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luveline · 1 year ago

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𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

You and Spencer finally find time for your first time. 6k

fem, afab!reader, mostly confident!reader, foreplay, oral sex, p in v sex, lovey dovey tender loser sex, established relationship, pet names, aftercare, requested here <3

cw for smut, minors do not read or interact, 18+ content

˗ˋˏ ʚ♡ɞ ˎˊ˗

“Can you stay still?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

Spencer climbs further toward you on the bed. “I’m trying to help. You’re no good at buttons.”

You’re no good at buttons because your fingers shake whenever you and Spencer get close like this, and with these intentions. You’d always thought he’d be the shy one —sometimes you take his hand in the back of the work car to watch his cheeks go a rosy, unignorable pink. He’s the more introverted of the two of you and he always has been, so why does his touch have you trembling already?

Excitement, you decide, heart in your mouth as his fingers begin to pop your buttons through each matching slit. This is exactly what happened last time you and Spencer tried (and were sorely interrupted). You’d been out of breath and in his lap, too excited to see to his buttons, too busy kissing him to take much notice as he’d taken care of them himself. And then work called, your plans were cancelled, and he’d promised you that you’d get to do this soon.

“I’m good at buttons,” you deny, leaning back on the palms of your hands as his pinky’s brush up, the sides of your shirt falling open.

“Oh, you’re back,” he says. He’s teasing in bed. You aren’t expecting it. “You went somewhere else for a few seconds, you okay?” That’s less teasing, more sweet.

His hands pause just under where your bra begins.

You take a breath. “I’m okay, I’m thinking about last time.”

He leans in for a kiss, a quick but steady catching that has your face following him as he pulls away again, and undoes your next button. “Which part?”

The part where he’d insisted you’d be laying down for this. The memory alone inspires heat, pleasure and wanting from the depth of your chest, your stomach, ever lower.

“Did you lock your door?” you ask.

Your phones are off. The door is locked. Spencer promises as much in your ear as leans in closer to you, crawls that last few inches of space to have your legs tangled atop his white sheets, his hand disappearing under the open sides of your shirt. The other hand works the last few buttons, but you don’t get to watch him do it, distracted by his fingers hot on the small of your back and his lips as he pulls you in tight for another kiss.

This one’s slow. He holds you like he’s worried you’re gonna slip out of his arm where it curls behind you, cool air kissing your chest as he gets the last button by your neck and encourages either side away from you. You lean into him and shake your shirt down the lengths of your arms, finally shirtless in front of him again after days of trying. You try to keep up with his kissing, he’s intense, he’s everywhere, but you run out of breath.

“Oh,” you say uselessly, your cheek against his as he kisses your jaw.

“What, angel?” he asks, breath warm to your skin, “What’s up?”

“Nothing… I wore my nice bra for you.”

“You did?” He promptly pulls away. His face is pinking, but it’s so warm you can’t blame him for it. You’re sure he’d feel a furnace under your skin if he touched your forehead. Spencer’s gaze falls down to your chest, where it stays, his own rising and falling with a noticeable sharpness. “That’s pretty. You’re pretty.” He swallows as he looks up. “Your nice bra? Just one?”

You cover a breast with your hand and push it up ever so slightly. “This is the one I thought you’d like most. You like blue.”

“I love blue. I love you, I love you,” he says, leaning around you to move your discarded shirt to the floor. “Can I take it off?”

You nod with a stupid smile. Fond and too eager. “Please.”

“How many tries do I get?” he asks, grabbing your sides in two gentle hands, pulling you forward into a hug as he reaches behind you for the clasp.

“You can do it one,” you promise, voice a murmur now he’s close to you.

You let your hands rest on his hips as he pinches the clasp and pushes it together. Like magic, it comes apart. Spencer holds the unclasped sides to your naked back for a few seconds, his breath loud in your ear, before he sits back to look at you.

You push the straps of your bra down, let the support of your bra fall away. You ball it up in your lap, sitting there bare-chested and smiling, waiting, hoping you’re as beautiful to him as he’s always made you feel.

His hand climbs your arm. “You’re beautiful,” he says, “can I–”

“Yeah, please. Please.”

His thumb rubs a short line from your navel to the skin just below your breast. Your chest feels suddenly heavy, the half-lidded set of his eyes on you like a weight, but it’s one you realise you like as he rubs the indent of your bra. “You’re so pretty,” he says, his thumb pressing into the underside of your breast, kind but undeniably there, and your body reacts to his touch, which is another thing. He doesn’t coo, but it’s close. “How does that feel?” he asks quietly, drawing under your nipple with his thumb.

“Can you kiss me some more?” you ask, breathless in a way that’s almost painful.

