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alinathinkstoomuch · 8 hours ago

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FIFTEEN LOVE

aaron hotchner x wife!reader

summary: your idea of a fun morning filled with tennis and blackmail quickly turns into your idea of hell…or heaven, if an overprotective aaron and a sprained ankle sound like your kind of thing.

warnings: fluuufff, suggestive-ish banter, old married couple bickering, implied age gap because it's not an alina fic if there are no old man jokes, sprained ankle and a broken nail :(

wc: 1.5k

✰ masterlist

You watch as a lambent orb darts past you, its fuzzy hairs grazing your ankle with a light burn. It bounces a few times, and you turn to watch it roll towards the fence, kind of like your intentions for the day.

When you woke up this morning, before the sun had decided to do its harsh beating, tennis with your husband sounded like a great idea. Now? With your sunscreen melting off, hairs sticking to the back of your neck, and your pretty skort rubbing uncomfortably against your inner thigh, you’re being forced to reconsider. Drastically reconsider.

“You know it helps when you hit the ball back,” your luscious, sweaty husband calls out, shielding his eyes from the gnarly sun with one hand.

“You don’t say,” you call back, strumming up a light jog to retrieve the balls behind you because unfortunately, and to your dismay, you’re failing to return half of them.

“Come on,” he coaxes, still infuriatingly chipper. “Where’s all that enthusiasm from this morning? Need I remind you this was your idea?”

“All my enthusiasm went out the window the moment you saw me in this skort and didn’t make a single degrading comment.”

“So what I’m hearing is…you wanted me to objectify you?”

You return to your spot with a sigh, swiping the back of your hand above your brow, collecting the beads of sweat. “Why else would I wear this glorified napkin and subject myself to manual labour in the sun?”

He laughs and you bounce the ball off your racquet a few times.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you offer suddenly, and his face freezes mid-mouth crease. “Don’t look so worried, you’re going to love it.”

He narrows his eyes. “What is it?”

“I’ll give you my absolute best tennis effort for a full twenty minutes. But…” you pause, letting it hang just long enough, “I need sound effects. You know, the ones that usually accompany tennis matches.”

“Sound effects?”

You nod solemnly. “Moaning.”

He stares at you, and you stare right back, though the smile on his face has slipped off, done a hurdle jump over the net, and found a new home on yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, like he’s making sure he heard you right. “You want me to moan…while playing tennis?”

“Correct.” You bounce the ball again. “Nothing over the top. Just a few well-placed grunts, maybe a sharp ugh when you serve. Bonus points if you add a dramatic ahh after a point.”

“You’re deranged.”

“Yes. I thought that was exactly why you married me,” you huff.

“No, I think I married you because of how great your ass looks in jeans.”

You shake your head, pointing your racquet at him like a judge with a gavel, sentencing a man guilty of a crime too late. “Uh-huh, objectifying me won’t save you now. I need to hear some moaning.”

His hands land on his hips as he ponders over your proposition. The sight is sweet really, watching him pretend he has a choice in the matter. But you let him have his moment nonetheless, despite the fact that any illusion of authority he brings home from work, gets promptly surrendered the second he steps through your front door.

“You’ll really try if I do this?”

“Twenty uninterrupted minutes of effort,” you confirm. “I’ll even run for the ball instead of watching it roll into next week.”

He raises his brow and you grin at him once more.

“You can serve, baby,” you say sweetly, tossing your ball to the side, effectively removing his last excuse. Now he has no choice but to serve and grunt… or grunt and serve. Whichever he fancies first.

You watch as he draws in a cavernous breath, likely preparing to mentally erase the next twenty minutes before they’ve even begun. His hand digs into his bulging pocket, retrieving your yellow nemesis. He bounces it a few times, and before you know it, it’s in the air, making clean contact with his racquet on the drop.

As expected, a reverberant ugh! escapes him on the serve.

You almost drop your racquet from laughing, the sharpness of your wheeze matching the intensity of his swing. A sudden fit of cackling seizes you–hands on your knees, eyes shut, completely ignoring the ball as it pitifully bounces past your feet.

“This is you trying?” Aaron asks, his tone flat and unimpressed, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Sorry!” you gasp between giggles. “What the hell was that?”

