for another kiss. I’m going to need to take a very cold shower before work tomorrow.

—

A few months later

Dating Aaron has been nothing short of a dream. Stepping back down to being a communications liason was the best decision for me too, and I feel like my career is back on track. The only snag, the team still doesn’t know. Well except Emily, but she can really keep a secret.

I take one last look in the mirror and spray some perfume before heading out the door. The drive to his house is conveniently 10 minutes away from my apartment. Hopefully he’s already dropped Jack off at the babysitters house.

Pulling in the driveway I see his truck is still missing so I let myself inside, smiling at the flowers he’s set at the kitchen table for me. I’m interrupted quickly though by the sound of a door slamming outside, and my heart begins to pound in excitement.

“Honey? Are you here?” Aaron’s voice echoes through the house as he walks in through the front door. His well pressed suit has me squeezing my thighs together. Gosh, why does he always look so good?

“In here,” I call out, getting up from the couch and fixing my dress. A hint of a smirk plays on his lips when I look up and I know I picked the right dress as he walks over, placing a soft kiss on my lips. “You look amazing, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” I barely stammer out as goosebumps rise on my neck when he pulls back from my ear. I take his outstretched hand and follow him out to the truck and he being ever the gentleman opens my door and helps me in.

“Where are we going?” I ask, staring out the window at the unfamiliar road, his hand coming to rest on my thigh as he looks over and flashes me a half smile.

“It’s a surprise darling, but we’re taking a little detour first.” The glint in his eye is mischievous and I know I’m in for an adventure tonight. I shake my head, trying to clear my dirty thoughts as he pulls off the gravel road onto a dirt one, finally coming to a stop in front of a secluded clearing.

“Well this is a good spot to dump a body.” I observe, and Hotch chuckles, shaking his head. The sound filling my chest and making me feel warm all over.

“I don’t think I can sit down across from you all night in that dress without wanting to run my hands all over you, so I figured maybe we could take care of that first.”

“Oh so I’m your appetizer?” I quip, unbuckling my seatbelt as he slides his seat back and reaches over the console to help me get on his lap. Did he get a truck just for this?

My dress bunches up on my waist as I straddle him, and he looks at me through half lidded eyes before crushing my mouth to his. His tongue immediately finds its way to mine, fighting for dominance as I grind on him. Oh, for fucks sake, I need this man right now.

He grins, pulling away and placing a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “You’re so gorgeous, Y/N” he whispers, kissing up the column of my neck and I shudder at the feel of it. I don’t want to wait, I want him now. All of him.

“I need you,” I practically whine, as his hands slip under my dress and squeeze my bare ass firmly and I’m suddenly glad I decided to go commando tonight. “Do you, baby?” “Yes,” I moan and he kisses me so slowly that I feel like I might combust if he doesn’t speed up.

He lifts me from his lap just enough to unbutton his dress pants and pull them down along with his boxers and with both hands on my waist he sets me down carefully on his hard cock and I arch my back in pleasure as the head makes contact with my clit.

His dark brown eyes stare into mine as he slides me back and forth against his length and the contact is enough to have me gripping his shoulders and throwing my head back in pleasure. But I want more, I want him inside me.

And as if reading my mind he slides his hands under my ass, lifting me up just enough so that the head of his cock is at my entrance and then he’s slowly lowering me onto him, inch by inch. I tremble as he fills me up, and I want nothing more than to stay like this forever.

We both groan in pleasure when he’s fully seated in me and I lean forward and catch his lips with mine as he withdraws an inch or two then pulls me back down.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps against my lips and it’s enough to make me reach for the back of his seat and set my own pace, chasing that high. Our moans fill the car, and I’m glad the area is secluded because I get louder as he grabs on to my waist and meets my thrusts.

His face is buried in my cleavage and I feel my body start to tense as I get closer and closer. And he knows my body so well that he speeds up, wanting to get me there. “That’s it baby, let go,” he coo’s as I sink my nails into the seat and my legs begin to shake. Chanting his name so loud like a prayer as I reach my high and my walls flutter around him.