Spencer clutches you by your sides, unafraid to play with you, pressing you down into the bed as his hands traverse up. You shuffle back into the pillows and let your eyes shutter closed, his nose pressing hard into yours as your lips meet again. He kisses hungrily. He’s treated you to a few heavy kisses in the past, nothing compares now to the open crescent of his lips and the feeling of his hands. His tongue is hot where it touches your lips, wading in. You sigh into his mouth and feel his own sigh in return as he breaks it.

“Fuck,” he says, his breath coloured by pleasure. He’s practically moaning in your ear as a big hand squeezes your chest.

You can’t take this. You lift your hips and graze against him, rushing to reach down and slip your skirt over the curve of your ass and over stocking clad thighs. You try to push them along at the same time, breathing hard.

Spencer notices what you’re doing and reaches to help.

“Your shirt,” you argue, faces close, his confusion an inch away, as are his pinked lips, “take your shirt off, Spencer, I can do this myself.”

“But why should you have to?” he says, though he listens, making quick work of his button up.

You kick your stockings off of your feet and lay there, warm, overwhelmed but desperate at once, watching him on his knees as he manages his last button and peels out of his shirt. You cross your legs tightly against the achy heat blooming in your cunt, uncharacteristically shy.

His chest is pale, without a freckle nor beauty mark, but he’s shapely. You've kissed him so much these last few months, traced the hills and rigid muscle of his front with an adoring hand under his clothes, but the two of you being similarly bared is different.

It’s worse when he reaches for the button of his slacks.

You bite your lip. “Spencer, can I do it?”

“Yeah.” He swallows again. “Of course you can. Don’t ask me.”

He’s getting warm, curls of his hair falling into his eyes, his breath a constant huff. The bulge of him through his slacks draws your attention. You crawl toward him where he’s kneeling, checking his face. When he nods, you rub the very pad of your thumb against the line of his cock, feel it jump at your touch. Your heart jumps in a similar place.

“This okay?” you whisper, your touch light enough that you’re surprised he can feel it.

“Please.” He says your name like you’ve hurt him. “Please. Take them off.”

“I can’t believe you’re like that just from kissing me,” you say sincerely, a mumble as you pop the button and dig your fingertip under the zipper, which you pull down in one smooth line. There’s an immediate release of pressure against his cock. You blink. It’s so warm in here. “Spence, can I–”

“Please.”

You nod to yourself and shift onto one elbow, shocked and even warmer when Spencer plumps a pillow behind you. Your anticipation is an ache that won’t ebb, hands trembling again as you pull the band of his pants down his hips and expose a pair of white and blue boxer briefs. A darkened patch of material rests against the tip of his cock, the curve of him ever harder as you touch him.

He sucks in air through his teeth.

“Aw, Spence,” you say, pressing the length of your thumb to his cock and breathing out as you ride the curve of him up to that wet spot. “Sweetheart… Does that feel good?”

He closes his hand on top of yours and holds you there. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“I think I gotta kiss you first,” you say, eyes on his straining boxers. “Think you might need one.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ll ruin everything before we’ve even started, you can’t kiss me like that.”

“Are you sure? I can make sure you’re ready.”

You’d never force him into anything. You’re letting him know it’s alright. You’re not gonna push him over the edge before he’s done, you just wanna do all the stuff with him that you’ve been dreaming about for a while now. You have a feeling he might enjoy it.

“You can tell me to stop whenever you need me to,” you say softly, feeling his cock twitch in your hand at the mere sound of your voice. “I wanna see you.”

He laughs infectiously, almost drunkenly, the two of you giggling as he shifts your hands. He doesn’t say anything more, only moves your hands down over the softer base of his cock to encourage his pants out of the way, and then his boxers.

His cock is pretty like he is as he pulls it out. You knew it would be. A little taller than your hand, he tugs it toward his stomach and you watch in delight as a string of precum catches the light, wetting his palm.

You’re patient. He lets it stand without help and you curl your hand where his had been at the base, his cock shining in lines, that welling of precum spread messily around and worse when you give a soft pump. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, shuffling closer to you on his knees, his hand leaping to your shoulder. “Oh, god.”

You tilt your head. “How’s that, baby?”

“Please, angel.”

You lean in for a kiss.

Just a kiss, but your lips part, your spit ready on your tongue and slick in a heavy line up the side of his cock. All you can think of in that moment is how much you want him, how gentle his hand is on your shoulder despite the wounded little breath he lets out, and the stickying feeling of wetness that grows between your thighs, your underwear damp at the very centre and clinging to you as you crawl as close to his front as you can get. You kiss and kiss up the side of him, not silly enough to love on his most sensitive skin at the head, not after his warning, though the idea of his cock shuddering against your lips and tongue makes you squeeze your eyes closed.

You kiss shy of his tip and tilt your head back to look at him. He’s already watching you, squinting with a palpable agony.