“A very dignified serve.”

You wipe your eyes, straightening up, breath still hiccuping. “I wish I was recording.”

He stoops to grab another ball from the court. “You promised twenty minutes of effort,” he says, tossing it lightly in his hand. “I’m not sure where ‘publicly mocking me’ fits into that.”

“Not mocking–never mocking! In fact, I’m reminiscing. That very sexy grunt sounds suspiciously like the noise you made that time we tried–”

A yellow blur zips past your arm before you can finish.

“Hey!” you yelp, glaring at him while he pretends to be utterly absorbed in inspecting the string tension on his racquet.

“Hmm,” he hums, still studying it. “Might need to restring this soon.”

“You almost hit me.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

You scoff, running a hand over your upper arm for emphasis, even though the ball wasn’t anywhere close enough to do damage. “Careful. I’ve been known to hold grudges.”

He finally looks up, one corner of his mouth curving into a smug arc. “You’ve been known to lose at tennis, too.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’m just letting you win? I know for a man your age, taking a beating might hit harder.”

He lets out a chuckle, paired with a brief shake of his head. He knows you too well–your fondness for lobbing age-related digs whenever things don’t swing your way–and he’s got a very particular method of returning the serve. It’s rarely deployed in public. No, in public, he just gives you this look (the one he’s wearing now) that says he’s tucking your little remark into his pocket, and saving it for later…for when the crowd is gone and you’re far less inclined to be quite so mouthy.

“Well, you promised full effort,” he reminds you, palm pressed to his chest in mock sincerity. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

You spare him a witty remark and instead reach for a ball, taking your time to muster up the said full effort you promised despite the sun slowly sucking it out of you. You bounce it once, twice, enough to look like you know what you’re doing, before sending it across the net with what you’ll later claim was a calculated aim but in truth was just… a bit of a hopeful swat.

Somehow, you manage to coax a rally out of the two of you, punctuated by laughter whenever Aaron makes good on his earlier promise to ‘moan and serve,’ grunting and ahhing his way through the match. It feels a bit like dancing with someone far better at it than you, only his so-called sound effects—originally meant for your amusement—are starting to feel less like entertainment and more like sabotage.

You’re convinced you’ve burned through at least half the time you promised him, lungs warm, cheeks hotter, when it happens. Mid-giggle, you leap for a return just a touch too eagerly and your balance deserts you. Your ankle, poor loyal thing, takes the brunt, folding with a pointed protest before depositing you in an ungraceful slump on the court.

The thud of you hitting the court is immediately followed by the thwack of Aaron’s racquet hitting the ground as he abandons it mid-play.

“Hey–” He’s already crouching beside you, one hand bracing your shoulder, the other hovering over your ankle like he can will the pain away. “Talk to me–sharp pain? Throbbing? Can you move your toes?”

“I don’t know…that depends on if I won or not,” you manage, your attempted grin faltering into a wince when his thumb shifts against a tender spot.

“Not funny,” he says, sliding a gentle hand beneath your heel to keep it supported. “The pain—what is it like? Is it constant? Does it get worse when you move?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you mutter, trying to keep the mood light despite the ache. Your eyes drift down to your ankle, and that’s when you notice one of your nails had surrendered and snapped off during the fall, now fused with the sun-baked asphalt. “Honestly, I think I’m more upset about my nail.”

He takes your hand, brushing a soft kiss over the finger missing half its nail. “We’ll get that sorted too. For now, let’s get you into the shade with an ice pack, alright?”

You nod as he stands and begins easing you to your feet, but before you can even shift your weight, he scoops you up in his arms, bridal style, drawing a surprised squeak from you.

“You just love having me in your arms, don’t you?” you joke, teasing him about how often you’ve ended up like this.

You’re starting to think he might be actively looking for excuses to carry you, and deep down, you realise it’s probably one of the few ways he truly lets himself believe you’re safe.