His thrusts become sloppy as he fucks me through my orgasm and I know he’s close. Throwing my head back I feel his teeth on my neck and seconds later he lets go, spilling inside me with a groan that makes my head spin.

We lock eyes and he shoots me a lazy smile making my heart flutter. “Well we definitely worked up an appetite,” I joke, still panting. “Oh baby, that was just the beginning.” Fuck, I think, wanting to skip dinner altogether.

“Now let’s get you cleaned up and fed so that when I fuck you tonight, the neighbors call the cops from how loud you’re screaming my name.”

Who knew the unit chief of the BAU had such a filthy mouth. I’m definitely in for a long night.

[vicsnook]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

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

masterlist

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

That was probably your second thought.

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

Still.

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

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

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

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

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

You don’t know how he does it.

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

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

But instead, you just hum.

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

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

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

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

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

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

“Sweetheart”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could you go lower?”

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

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

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

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

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

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

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

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

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

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

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

And apparently, he does.

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

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

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

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

Close. The. Curtains.

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

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

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

Just the essentials.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

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

Veeeery humbling experience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s… a moment.

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

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

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

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

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

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

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

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

Then again. And again.

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

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

(Thank God.)

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

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

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

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

He fucks you with it.

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

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

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

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

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

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

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

That first stretch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

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

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

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

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

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

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

Wrong answer, apparently.

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

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

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trying,” you pant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you never find it. You never find him.

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

So instead, you settle. Again.

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

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

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

That’s the reason.

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

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

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

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

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

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

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

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

And oh… you feel it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It almost slips out.

That thing.

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

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t pull out.

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

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

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

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Please don’t call anyone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

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

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

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

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

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

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

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

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

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

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

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

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

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

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[vicsnook]

i cannot believe i’ve been a lewis pullman fan for like 6 years 😭 i fell in love with him when i saw him in bad times at the el royale

(finding miles miller fanfic back then was not an easy feat)

now he’s got a whole ass fandom and his career is blowing up 🥹

[vicsnook]

Unraveled- Bob Floyd

Summary: Bob Floyd likes to think he can keep it cool. Then along comes a sundress.

Warnings: friends to lovers, smut, so much pining, language,

Bob Floyd didn't like to brag, but he considered himself pretty dang smart and sensible. 

He knew the ins and outs of every jet he has flown. Hell,  he could break it apart and put it back together again within a few hours, if that.  He was able to quickly assess a situation, weigh the pros and cons, and come to a sound decision. It’s why he was the top WSO for the mission in Miramar. 

So why has a piece of fabric thrown him for such a loop? 

All Bob was trying to do was be polite. You had mentioned taking an Uber to the Hard Deck tonight and Bob knew the polite thing to do was to offer a ride. After all, he wasn't going to drink. You would save money. It's what any good friend would do. It had absolutely nothing to do with the crush he had been harboring since your first debriefing. 

He was just trying to be courteous. The gentleman his Mama worked hard in raising. Getting to spend time with you, without the other members of your shared squadron around or loud music, wasn't even near the forefront of his mind when he made the offer. Bob was just trying to be a good friend. A good friend who just wanted to help. A good friend who was forcing himself to look at you through a platonic lens, not a romantic one. 

Bob liked to think he was doing pretty well at that. 

That is, until a dress came along and unraveled him. 

Perhaps you said hello when you opened the door.  You probably did, considering how polite you were. But all Bob could focus on was the way the fabric of your dress hugged your curves. 

And what little fabric there was. He had seen you in civilian clothes before. But never anything like this. His mind absolutely went blank when you hugged him and he could feel how much of your bare skin was exposed. Due to the halter style of the straps, nearly your whole upper back was now perfectly visible.

“Um you-you look um nice,” Bob barely got out. He was too busy trying to burn the feeling of your soft skin into his brain. You were warm, like a walking ray of sunshine. 