“Are you okay? Is that alright?” you ask, loosening your grip on his cock to draw a loving, sweet line down, and down.

He catches your wrist. “You can’t do that again,” he warns gently, hint of a smile in his eyes. You beam at him adoringly. “Lay back? There’s something in my way.”

“In your way,” you murmur through a smile, laying back in the pillows as he’s asked you.

Spencer sheds his slacks and boxers. You pull your legs up to give him room to kneel on the bed by your legs, pulse like a constant humming ache against your cunt as he takes your calves into his hands and presses your knees together. “You’re not gonna say please like I did, are you?” he asks.

“Do you need me to?” you ask, teasing him with your own hand, letting it travel from the base of your throat and over a tightened breast to your stomach, then your underwear. You flick the waistband. His eyelashes flare. “I can say please, Spence, I’d love to say please for you. Is that what you want me to do?”

“I don’t ever want you to say please, you know that.” He encourages one leg flat to the bed. The other, he pushes up, fabric of your underwear tight to your warm cunt and heartbeat surely taking up station in your throat. “Maybe I can say please.” His hand coasts down your thigh. “Would you like that?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t say please, or don’t touch you?” he asks, stopping his squeezing.

“Spencer!” you laugh, moving your hips ever so slightly, raising them in hopes of his understanding. “This is cruel, I didn’t tease you.”

“You’re nice,” he says, again pressing your leg up toward your stomach, eyes on the bump of your cunt as he begins to lean down. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a surprising kiss to your soft inner thigh. “So perfect.” Closer now, nose skirting toward the elastic of your underwear. “Please, can I?”

You press your shaky hand to your lips, palm out. “Please,” you say into your skin. “Yeah. Yes, you can. Can you?”

A kiss to the skin beside your cunt, his free hand riding up to squeeze the bump of it, his thumb pressing against wet heat, your breath caught. He rubs a line up from the wet to your clit, and he smiles when he finds it, though that smile is swiftly overtaken by parting lips as he kisses a mixture of skin and fabric and starts to suck. You hiccup at the feeling.

“You sound cute when you’re happy,” he says into your thigh. He turns his head slowly, looking up at you, his thumb rubbing almost absentmindedly at the sensitive little hood of your clit, your nerves all over the place. He’s giving you the puppy eyes, big and brown and in sickly love with you.

“Happy’s not the right word,” you breathe out.

“I should fix that, right?”

Your stomach does a hard flip. “Yeah.”

Spencer isn’t as timid about it as you’d imagined he’d be, his reality better than any fantasy, his hands kind but quick where twists his fingers into the waistband of your underwear as he begins pulling them down.

He lets out a long breath as the air kisses your cunt, his eyes trained obviously on one spot in particular as he takes your panties all the way to your feet. He rolls one leg off, leaves the other hanging at your ankle as he grabs the soft underside of your knee and encourages your leg up.

You can feel your cunt spread, feel the wetness that had been growing dribble from you. “Ah,” you say, more breath than word while he holds your leg in place. “Spencer–”

“Am I hurting you?”

“No, no, I just need you to touch me, please, I–”

He says your name, says, “Hey, don’t talk like that, I’ve got you, I’m gonna touch you, just needed to know you’re okay–”

“Spencer–” you squirm with wanting.

“I know,” he says, the tip of his cock turned impossibly red where it’s resting against the heaving of his abs, “trust me.”

He reaches for your abdomen, his palm resting lovingly on the pudge of your tummy. You squirm for it lower. “If you think I’m not gonna give you everything you want, you're crazy. When don’t you get your way?” He leans down, and to your relief, your little gasp of breath, he kisses your naked cunt. “When don’t I want to give it to you?” he asks into your skin.

Every word he says is heat and movement against the nerves that make up your clit. You practically shiver as he lets his lips part against you and kisses all over, unafraid to feel every little bit of you, his tongue pressed wet and flat your softest parts. You spread your legs in anticipation of him, his thank you a kiss that lights up every nerve ending you have that stems from your hips, the breath racing out of you and moans not far behind. He rubs the length of your leg, his fingers trailing towards his kissing. The hand that isn’t up to something just loves on your skin. The hand that is pauses shy of your cunt’s wet hole —you can’t help letting out a choked moan as he sucks on your clit and the skin around it, sudden, the feeling of hot slick dripping from you worse as he pulls away with a quiet pop.

His lips shine in the lamplight. “I’m gonna start getting you ready, okay?” he asks, a small smile somewhere in the midst of a gaze that’s otherwise laden with lust. His fingertips tease your entrance. “What do you think, angel, can I do that?”

You might need a kiss to get through it. You can’t decide whether you want him to keep eating you out like that, like you’re water to the famished, like he’s worried he’s not quick enough to get every bit of you where he wants it, but you’re so desperate to be fucked by him that you can feel it in the pit of your stomach. “Spencer, you need to kiss me,” you decide.