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alinathinkstoomuch · 8 hours ago

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THOROUGHLY DEALT WITH

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you're angry with aaron for missing an important event, so naturally, he fucks the anger out of you. warnings | an: UMMMM ok so! p in v sex, fingering & oral (f receiving) spanking, drooling, overstimulation, masturbation, light d/s elements, choking & mirrors (can u tell i have my favs) somnophilia mentioned, errthang consensual, age gap, just filth yalllll word count: 4.2k… i wrote this when i was ovulating,, my cycle unfortunately decides what content i post LOL

✧ masterlist

You began with his shirts. The infuriatingly pristine, colour-coded, pattern-matched shirts hanging in your closet. The one you once shared. After tonight, however, you’d have ample room for your winter coats.

It felt harsh, thinking that way. And perhaps, once the adrenaline had ebbed, you’d be curled up among those coats, using the sleeves as tissues. But for now, you let the mindset of pure rage, slight dramatics and fury take the lead.

You knew what you were stepping into, a relationship with a man who might as well have been the crown jewel of the FBI, given how seldom he was home. And you bore it with grace. You never demanded much, only ever asked for compromise when it mattered, when it truly mattered.

So one by one, the shirts sailed over the bannister, landing in a crumpled heap by the entryway. Cotton casualties of yet another one of his spectacularly poor decisions.

He’d missed it.

The one thing you’d asked him not to miss. Not a work dinner, not some meaningless social obligation, but your event. The one you’d planned for months, circled on the calendar, reminded him of over and over. The one he looked you dead in the eye and promised he’d be there for.

What did you get instead? A text.

I’m sorry. Something came up.

Something came up, indeed. The collapse of your relationship, for starters.

Okay, maybe that was the dramatics talking. Maybe you didn’t want it to end, but you wanted—no, needed—him to take you seriously. Because how dare he? How dare he treat your life like the flexible one? As if your moments were optional, but his moments, ones that revolved around blood, caution tape, and sirens were the ones that ever mattered.

And the worst part of it all was the fact that despite all your anger, you still missed him in a way that language couldn’t quite capture. He’d been out on a case for two weeks, and even before that, he was barely home, glued to that damn bureaucratic chair in his office like it deserved more of him than you did.

You’d spent the last eight hours convincing yourself you were done. Done making excuses for him. Done watching your life conform to his schedule, his job, him in general. But your body, the ultimate traitor, didn’t seem done with him at all. Not when your hand drifted between your legs in the shower, picturing the way he used to pin you there, palm flat against your sternum.

Not even now, when you were supposed to be standing your ground. You still found yourself wishing he’d walk through that door and press you against it, like he needed it just as badly as you did.

Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe all you needed was a good fucking.

And you knew that was exactly what you would’ve gotten, had he shown up like he promised. He would’ve started in the car, hand gripping your thigh, maybe even slipping under your dress, getting you all worked up before you’d even made it home.

Then he would’ve railed into you, bent you over the piano in the foyer, lights blazing because of course he’d want the neighbours to see exactly how he rewarded your hard work. But no. You went home alone. Worked up, pissed off, with every intent of emptying your wine stash. Which you did.

And now, you stood at the top of the stairs, breath uneven as your pulse pounded in your throat. And that’s when you heard it.

His car in the driveway.

Shoes. Yes. Shoes seemed poetic. Fitting. The perfect thing to hurl at him with all the grace of a woman scorned and denied an earth-shattering orgasm. Actually, orgasms—plural. Because he wouldn’t have stopped at just one. He would’ve teased the first out of you, held you at the edge until you begged, then made up for it with two more. Rewards for being so damn patient.

You turned on your heel and marched back into the closet, snatching the nearest pair of his smug little leather loafers. Polished, arrogant things, much like the man who owned them.

By the time he stepped through the front door, you were already back at your vantage point, arm cocked, waiting until he turned to launch the first shoe.

It missed his head by a fraction and slammed into the doorframe with a satisfying crack.

He froze, jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, tie loosened and all.

“Hi, honey,” you called out, your voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Then came the second loafer which landed just short of his feet. “Figured I’d give you a hand with the packing,” you added, gesturing to the shirts across the entryway. “Consider it a head start. I assumed your schedule wouldn’t allow for sentimentality.”

He set his briefcase down first, then his jacket, but you didn’t stay to watch the performance. You were already halfway down the hall, disappearing into the closet like a woman possessed, and thoroughly, furiously sexually frustrated.

You grabbed as many of his jackets as your arms could carry, yanking them from the rack with such force—hangers still hooked—you were genuinely surprised the bar hadn’t come crashing down with them.