“Thanks! I got it yesterday and I figured with the weather being so nice, today was the perfect day to wear it!” you said, giving a little twirl. Bob tried to focus on the pattern of dress; how the green brought out your eyes. 

But all he could focus on was the curves of your body, now being highlighted. The way the halter style made your breasts swell and the lack of a bra very apparent. How the fabric stopped at the top of your thighs when you spun, giving Bob a peek of what he often thought about late at night. 

This was bad. 

“I take it you came early to watch an episode of Love Island before we leave?” You asked as he stumbled walked in.

The truth was, Bob wasn’t a fan of reality TV. But he watched because it gave the two of you a chance to talk to one another. Just as friends, nothing more. When watching the silly show, you two could make jokes, talk about things other than work. 

“Yeah! Ready to watch hot people make poor decisions again,” Bob said with a nervous laugh. The joke failed to put him at ease. If anything, it reminded him that he was about to spend at least forty minutes with you and that did not include the drive to the Hard Deck. 

“You’re using my tagline!” your smile lit up your whole face. Bob was certain it could light up the whole turmac. All he could do was nod, his heart fluttering when you grabbed his hand, leading him into the living room. 

"I have some kettle corn in the microwave for you! I also made cherry seltzer water!" Bob could feel heat rush to his face. You always remembered the little details that no one else seemed to pick up on; that he loved salt but had an even bigger sweet tooth. How in an attempt to cut back on soda, he switched to sparkling water. His favorite flavor was cherry because it reminded him of cherry coke. 

"Did you see the video I sent you?" You gently squeezed Bob's hand as you two sat down. 

"Y-yeah. You're absolutely right, having three otters would be my dream." Ever since learning about Bob's favorite animal, you had sent him every otter-related video you came across while scrolling the internet. You even got him a pair of Otter socks for his birthday.  It was the fact you paid attention to seemingly minor details that made Bob fall head over heels for you. 

But alas, you were a coworker. The problem at hand wasn't whether it was allowed, ‘incest’ (as Jake unfortunately called it) happened all the time in the Navy. After all, there were only so many things you could do on a ship before switching to people. No, it was the potential issues that came with dating. Rejection being the main one. Bob had no trouble believing you and he could be professional should you two date and it not work out. That happened all the time. What worried him was rejection. Having to go to work everyday and put on a facade, that things were fine. When deep down, he knew he'd be heartbroken. And even worse, he'd no longer have your friendship. 

So Bob settled, as he often did when it came to love. He took comfort knowing he'd still have you, albeit as a friend instead of a partner. That should be more than enough. For the last few months, he had convinced himself that it was enough. 

But God was it difficult when you bent over right to grab the remote. 

The hemline of your dress inched upwards, showing off the backs of your upper thighs and- 

he could see the swell of your ass. He could see the flash of red lace. Your skin looked so soft and supple and you were so close he could just reach out and- 

Oh God he was hard. Oh no. 

This was bad. Worse than that time he popped an erection during sex ed in middle school. There, he at least had a jacket and a desk to cover it. 

But here? He was a full grown adult and San Diego’s seventy degree weather didn't give him any additional layers. Bob looked around, desperate for something, anything, to hide his cock that was currently straining against his jeans. 

Thank fuck for your love of decorative pillows. 

He grabbed the closest one, shaped and designed like a pomegranate. You were so excited the day you picked it up from some Facebook Marketplace deal. He had driven you, partly out of wanting to spend time with you, partly because he wanted to ensure you were safe. It was adorable and definitely shouldn’t be used for nefarious purposes, such as hiding a boner. This was wrong, so fucking wrong.   

Bob was trying to think of anything and everything that would kill this boner. But his spot on the couch aligned perfectly with the entranceway of the kitchen, where you currently were, rummaging around to fix Bob a drink. 

What ever happened to doors? Why were people so opposed to doors? Doors were lovely. You could close doors. Every time he tried to think of something, you were right in his line of view, turning every thought into something more devious. 

His family? His family would love you. If you two got married you could make  your own family. 