“I am–”

“No, come here. Need you on top of me. You can get me ready,” you agree, eyes peculiarly damp, “but I really wanna kiss you right now, baby, please, please–”

He’s on top of you by your second please. You gasp at the rigidity of his cock pressing to your cunt and find it lost in his mouth, his fingertips wet with sex pressed to the side of your face. He remembers himself, kisses all the same but hand moving down again, turning his weight onto the bed and off of you as he feels at your cunt. His fingers slide through hair and wetness alike to tease at your cunt. You can feel wet on his fingers as he pushes in just a centimetre, again on his thumb when he circles your heat carefully, and all the while he’s kissing you like he’s been starved of you. He’s saying angel and so pretty against your stinging mouth.

It’s strange when he pushes two fingers in, but not bad. You’ve never done this with one another, and it takes him a few careful thrusts of his fingers to figure out where he should be directing his motion, and what to do to make you happy. You nod into his mouth as he finds a sweet spot and presses into it, quirked fingers quick to the very last knuckle, his pinky and index fingers sliding without resistance against the wet mess on either side of your cunt. “There?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, pulling his face closer to yours, your hands twined deep in his hair.

He digs around against your walls, to your abject joy and something else, some emotion you can’t name, the want to be touched everywhere by him, to be the kind of full of him where you can’t breathe.

He presses his fingers inside you, undulating against the gum of your walls, and groans into your lips as you pull in a shivery breath. His hips jerk hard, his cock sliding against your stomach hot as a brand.

Spencer pulls up. You’re in the throes of one another, but his eyes are clear. “How do you want it?” he asks tenderly. “Can I stay here, or should I move back?”

“Just to start, it’s always tight–” You catch your breath now he’s paused, stroking curls away from his flushed cheeks. “I’ll sit up a little and you can still hold my hand,” —he doesn’t question this even for a second— “just so you can see what you’re doing, and then–”

“It’s okay, we can work it out,” he interrupts. “I’m not gonna rush and hurt you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” you whisper, cupping his face in your hand.

He ducks in for a slow, chaste kiss.

“I know you didn’t,” Spencer says. He takes another kiss, pressing one to the top of your chin.

Then he’s shuffling backwards and off of you, and he’s grabbing your hips, lifting you up as he positions himself at your cunt. You shuffle back in the opposite direction to wedge yourself firmly in his pillows, knees up and heels either side of his lap as he moves in. His cock rubs against your cunt by accident, then quickly again with a deliberateness, like he’d felt you and couldn’t help himself.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he says. His eyebrows pinch together in a glare, his thumb pressing to your clit. There’s no purchase there anymore, your wetness having made its way up, but he rubs it nonetheless. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

You grab his hand. Twine your fingers into his. “I love you, Spence,” you say easily. “Don’t be shy.”

He’s giving you that Can’t believe I’m with you look that he often does. It reminds you of the first time you met when you’d called him beautiful without knowing he’d mean this much to you one day, because he really was gorgeous, everything you’d ever want in a guy and lovelier after. You flirted your way into being his friend, and one day your hand-holding was hugging, your friendly cheek kissing turned to lazy hickeys, and he’s still giving you that look. Like he doesn’t deserve you. Like you’re gonna disappear.

You reach between your centre and his to nudge his hand down, guiding him into place. “Say you love me,” you request in a murmur.

“I love you,” he says, head of his cock against your opening. He abandons your clit, to your disappointment, but he’s grabbing the rump of your ass and hip to hold you in place.

He is achingly, achingly slow. He’s so gentle with his thrusts that you feel like you could love him twice as much as when you started, his wrinkled brow, his eyes flitting between your face and the stretch of your cunt to check on you as he goes. He reaches a natural resistance, nothing he couldn’t push past if he didn’t want to, but he doesn’t have to —he’s not fully sheathed and yet you’re aflame with pleasure. He’s at just the right angle. All he needs to do is move.

“There?” he asks softly,

“Please, right there.”

He pushes forward and a breath leaves his lips like you stole it. “You’re tight,” he says, “I knew you would be at first, but I didn’t expect– do I need to stop?”

“No, no, that’s the best part…” You close your eyes. If he weren’t holding your hand you’d cover your face. “Spence, it’s supposed to feel like this, baby. You just find the way you like it and I’ll tell you if it’s not right.”

“Promise?”

“Promise– oh.”

The fronts of his thighs press to yours, his cock flush to your walls and digging into something sweet and sensitive enough to make your thighs shake. Good luck, you think, for the two of you to fit together like this, for his cock to fill you without hurting or leaving you wanting, even though he’s just a little over half inside. He goes slow, almost repetitive, his thumb drawing dedicated half circles into the back of your hand where he’s securing it to your hip. Breathe, you think, I have to breathe. There’s nobody here but Spencer. You can show him exactly how this is making you feel.