You heard him then, just shy of the dressing room, steps clear as day. You paused in the hallway and dropped the pile right where it met the doorway, letting the expensive fabric fall into a heap like a makeshift barricade.

Then, back into the closet you went. You reached for what was left, another jacket, two more blazers, and his beloved cashmere sweaters. You snatched them from their hangers like they were the ones that were responsible. And with your arms full again you turned, only to find him standing there. So close that you nearly walked right into him.

“Unless you’re here to carry these to the curb, I suggest you get the hell out of my way, Aaron.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the pile in your arms, then back to your face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Like hell you’re not—”

“Just put my things down and we can talk about this,” he said, with that infuriatingly calm voice that made you want to scream, in two very different ways. “I know I made a mistake.”

You scoffed and stepped closer, close enough to breathe him in. Not the crisp, clean scent you were used to in the mornings when he’d leave for work showered, shaven and put together. No, this was him at the end of the day. The faint remnants of cologne clinging to his skin, mixed with something more worn-in, and when he exhaled, you caught the faintest trace of bourbon on his breath. Rossi’s doing, no doubt.

Probably his way of trying to calm him down.

You’d heard Dave refer to you as a ‘fiery one’ more than once, always with a little too much amusement in his voice. He’d even joked, right in front of you, that Aaron wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. Said he’d fold if you ever gave him real attitude. Clearly, Rossi had sensed what kind of storm Aaron was walking into tonight and had handed him a glass like some kind of offering from the gods.

“So not only are you incapable of being unselfish for one night that doesn’t revolve around you, you also seem to have a stunningly poor ability to follow basic instructions,” you snapped, voice rising in a way that was rare. “Are you absolutely certain you went to FBI school, or did you half-ass that the way you half-ass everything else you claim to care about?”

“Are you done?”

“Not even fucking close. But go ahead, interrupt again. You’re great at that, right?” You shoved the pile of clothes into his chest, hard enough to make him take a step back. “Talking over people, brushing them off, missing everything that actually matters until it’s already too late.”

He stood there for a second, holding the clothes before letting them drop to the floor without a word. You let out a bitter laugh at the sight and moved to shoulder past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you hissed, turning back to face him. “Don’t walk away from the man who didn’t show up? Don’t stop screaming because it’s the only thing that gets through that thick, federal skull of yours?”

“Don’t do this. Not when you want me more than you want me to leave.”

“What? Are you—are you actually insane? Delusional? Is this the sleep deprivation talking? Because if so, you can take that smug little fantasy and get the hell out of my house.”

He let go of your wrist, but only to step behind you. His hands moved to your hips, turning your body to position you in front of the island in the centre of the dressing room.

“You want me gone?” he asked.

You cocked your head slightly to the right, catching his reflection in the mirror ahead as he began to undo his tie.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours in the glass. “Say it while I’m inside you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not because you lacked words, lord knows you had plenty. And he hadn’t even scraped the surface of the venom still burning at the back of your throat. But your body—traitorous, wretched thing—had already betrayed you.

You were supposed to be holding your ground. Not standing there, spine taut, with him behind you, visibly restraining yourself from folding over the island and handing him all your anger, gift-wrapped in a neat little bow that read please, fuck me senseless.

His fingers brushed your waist, and your lungs locked up. Your throat was so dry your heart had taken to skipping two beats at a time, just to remind you to swallow.

“I missed one night,” he continued, his fingertips now trailing up the length of your forearms. “But I haven’t missed this. Not once.”

You let out a flimsy exhale, turning your head to meet his eyes in the mirror once more. “You think this makes it better?” You knew it did. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of answer that made sense in a normal relationship, but nothing about you and Aaron had ever been normal.

“No,” he answered like the gentleman he was pretending to be, knowing exactly what was coming. “But I think you want it anyway.” And then his hands dropped from your arms completely. “So…what’s it going to be?”

Your hands moved before your mind did, bracing yourself against the island, knuckles whitening as your spine arched over the marble.

He hummed in approval, hands moving to your neck, brushing your hair aside. “That’s what I thought.” You felt him press into you, the weight of him flattening you against the surface as his fingers found the zipper of your jeans.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you lied, needing to put up some kind of fight.