Work? You worked with him, in that damn flight suit that clung to your every curve. No one else could make that god forsaken green fabric look good.  

School? God, you were so smart. The top of your class. And witty, always ready with a clever, underhanded comeback. It’s how you two originally bonded, both having muttered something about Jake under your breath. 

Bob Floyd was screwed. Thoroughly. 

He tried to comfort himself with the fact that soon you two would be watching people in their early twenties making the dumbest decisions over dating. If anything were to be a boner killer, that had to be it. He just needed to make it through then. 

“Bob?” Your lithe voice broke him out of his thoughts. Not that it was much of a reprieve, with the way you were standing at the kitchen entranceway with a glass of sparkling water in each hand, “You good?”

“Me? Oh yeah, I’m great!” He said with an all too eager nod, desperate to convince you this was truly the case. Fuck, you were so beautiful. And you were showing so much skin. He had seen you on the beach before, adorned in athletic shorts and a sports bra. But this was different. 

The dress was far too nice for the Hard Deck. No, you deserved to be taken to a nice restaurant, one with a lovely outdoor patio. The image of you sitting on a lovely chair with a glass of wine in your hand came easily to Bob. It was also the perfect dress for a picnic, particularly at the nearby park, specifically in that little secluded area. God, the idea of you laying down on a red and white checkered blanket, the hem of your dress pushed up your thighs as he leaned over you, ready to take you-

Bob leaned forward, clutching the pillow as he tried to will himself the strength to get it together. 

“Bob? Are-are you okay?” You quickly placed the drinks down on the coffee table, rushing over to kneel in front of him on the couch. 

Oh what a sight that was, you looking up at him with big eyes, full of concern. Your hands were on his biceps, and Bob knew if he looked down he would have the perfect view of your breasts. 

 It was so hot and also the very last thing Bob fucking needed. 

“I’m good. Stomach doesn’t agree with what we had for lunch, that’s all.” Lying was never good, his mother instilled that in him at an early age. But in this scenario, Bob was certain the truth was much worse. 

“I’ll go get you a ginger ale!” Bob opened his mouth to protest, though no words came out due to seeing not only the tops of your thighs, but a flash of your ass as you spun around to go back into the kitchen. 

For a few seconds, the  supple, plump flesh was so close to him. Practically within arm’s reach. 

Maybe he should just leave while you were in the kitchen. 

But that would be rude. Not only rude, but it would raise your suspicions if they weren’t high already. Plus, he had already promised you a ride to the Hard Deck. He couldn’t just leave you hanging, not after you brought a dress for the occasion. He may be in dire need of a cold shower, but the last thing Bob Floyd was going to do was hurt you. He squeezed the pillow, knuckles turning white as he tried to find strength. For once, he couldn’t wait to start an episode of Love Island. Hell, he would even take an episode of The Bachelor at this point. 

“Here ya go,” You sat down on the couch next to him, glass of ginger ale in hand. You even remembered how much ice he preferred in his cold beverages. You were perfect. 

“Thanks,” Bob slowly took one hand off the pillow, the other still holding onto it for dear life. 

“You uh, like that pillow?” You chuckled, though your nerves still shined through. 

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Bob looked down, ensuring his big problem was still covered, “It uh, helps my stomach!”

You raised an eyebrow, though you didn’t further question it. Instead, much to Bob’s delight, you reached for the remote, clicking through until you finally landed on the desired episode. With a shaking hand, Bob gulped down the ginger ale, promptly placing it on the coffee table so he could have both hands on the pillow. 

The room was silent, saved for the ridiculous conversations happening on the TV screen. Normally you and Bob would be shoulder to shoulder, laughing as you both narrated your opinions on the contestants. But today Bob was rigid, his fingers still clutching to the pillow on his lap. He hadn’t even touched the bowl of popcorn. 

"Do you like my dress?" It took everything in Bob not to groan at your question. The last thing he needed was a reason to look at you. But how could he deny himself such a chance? So he put on his best smile as he turned to face you.    