“Fuck,” you say, letting out a little moan, worried it won’t be something he likes.

“Fuck,” he echoes emphatically, “does that feel good, angel?”

“Uh-huh,” you say. His chest shines with sweat, his cock driving in, all his touching and adoring drawing a litany of your most vulnerable sounds, hiccups and whimpers, beggy breaths that plead for him to do exactly what he’s doing until he can’t.

“Can you keep your leg up?” he asks.

“What?”

“Can you lift your leg, angel? I need my hand.”

You nod hurriedly and hold your leg aloft as he’d been, not pretzeled but giving him the room he needs to drive forward. He’s swift in his intention, pressing his free hand to your cunt, unabashed, marriage and middle finger slippery against the head of your clit and drawing precise circles. After a few timid thrusts of his hips, he matches speed. Every thrust met with a circle of your clit, his face dipping down to kiss your leg.

“There,” he says to your knee, “I got you, I’ll get you there.”

“I don’t wanna cum yet,” you confess.

“No, I know, but you have to feel good, I need to touch my girl.”

You don’t want to argue with that. He’s never said something like that.

He goes on. “You’re so pretty, I don’t know– I don’t–” He gives a tight smile, “don’t think you know how beautiful you are, you feel–” He moans, then, like he’s pleading.

You don’t expect to be close this soon. It had to be the way he’s talking to you, or his lazy mouthing at your cunt before you’d started. “Wait! Wait, Spence, don’t,” —you grab his hand to stop him from drawing anymore circles— “I have to do it, or I’m gonna cum already.”

He says fuck, thrusts in just a little deeper than he had been, head of his cock kissing just the right place, “Show me how to do it the way you need it.”

You play on the edge of your orgasm for long, long minutes, your hand over Spencer’s drawing the smallest of circles, your nerves aching, the pressure of it like his hands pressed to your tummy. Spencer fucks you, fucks into you, ruts into you when you give him a flirty smile, angling his hips a touch to the side.

You usher him down to you, craning your head up to his. “Can I have a kiss?” you ask with a voice stretched to gossamer. You’re in love with him and you could cry for it as he fucks you, but you try not to. Not yet.

Spencer licks his lips. “You can have everything.”

He slows his thrusts to a drag. Slow drag out, full push in. His hips press to yours and you squeak as he fills you with every inch he has, his hands vying for your clammy face.

He can only thrust slowly from there, though it feels like it’s hitting somewhere new, if not deeper. Shifts of his hips against yours, a mess of slick between you and the friction of his skin. You kiss and pant into each others mouths, spit stretching like a string from his lip to yours that he promptly kisses away. It’s everything you needed it to be, and you can’t hold off much longer. “Wanna cum,” you tell him, stroking the skin under his eye, his gaze aligned with yours.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can you– like before–”

Spencer understands. He sits back, drags you by the hips onto his cock, and set about fucking that dedicated pace, three fingers pressed to your clit. He goes as slowly as you showed him at first, and that in time with his thrusts sends a pleasure through you that makes you gasp. He speeds his hips at the same time as his fingers, your skin so wet that it requires dedication to wind the coil, but he does wind it, over and over and over again until your walls are rigid tight and your hips are working desperately to chase the feeling. He’s pushing you to the edge.

You cum, and your breath gets caught. You force out a breath and you keen in the feeling, covering your face with both hands as Spencer pushes you through it with a few last teasing circles and a couple of quick thrusts.

Spencer knows without asking to slow as you come down. You laugh into your hands.

He doesn’t quibble when you let your legs fall flat around him, only strokes your thigh, paused half inside of you to offer you one of his shy smiles. “You even sound pretty,” he says.

“You think so?”

“Of course I do.”

He takes a measured thrust. He’s not not confident these days, but you can see the man you adore now between your legs, in love with you but not sure what to do. “You can keep going, baby.”

“You sure?” he asks.

It’s gonna be intense, but you want that. “Come back,” you say, angling your tired legs around him. “Come lay on top of me… Please.”

It’ll be nice to hug him now. You whine as his cock slips out of you and again as he lays atop you and slides it back in, your cunt waiting for him and slick as anything as he settles.

“Is this too much?” he asks, cupping your cheek.

He rolls his hips demonstratively. You didn’t know there was anything left there to give him, but he can have it.

You wrap your arms around him, your forearms to the line of sweat on his back, and give him a hard hug. “You can have everything,” you utter, repeating his earlier promise to him with the same encapsulating love as you cling. “Fuck me however you want.”

When it starts again, chills ride up your spine. Spencer finds a place you didn’t know you had and fucks against it with love, so deep you feel like you can’t breathe, his nose rubbing harshly into your cheek. He squeezes your shoulders tight in his arms and you’re sure you’ll never catch your breath again, and you don’t want him to stop. You’ve never felt this close to him.