He stilled for half a second, then let out a quiet laugh. “No?” he mocked, dragging the denim down your thighs until it was bunched at your knees. “Then why are you shaking?”

“Because I can’t fucking stand you,” you spat, forehead pressing to the marble, breath fogging against it as you tried—really tried—to remember why you decided his wardrobe would look better scattered across the entryway.

You heard him click his tongue behind you.

“Honey,” he drawled, his voice so pleased and full in all the ways that you were seconds away from being.“You’re so wet your underwear’s turned three shades darker.” And just to prove your point, his thumb dragged slowly over the soaked fabric making your body jolt, forehead nearly smacking the marble with the force of the reaction.

“Step out of the jeans for me,” he murmured, tapping your right thigh first, then your left.

You kicked the material off one leg at a time, your balance swaying as you did, hands tightening around the edge of the island for strength because it was the only thing keeping you upright.

His hand slid up the backs of your legs again, brushing that spot where your ass met your thighs. Then, without a word, his fingers slipped underneath the gauzy material of your panties.

You sucked in a breath as his middle finger dragged through your folds.

“Do you remember what had you so pissed off in the first place?” he questioned, like he genuinely expected you to form a coherent sentence right now.

“Yes,” you groaned into the counter, hips bucking shamelessly against his hand.

“So greedy,” he tutted, pulling his finger back just enough to watch your hips chase it. “Want me out of the house. Throwing my things out like some scene from a bad divorce. But one finger and you’re already a whiny little mess?”

A strangled noise tore from your throat, something between a curse and a moan, as your hands gripped the counter tighter.

“How many times did you touch yourself while I was gone, hm?”

“I—fuck, I don’t—”

“You don’t know?” He pushed a thick finger inside you, making you hiss at the stretch. “That’s not a real answer. Try again.”

You bit down on your lower lip hard enough to sting, eyes fluttering shut as your body betrayed you all over again.

“I asked you a question.”

“Three,” you gasped. “Maybe four.”

He let out a low, satisfied noise. “Maybe? You lost count?”

“D-Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he laughed, adding a second finger. “You’re doing it for me.”

Your right hand curled into a fist, accidentally knocking a bag off the side in the process. “I hate you,” you mewled, the words barely making it past your throat.

“Liar,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your spine as his fingers worked deeper, curling just right. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I know exactly how to make you come before I’ve even unzipped my pants.”

Your mouth was parted against the marble, and when a moan caught in your throat, you managed to drag it back down just barely. Coaxing it into a shaky breath instead, trying to cling to the last scraps of pride you had left. Because he was right. Infuriatingly right.

“Well?” you hissed, breath catching. “Are you going to unzip your pants, or are we still pretending your fingers are doing anything I didn’t handle on my own while you were gone?”

Your heard an unbothered chuckle from him first and then felt the sharp sting of his palm landing against your ass, second. The impact was muffled by the fabric of your underwear, but the message landed all the same.

“That’s sweet, dear. But I don’t remember hearing you make these kinds of noises the last time you decided to take care of yourself…right next to me.”

You jaw clenched.

It had only happened once. You thought he was asleep—clearly, he wasn’t. He’d gotten in late from work, and you hadn’t wanted to bother him, so you took matters into your own hands… literally.

In hindsight, it explained the sudden burst of sex drive the next morning. You’d woken up to his mouth between your legs like he was trying to make a point that he could always make you come harder.

His free hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head to the side as he angled your face toward the mirror. “This isn’t how you sounded then, is it?” he taunted, fingers slipping out of you just to circle your swollen clit instead.

You gasped, body jerking at the sudden change in pressure.

“And just for that—” his hand stilled, the contact vanishing altogether, “—you can wait.”

You took the chance to catch your breath, heart pounding as you clenched around nothing, blinking back the tears gathering in your waterline like they’d scheduled a meeting.

Glancing at the mirror you saw his hands work his belt free and you were tempted. So incredibly tempted to prove him wrong, to reach down between your legs and finish what he so cruelly started. Just a few strokes, that’s all it would take. But before you could even move—

“Don’t.”

You stilled. Every muscle locked.