"Uh yeah it's lovely. I'm sure everyone will love it-" 

"I got it for you.” Your voice was soft as you hit the pause button on your remote, eyes remaining on the screen. 

The words hit Bob like a freight train. 

"What? Why would you-"

You shrugged, fingers toying with the short hem of your dress, "I thought maybe, if you saw me in something different, something that wasn't my flight suit or a tee shirt, that maybe you would finally notice me?” 

You finally looked him in the eyes, “Maybe you'd finally notice that I've been trying to flirt with you for the last few months?" 

Bob opened his mouth just to promptly close it. He thought back to the last few months, now analyzing every seemingly ordinary interaction he had with you. 

The way you insisted on sitting next to each other during lunch. As well as during briefings. And when you went to the Hard Deck. Whenever a guy tried to flirt with you there, you turned them down, focusing your attention back on him, continuing your conversation about his latest D&D campaign or a Lego set you had found that reminded you of him. The way you always touched his arm, your hand lingering on his skin as you bore your eyes into his. How you always texted him. How you baked a cake for his birthday. The little trinkets you’d bring him. 

Oh god, he was a fucking idiot. 

The tension in the room was thick. You, sitting restlessly as you waited for Bob to acknowledge what you had said. Bob, processing your words and what they meant. 

“How long?” Bob asked, his voice soft yet firm.

You chuckled as you shook your head, “Honestly? First day. We hadn’t even spoken yet. I saw you walk in and you just were….not only handsome but also looked so kind? Then you offered me a spare pencil, made that comment about Jake’s driving and I….was a goner.”

“I saw you talking to Halo before the briefing room was open,” He confessed, “She said something that made you laugh and it….it was the prettiest sight I had ever seen.”

“We’ve wasted a lot of time, huh?” You both stared ahead at the TV, still too fearful to face each other. 

Bob dryly chuckled, “Yeah….a lot of time. Months, if we’re being more exact.” 

The two of you remained in silence, your words sinking in. Neither sure what should be said, if anything should be said. Until finally, you spoke up. 

“Bob? What’s underneath the pillow?” 

His hips shifted, involuntary, “What?” For a moment, he forgot about the darn pillow and the erection he was covering with it. 

The cluelessness in his voice brought a giggle, “The pillow? Why are you using it to cover your lap?”

Bob sighed, “Can I at least kiss you first?” 

You nodded, moving to close the gap between you and Bob. Pillow be damned, his hands cupped your jawline, giving you a sweet smile before leaning in, closing the gap between your lips and his. 

Bob Floyd’s lips were soft, no doubt due to the sweet mint chapstick you'd watch him apply countless of times. You didn't want to admit how often you'd wondered about the taste, what his hands would feel like on your body. God, they were huge. His thumbs rested comfortably on your jawline, but you could feel his other fingers spanning your neck, down to your collarbone. 

The first kiss was gentle, practically modest. Your lips were only apart for several seconds, if that, before connecting again. 

You easily found his shoulders, grasping them for purchase. The gap between your bodies was too much, Bob wanted to be as close as possible. So his hands trailed down your body, skimming along until they found the back of your thighs. Using his strength, he moved your body, situating you onto his lap. 

A high pitched gasp fell from your lips upon feeling the bulge that was straining against his jeans. Good god, he was thick. You had heard whispers, chalking it up to typical locker room talk. 

Nope, those rumors were one hundred percent true. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob groaned, hands exploring your soft curves. Worst of all, he sounded earnest, only making you want to touch him more. 

“I-I wore this on purpose ah-after all,” you confessed, finding it difficult to speak as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your exposed chest. 

Right. You wore this on purpose. To entice him. To see if perhaps he felt the same burning desire. Once realization hit him again, Bob’s hands moved along your back, just stopping above your ass. 

Wait, he was about to touch your ass. 

“We-we shouldn’t,” Bob mumbled, retracting his hands from your body. You stilled, a crestfallen look painting your face. 