Your naked chest rises uselessly beneath him as you fall into the whining, pleading bit of sex, your moans half gasp and lost in his hair as he burrows his face into the pillow by your head to hide his same desperation.

“There you are,” he mumbles, hips grinding into yours. He must say your name ten times in a row, each one more frayed than the last, until he’s lost it completely.

“Go faster, sweetheart,” you suggest, squeezing his hips between your thighs.

Spencer begins again in earnest, nipping crescent moons into the curve of your neck, thrusting fast until he can’t. You hear him trip into cumming like it’s an accident, his thighs go all tense and his cock throbs as he presses you flat, flat to the bed.

He gives a last few greedy thrusts before he calms, though he doesn’t stop moving. Spencer rolls his hips for a slow, languishing minute.

His hand finds your shoulder. His face turns to yours as you turn yours to his, two halves of a good kiss.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He’s panting, but his reciprocation is immediate. “I love you more.”

“No, you don’t.”

Spencer lifts himself up enough to wrap his arms behind your head, almost framing your head where you’re laid underneath him. “Trust me, I do.” His eyes shutter. You close your own in wait of another kiss, but he’s sliding the tip of his nose down the bridge of your own. He draws a circle, draws soft lines over your cheek in zigzags.

“Tell me what to do now,” he murmurs.

You scratch his back lightly. “Aw, Spencer, just keep doing this.”

—

Spencer cleans you up and you finally cry, a couple of tears you’re hoping he won’t notice as he drops the towel on your leg. He holds you with his hand behind your back and murmurs words too nice for such silly tears into your cheek, before asking, scared, if he’d hurt you.

“No, no, it’s like the most intense relief in the world!” you tell him, selfishly basking in the muscle of arms where they’re wrapped around you, and his silky hair whispering over your ear. “I feel amazing.”

“I didn’t think you’d be one of the women who cry afterward,” he says. He’s not judging you, simply sharing an observation. It makes sense. You’re not usually emotional in such an unconstrained way.

“I’m really happy.” You pinch his chin mildly.

“Your legs are hurting.”

You let him go. “Yeah, a bit. It’s a nice hurting. Like we went for a really long walk.”

He takes your face into both hands and tips your head back. You’re slouched forward, he’s straight-backed, and he’s taller where he’s grinning at you. His hand comes to rest against one of your breasts, giving it a little cup before he presses it flat over your heart. “I thought you were never gonna calm down.”

“You have that effect on people.”

“Maybe that’s true for you,” he says, tapping your nose with his, encouraging you to lift your chin. “But only one person’s ever made me lose my breath like that,” he adds, your lips touching, not kissing.

You could keep him forever. “Think we should turn our phones back on?” you ask.

“When I’ve made you something to drink, sure. And found you something to wear, right? It’s too cold.”

You’re still hot enough to cook an egg, but you let him take care of you. It’s as good as being fucked, being adored when it’s done. He gives you underwear first, a soft tank top and a pair of panties you’d left here before and he’d washed and pressed, your sweetheart. You’re surprised he doesn’t help you into them, but you notice with fond bemusement that he’s cringing as he steps into a fresh pair of boxers.

“You okay, handsome? Did you tweak something?”

He’s in pants before you realise, standing shirtless with sex-tousled hair. You could ask him back to bed if you weren’t exhausted. “I’m not in shape.”

“I could say otherwise.”

Spencer’s on top of you again in an instant. He sits on your naked leg and pulls down your rising tank top before twinging your hands in his. He’s practically in your lap as he kisses your chin. It’s that earnest you end up giggling, lovestruck, two idiots holding hands. He steals a couple of lazy kisses. You can’t remember how many you’ve had anymore.

“You’re contrary,” he says as he pulls away.

“Can’t you be nice to me? You were acting so nice.”

He slides off of your leg. “You’re my best friend. I hope we’re this happy for the rest of our lives.”

You fist your hand in the rumpled sheets behind you. He’s apparently unaware he’s said the most special thing he could’ve, opening his closet door to retrieve your pyjamas from the shelf he dedicated to you the first time you slept over. You are best friends, is the best part. He’s not exaggerating.

Before he’d ever kissed you, you were in love. You’ve been in love for years.

Spencer drops your pyjamas next to you on the bed. “You want me to help you put them on?”

You have no reason to need help tonight, but you want it. “Yes, please. Can you rub my back after?”

“Yesss. I’d love to rub your back. If we maintain our physical connection after sex, it enhances the relaxing factor but it also prolongs the effect of the oxytocin and dopamine your brain would’ve released when we were–” He picks up your sleep shirt and shakes it out. “Well, you know.”