“Put one hand between your legs,” he continued, the sound of his belt sliding from the last loop sharp in your ears, “and I’ll bind both behind your back. You won’t come tonight. Or tomorrow.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, barely managing to pull air in. The fabric of your top clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and a rage that seemed to be dissipating by the second. All that remained in its place was a desperate, aching hunger for him.

You pressed your thighs together without thinking, chasing some kind of friction, some kind of relief, but Aaron’s hands were already on your hips. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, tugging them down your legs.

You knew it was his favourite part, especially when he had you bent over nearly every surface in the house. He loved watching the strings of your wetness peel away with the fabric, loved when it dripped down your thigh.

Once you were free of the only barrier between the two of you, you braced yourself flat against the counter, arching your back just enough to let him swipe his thumb through your pussy, allowing him relish in your wetness like a ritual he never dared to skip.

“Still want me to go?” he asked, though his voice carried a gentler note.

You turned your head, eyes back on the mirror. “Just fuck me,” you whispered—no, begged. “Please.”

He leaned in, bending over you to press a kiss to the inside of your forearm. Then another, trailing lazily up the length of your arm to your shoulder. Behind you, you felt his hand move between your bodies, hearing the rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.

He aligned himself with you, dragging the thick length of his cock between your thighs, letting you feel everything. Every vein, every throbbing inch, the obscene heat of him paired with the wet slip of precum he spread over you.

You keened out a moan, barely managing to keep yourself upright even with the counter beneath you, legs beginning to shake with the effort it took to stay still.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” he murmured, voice rasping just below your ear. “I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

“I know,” you breathed just as he guided your hips, braced his feet, and buried himself inside you in one devastating thrust. The stretch sent you spiralling, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as your forehead found comfort in the marble once more.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out just enough to make you clench around the absence, and then slammed back in harder.

One hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your nipple while the other found its way back to your slick clit. All that came from your mouth were broken, pathetic sounds. Half-moans, half-sobs, every syllable caught between nonsense and pleading.

“A-Aaron, oh my f—god—oh—” Your voice wavered as he hit that spot again, and again, and again, until you were shaking with every thrust.

Drool slipped past your lips, a thick string trailing down to the countertop, followed by more, clinging to your chin, catching in the strands of your hair as you trembled under the weight of his body.

You felt Aaron release your nipple before his hand moved to your neck, his palm firm against your throat, holding you in place just as another string of spit slipped past your lips, landing on his hand.

“Look at you,” he grunted, tightening his hold as his hips lurched forward again. “Dripping from both ends.”

“Please don’t stop—I’m—I’m—”

“You’re close,” he chuntered, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it, baby. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Your whole body locked, spine arching violently off the counter, eyes rolling back as the coil deep in your belly finally snapped. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, nothing coming out but air, tears, and barely intelligible sounds that might’ve been his name.

But Aaron didn’t stop.

Not even when your legs gave out beneath you, not when you slumped forward against the marble, sobbing through the aftershocks that tore right through you. He held you up, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, fucking you through it, slow and deep now, like he needed to feel every last twitch and tremble your body offered him.

You could feel his rhythm start to falter, each thrust getting sloppier, his hips stuttering against you. Then, with a muffled moan into your shoulder, he pushed into you one final time and stilled, cock pulsing as he came. His grip eased, but his whole body shuddered against yours like he’d been hanging on just long enough to make sure you came first.

He made sure you were completely filled before he pulled out slowly, causing you to whimper at the emptiness. You barely managed to brush the damp hair from your face, to wipe away at the trail of drool on your chin, before his arms were around you again, this time gently guiding you down to the floor of the dressing room.

“Aaron,” you panted, landing on a pile of clothes you’d thrown there earlier. Soft cotton, rumpled cashmere, the ghost of his cologne clinging to it all. “What…what are you doing?”

“Shh, honey.” He knelt between your legs, his knees cracking on the way down.

“Sure this is good for your old man frame?”

He spread your legs open, fingers moving to push his come back inside you. “If I throw my back out eating your pussy, I’ll die a happy man.”

Your breath caught, hips jerking instinctively at the contact. “Jesus—Aaron—”

He lowered his head, mouth hot and wet as it latched onto your cunt, tongue dragging through the mess he’d just pushed back into you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, undecided if you were pulling him closer or trying to push him away. “I don’t think I can go again, baby,” you gasped, your thighs twitching from the overstimulation.