“We shouldn’t?” Repeating the words felt like driving a knife through your heart. Had regret finally emerged, beating the rush of adrenaline? Was he going to regret this, ask that you two never speak about it ever again, pretend it never happened?

“I…” Bob sighed, “I need to take you on a date first.”

Bless his heart. 

Sighing, you relaxed your body into his, resting your head in the crook of his neck, “You’re too sweet, y’know that?”

Bob chuckled, “That's supposed to be my line.” 

His hands gave your hips a loving squeeze, causing you to nestle further into him, until your bodies were nearly molded as one. Your lips searched for his, trailing up his neck, his jawline, along the side of his button nose until finally reaching his soft lips. Bob shifted in his seat, causing you to do the same. As a result, you could feel his erection, despite the layers of clothes. 

“Good lord Bobby, you've just been walking around with all that?” Bob groaned, but not due to your words. No, it was because you had started moving your hips in circles, his erection now pressed against your covered core. 

“I’m- I’m trying to be a gentleman.” Bob couldn't even look at you. He didn't want to stop. He should stop. Maybe you two could skip the Hard Deck and go out to dinner. Then he could take you home and not feel as guilty. 

“You can be a gentleman later,” by throwing your arms over his shoulder you finally had access to his neck. His skin was so soft, so delicate. How could you not sink your teeth into his neck? 

Normally you'd have better self control than this. But you were ovulating and had six months of sexual frustrations and wet dreams- 

“You had dreams about me?” Uh-oh. That wasn't meant to be said out loud. Granted, maybe it was for the best to get everything out in the open. 

Timidly nodding, you explained, “Yeah. The days I didn't sit next to you were because….I had a dream about ya the night before.” 

A band had snapped within Bob, no doubt due to the numerous times you didn't sit next to him during briefings. 

Within seconds, you found yourself on your back against the couch, the bespectacled WSO hovering over you. There was a fire flickering in his blue eyes as he remained laser focused on your face. 

“After this, you're putting this dress back on and I'm taking ya out to dinner, is that clear?” his voice was gruff and deep, similar to when he did a hundred pushes that one day (that you definitely didn't think about while masturbating). 

Chest heaving, dress pushed up to your upper thighs, lips kiss bitten, God, you looked like an angel to Bob. He remembered learning about angels in church growing up. How pious they were, that seeing them was a sign of comfort, that they would guide one to safety, to a holy life. 

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to you. 

His mouth was hot, searing kisses along your skin. Your back arched into him, desperate for me. But he always seemed to pull away before you could get enough. Would you? Ever get enough of Bob Floyd? 

Finding an answer would have to wait, for now you wanted to relish in the feeling of Bob’s hands kneading your breasts. It was obvious you weren't wearing a bra, a fact Bob ob had spent forty minutes trying not to think about. He still felt a smidge of guilt, as though the newly drawn line between friends and more hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Was he even supposed to be doing this?

“You can keep going. I want you to.” You sensed his hesitation. In all the time you knew Bob, he had never taken someone home for a one night stand. He wasn’t like that. He needed time to build a connection, to feel comfortable enough to be himself. That’s why he loved spending time with you. With you, there was no need to put up a front, no need to be fearful of judgement. 

“And then afterwards, we can order some Thai food and continue watching the episode, if you want. Or we can just do that now,” your hands cradled his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you. He found a sweet, reassuring smile, similar to the one that made him smitten six months ago. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” Bob could be blunt, and often was when it came to his colleague’s shenanigans. But with his own feelings? He always chose his words carefully. 

Hence why his admission took you some time to process. Bob could see it on your face; first your eyes widened, lips slightly parting as if driven by the need to respond immediately. But then your lips closed, your brain quickly gaining back self control. 

“I’m falling in love with you too Robby.” You were the only one who could call him that. It was that familiarity, that intimacy, that gave him the courage to move his hands to your hemline up to your hips, revealing the thin, lacy red fabric underneath. 