“Any more sex facts for me?”

Spencer has the nerve to blush, considering the way he’d spoken to you only ten minutes ago. “An orgasm as a woman can lower your risk of heart disease, breast cancer, and depression.”

You smile at him sweetly. “No kidding. How much to get that risk down to zero?”

He kisses your cheek. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“We can still try.”

“Um. Can I have a banana first?”

“I’m kidding!”

“Oh.” He gestures for you to put your arms into the sleep shirt. “Well, maybe you can have a banana too and we’ll see how we feel.”

˗ˋˏ ʚ♡ɞ ˎˊ˗

Thank you for reading!!!!! I hope you enjoyed it! please reblog or let me know what you thought if you have the time, but I hope you enjoyed regardless!

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer and bombshell reader #criminal minds #spencer reid smut

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kiwriteswords · 5 months ago

Note

begs nicely for bombshell reader

In the Margin

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Bombshell!Female Reader||Word Count: 6k

Tags/Warnings: canon-typical themes, flirting, fluff, finance talk, banter, Hotch is a softie for Penelope.

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s weekly budget meetings with you, the sharp-tongued BAU financial analyst, become an unexpected mix of humor, wit, and simmering tension as professional boundaries blur. Between team antics, Penelope’s creative expenses, and your playful challenges, Hotch finds himself navigating far more than just numbers.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t sure if he hated the newly implemented weekly budget meetings because they disrupted his already packed schedule or because of you, the BAU’s Operations Department Budget Analyst.

No--that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he hated you. It was that he hated how much he didn’t hate you. You were sharp-tongued, confident, and armed with a wit so quick it could cut him to ribbons before he even knew he was bleeding. It didn’t help that you looked like you belonged on a movie set rather than in a conference room dissecting every penny spent by his team.

He adjusted his tie as he entered the room. You were already seated at the head of the table, a tablet in front of you and a pen in hand, tapping it rhythmically against the desk as you scanned a detailed report. He knew that was meant for him. It was always meant for him.

“Good morning, Agent Hotchner,” you greeted without looking up. “Let’s talk about how your team managed to burn through three months of budget in--oh, a month and a half.” Your eyes finally met his, and the smile you gave him could only be described as predatory.

“Good morning, Miss. Y/L/N.” He placed his briefcase on the table and sat across from you. “I see we’re getting right into it today.”

“Well, Aaron”—and wasn’t that a bold move? Using his first name like that—“I’d love to make small talk, but someone”—you leaned forward conspiratorially, voice dropping as if this was the world’s biggest secret—“decided we needed to order customized iPad cases last month. For everyone. Including” You looked back down to the itemized invoice,"‘Penelope Garcia’s-second-backup-iPad.’”

Hotch rubbed a hand over his face. “That would be Garcia,” he said dryly.

You laughed, and the sound was like a reward he didn’t know he was aiming for. “Oh, Aaron. It’s always Penelope, isn’t it?”

The meetings became a staple of his week, though not by choice. What had started as a quarterly formality became a monthly necessity when you joined the department and discovered Penelope’s propensity for colorful, extravagant expenditures. But the kicker came two months ago, when Penelope had gone rogue with the budget to fund her “absolutely vital” initiative to replace paper case files with digital ones—complete with the max amount of storage, of course. You’d retaliated by instituting weekly budget reviews.

“She knows,” Hotch told Penelope one afternoon in her lair. “She knows it was you.”

Penelope gasped dramatically. “How does she know? Wait—does she have surveillance on me? Did she bug my office? Tell. Me. She didn’t bug my office.”

“She didn’t bug your office, Garcia,” Hotch said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She knows because you send her invoices.”

Penelope frowned. “But those were justified expenses!”

“She’s not convinced.” Hotch sighed. “Neither is the finance department.”

“Well, maybe if she’d loosen up a bit—”

“She’s very loose, Garcia,” Hotch muttered before realizing how that sounded. Penelope’s grin was instant, and Hotch scowled. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” she teased, “you’ve been spending a lot of time with Miss. Y/N Y/L/N. Maybe you like these meetings more than you’re letting on.”

He left her office before she could get another word in.

The meetings evolved into more than budget disputes. You had a way of challenging Hotch that nobody else did. You questioned his decisions—not about cases, but about expenses. You turned a dry meeting into something that felt like a battle of wits, and despite himself, Hotch found he didn’t mind the sparring.

“So, tell me,” you said during one particularly contentious meeting, “why does Penelope need a beanbag chair? Let me guess—‘it fosters creative thinking.’”

Hotch cleared his throat; his years of being quick on his feet as a lawyer somehow always did him good when it came to defending Penelope’s spending. “She has unique requirements for her workspace.”

“Unique, huh?” You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs, and Hotch caught himself looking before he forced his gaze back up. “And the collection of...neon gel pens? Also, a unique requirement?”