You heard a sloppy, muffled, “You can,” just as he sucked your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make your vision white out for a second.

“Motherfuc—” Your legs locked around his head with such force that it had to be uncomfortable for him, maybe even a little painful. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, he didn’t look bothered in the slightest.

You caught the way his hips were grinding slowly into the rug beneath him, telling you this might not even be for your pleasure anymore but for his.

“I really, really don’t think I can come again,” you cried out, hips lifting into his mouth. “Please, Aar—”

Your voice broke off as he groaned against your pussy, loud and filthy. The vibration of it paired with the way he lapped at you, coaxed that familiar feeling, winding tight in your abdomen.

You shook your head, back arching, mouth open but no sound escaping as he sucked your clit into his mouth and circled it with his tongue over, and over and over again.

“Aaron, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

The words dissolved into a sob as the pressure inside you reached its peak, crashing over you with a dizzying force. You came again, harder this time, legs spasming, hands clawing at the rug and his hair, tears slipping down your temples as your body convulsed under him.

You felt his mouth finally ease up, the warmth of him pulling away only for a moment until he was crawling up your body, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovered over you.

He scanned your face, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes were still screwed shut as you tried to come down from the high he’d dragged out of you. He didn’t say anything, just let you come back to him on your own terms because he was generous like that.

Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the rug, the tension bleeding from your limbs. Finally, you blinked up at him, dazed and thoroughly fucked-out.

“Think I went to heaven.”

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Were they impressed?”

You let out a weak laugh, your hands dragging up from the rug to rest on his shoulders. “I’m still mad at you. Just… now I can do it with a clear head rather than a—”

“Horny one?” he supplied, earning a nod from you.

“Mhm. Was this your idea of an apology?”

“I mean…” He looked down at you, then at the mess around the closet. “It stopped you from throwing any more of my clothes, didn’t it?”

You snorted. “Temporarily.”

“I’ll take it.” He leaned down to press a lazy, unhurried kiss to your cheek. “Now, come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Then you can go back to yelling at me properly.”

#2k note clurrrbb #thank u so much❤️☀️🤗

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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 days ago

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my dirty birthday thought: ✨ prone bone with hotch ✨

him completely (!!!) caging you in with his own body: legs crossed around yours, arms placed around your head, his stomach and chest fitting like a puzzle piece in the curve of your back, his lips on you everywhere (your neck, your cheek, your ear, your hair) and there (consensually) not being a way to escape so when you come he can keep you in this position until he’s filled you up and you will smell like him for the next few days no matter how many showers you’ve taken bc he’s just touched you everywhere 💞💕💖💞

LOVER!!!! just know i have not been able to stop thinking about this for the last several days u r so fucking insane i have to stand up and applaud your mind because WOWEEEEE 😵😵😵😵😵😵

genuinely going crazy over thissssssss

#alina’s kinktober🫦#nsfw

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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 days ago

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okay soooo i don’t think this fits into the parameters of one specific kink and if you don’t vibe with it, i completely get it but — dbf!hotch cheating with a cock-drunk!reader + she sucks aaron’s ring finger into her mouth and removes his ring with her teeth. while on her knees, looking up at him. lots of: oh god no! this is so bad! so wrong! we shouldn’t be doing this! you’re young and i’m old and i have a wife! what would your dad say if he saw us like this?! followed by some of the nastiest, rawest, “please cum inside me, i want to feel you” fucking you’ve ever read in your life. or something along those lines…

UMMMMMMMMMM this is so insanely delicious i have so many thots abt this scenario AHHHHH i fear i have to include it in kinktober immediately!!!!!!! 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

#alina’s kinktober🫦#nsfw

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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 days ago

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is sub hotch and dom reader on the table for kinktober????? because i would love love love to see hotch whipped and whining and begging mwehehehehehehe

absofuckinglutely!!!! it would be wrong not to add that into the mix 😏😏😏😏 men whimpering is my weakness fr

#alina’s kinktober🫦#nsfw

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alinathinkstoomuch · 2 days ago

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yay!!! so glad u loved it <3 <3 <3