You were breathtaking. Always were. But this? This solidified things for Bob. You two had made a step forward in your relationship. Many things would still be the same. But there were now new things to experience. Simply another layer of intimacy had been added.

His long fingers skimmed over the fabric of your panties, every touch sending a spark of electricity along your spine. Every stroke caused a small gasp to fall from your lips, music to Bob’s ears. Lowering himself, Bob decorated your hips with opened mouth kisses. Finally, gaining enough courage, his fingers pushed your panties to the side. 

Fuck, you were wet. 

If there was any hesitation left in Bob, it died upon seeing how visibly aroused you were. He had done that. No one else. Lowering himself even more, he was now at eye level with your wet cunt. This wasn’t some vivid wet dream. 

When his touch licked a broad stripe up your slit, a broken moan fell from your lips, echoing off the walls. It was the prettiest sound Bob had heard. He wanted to hear it again. All the time. 

With more confidence, Bob begins lapping up your arousal, determined to taste every inch of you. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you closer. Looking down, you see his glasses are now crooked, though you highly doubt Bob cares, given how his eyes are half closed in pleasure. 

Wait, was he grinding against the couch? 

The discovery caused your thighs to clamp over Bob’s ears, your hips thrusting upwards to get more of his talented tongue. Bob wasn't reserved around you, never had been. But this was a new side to him that you had wondered if it ever existed. Animalistic. Devouring. Loud. 

His groans vibrate against your core, only heightening the pleasure. Slowly, his right hand goes from your hips to your core, mouth moving to your clit as the long digits trace your opening. 

“Oh my God, please,” you all but beg, not quite ready to admit how often you thought about his fingers and how they would feel inside of you.

Always thinking about your comfort, Bob started off with just one finger. You tried to fuck yourself with it, your own fingers gripping the soft strands of his hair for better leverage. The thought of making you beg crossed Bob’s mind. Would you like that? Would you be open to that? There were so many new topics to discuss, so many new boundaries to explore now. 

You happily welcomed the stretch of two, three fingers. Bob found the little moans you let out to be quite adorable. He could feel his cock throb against his jeans, but pleasing you took priority. 

“C’mon honey. Wanna feel you come on my fingers.” His voice was low, husky even. 

“C-can you be inside me? Like your…your cock?” A broken groan fell from Bob’s lips at the very thought of being inside of you. 

“I don't….I don't think I'll last long,” he admitted sheepishly. Hell, he could probably come just from eating you out. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it sounded pretty good- bringing himself to the height of pleasure just from ravishing you. 

“I don't think I will either,” you giggled, “But we’ll….we have lots of other times to go slow.” 

Bob helped you sit up on the couch. “You wanna go to the bedroom?” He asked, thinking about how this could be more comfortable for you. 

Instead, you shook your head, hands moving to his jeans, hastily undoing the buttons. 

Now it was your turn to explore, to discover. There was a dark trail of hair that went past the waistband of his jeans. He wore boxer briefs. And Bob Floyd had the prettiest cock. 

His face turned bright red at the compliment, “Oh it's…I mean it's like fine, but it's not-” 

“Take the damn compliment Robert,” you all but scolded, eliciting a laugh from him, your favorite. The high pitch, near giggle one. The one that made your heart flutter. 

Feeling at ease, you moved so that you were hovering over Bob’s lap. Your fingers moved to the base of his cock, making you realize you would have to ease yourself into it. 

“I gotcha,” his hands found your hips, slowly easing you down. His sapphire eyes never left your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. He went slow, waiting until you made it vocally known you were ready for more. 

By the time you reached the base of Bob’s cock, you were a mess. You wanted him to move, to fuck you within an inch of your life. But he was also so big. The stretch was nothing you had experienced before. 

“Hey, we can take our time, okay? I know it's, that it's a lot,” he assured you, as though he could sense your internal conflict. His lips found yours, and in that kiss you found comfort. Bob grounded you, always had, whether it was up in the air or right here on your couch. 

How much time had passed, who was to say? You could recall both your phones vibrating a few times, no doubt messages from the rest of your squad. Those messages could wait. 

“I think I'm ready,” you whispered against Bob’s lips. He needed, digging his fingers into your hips to gain a better grip. With his help, you lifted yourself no more than a couple of inches off his cock, returning to the base. 

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Bob moaned. You just made Bob Floyd curse. Something not even a bird strike could do. That four letter word gave you the confidence to lift your hips up on your own accord, returning swiftly. Slowly, just an inch or two, which became several inches. Up and down motions turned to swiveling your hips in a circular rhythm. What was once a quiet living room, saved for a few small gasps and the static from the TV, had now become a symphony of melodic pants and groans. 

Bob could tell you were close. Your pussy was tightening around his cock more and more, your fingers dug into his broad shoulders, as if trying to anchor yourself. You practically whined at the sight of Bob taking two fingers into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. He lowered them to where your bodies connected. 

Upon first contact with your clit, your head dropped to the crook of his neck, unabashedly moaning his name, hips moving in a now frantic motion. 

“That's it, I gotcha.” Fuck, we he going to talk you through it? Was Bob Floyd a talker? Ironic, considering at work he was known as a man of few words. 

“Feels s’good, being inside ya.” Fuck, he was a talker. You were doomed, “Wanna, wanna make us cum. Bet ya gonna feel even better when ya soak- fuck- soak my cock.” 

Your brain was hazy. Was this real? If it was a vivid wet dream, you never wanted to wake up. Was it wrong to hope that you were in a medically induced coma, so that if this  was indeed a dream, you wouldn’t have to wake up so soon? Surely, your friends and family would understand upon meeting Bob. 

Then he pointedly thrusted his hips upwards, reminding you that no, this wasn’t a dream. No, you wouldn’t wake up feeling frustrated and unable to look him in the eye. After this, you two could go out to eat, on a real date. Not some hey let’s get dinner that feels like a date in everything except in name. You could also order delivery and cuddle up on the couch. Maybe you could even shower with him beforehand, and see his bare body, find out what was truly hiding underneath that flight suit. Oh, he was deceptively strong, you always knew that. But to see it, to feel the hard planes of his muscles? Oh, that would be quite the joy to experience. 

“Sweet girl,” you clenched at that nickname, you wanted him to continue calling you that for eternity, “Let go. Know ya want it.”

“I-I do,” you all but whined. Bob found the noise cute. What other sounds did you make? What would you sound like if he kept fucking you after you came? What about if he ate you out for hours? Or teased you until you were teetering on the edge?

There were so many questions, so many areas to explore. But for now, Bob was satisfied with experiencing how tightly you clenched his cock, how you practically sang his name as you came. Your release triggered his, pulling your hips down until they were flushed against his. His lips smashed against yours, swallowing your moans. 

Then there was silence. No words spoken. Only the sounds of panting, you both clearly trying to catch your breath, and kisses exchanged, ones that neither of you could resist giving. 

Realization hits you like a freight train. “I’m on birth control.”

Bob’s eyes widened, “Oh thank God.” He was usually so good about asking, about pulling out. But you….you made his brain feel like cotton. 

“You saying you don’t want to have kids with me?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek to let him know you were only saying it in jest. 

“Not yet.” You sat up to find he had an earnest smile on his face, cheeks rosy and eyes shining in adornment. 

Bob Floyd was going to be the death of you. 

So you brushed several strands of sandy brown hair off of his forehead, replacing them with a kiss, "Gotta get me a ring first."

Luckily, you were going to be the death of Bob Floyd.

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no one speak to me at this time

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NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[vicsnook]

I just want to say thank you to all my readers for your likes/reblogs/comments, they make my day. I know I haven’t been active for a while due to some personal stuff but I promise I’ll be back soon. ❤️

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daggers (this is how the movie went, right?)

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the devil works hard but american propaganda works harder

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angel boy

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many many thoughts 😵‍💫

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y'all seeing what im seeing