“She…has a system.”

You laughed again, and Hotch felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He’d smiled more in these meetings than in most social situations, not that he’d admit it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you said casually, pointing your pen at him, and Hotch stiffened. You were already standing, gathering your papers. “Meeting adjourned. See you next week, Aaron.”

It wasn’t until two months into weekly meetings that things finally shifted.

You caught him in the break room late one evening, well after everyone else had gone home. “Aaron,” you greeted, leaning against the counter with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Did you know your coffee expenses are also over budget?”

Hotch turned, mug in hand. “Should I expect an itemized report on my caffeine consumption?”

You smirked. “Already on your desk.”

The air between you crackled, and for the first time, Hotch saw something beyond the wit and the barbs. He set his mug down and stepped closer, his voice low. “You enjoy giving me a hard time.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “And you enjoy taking it.”

“Do I?” he challenged.

“Don’t you?” you shot back, and the look in your eyes was enough to make him question every professional boundary he’d ever adhered to.

He took another step closer, close enough that he could see the faint trace of amusement in your expression. “This feels like it’s about more than the budget.”

“It definitely is,” you said, your voice softer now. “Maybe I think you could use a little…loosening up.”

Hotch let himself smile just a little. “And you think you’re the person to help me with that?”

You grinned, pushing off the counter and brushing past him, close enough that he caught the faintest hint of your perfume. “I know I am.”

The budget meetings continued, but now, the tension between you and Hotch wasn’t just professional. It simmered, unspoken but palpable, until it was only a matter of time before one of you crossed the line.

And Hotch couldn’t wait to see who would make the first move.

Hotch had a long day ahead of him. Between case briefs, team check-ins, and the weekly budget meeting you’d so gleefully instituted, he felt like the universe was conspiring against him. It didn’t help that Penelope Garcia had texted him earlier with an ominous, “Sir! Big news! You’ll thank me later.”

When he stepped into the bullpen, the team was gathered around Penelope, who stood in the center like a magician about to unveil her latest trick.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, waving her hands dramatically, “I give you the latest and greatest tech upgrade to grace the halls of the BAU!”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as the team collectively oohed and aahed over the sleek new monitors now adorning every desk.

“Garcia,” he said, his tone low and measured, “please tell me this was approved through the appropriate channels.”

Penelope turned to him with a smile so wide it could only mean trouble. “Of course it was, sir!” Then, after a beat, she added, “I mean, I may have pulled a few strings. But can you really put a price on efficiency and team morale?”

Rossi, seated casually nearby, chimed in. “I’ll admit, it’s a nice touch. Maybe next month, you can swing for some leather chairs in the conference room. The kind that recline.”

Hotch shot him a withering look. “Don’t encourage her.”

Penelope pouted. “Come on, Hotch! You know these upgrades are totally needed. Plus, they match my aesthetic.” She gestured to her own office.

He sighed. “You know who’s going to have to explain this, don’t you?”

Her grin didn’t waver. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

Later, Hotch found himself standing outside your office, mentally preparing for the inevitable. When he knocked, you barely looked up from your screen. “Ah, Aaron,” you said, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. “What brings you to my humble lair? Let me guess—Penelope strikes again?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You heard?”

“I always hear.” You gestured to the chair across from your desk. “Sit, and tell me why I shouldn’t slash your team's budget to nothing.”

Hotch sat, rubbing his temples. “She upgraded the monitors.”

Your laughter filled the room, light and musical. “Monitors? Really? Did she bedazzle them too?”

“She might have,” he muttered. “Look, I know it’s excessive, but the team…they rely on her. She keeps things running smoothly.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Running smoothly or running through money?”

Hotch gave you a flat look, which only made you grin wider.

“Alright, Aaron,” you said, leaning forward. “Here’s the deal. We can refinance a few line items. Maybe cut back on travel expenses for conferences nobody attends. But I need you to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” he asked warily.

You tapped your pen against your desk, pretending to consider. “How about you keep coming to these meetings on time? And,” you added with a smirk, “try not to look so grumpy when you do.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, threatening a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The next meeting was no less contentious, but there was a new edge to the banter.

“You really went to bat for Penelope this week,” you said, flipping through your notes. “Is she holding something over you? A dark secret, perhaps? Did she catch you sneaking an extra slice of cake at Rossi’s last party?”

Hotch gave you a pointed look. “She’s an integral part of the team.”

“And I’m sure the sparkly monitor really enhances her skillset,” you quipped. “What’s next? A gold-plated stapler?”

“Don’t give her ideas.”

You laughed, and he found himself staring at the way your eyes lit up when you did. It was distracting. You were distracting.

“So,” you continued, turning serious, “how do you propose we make this work? I’ve crunched the numbers, and unless you want to start holding bake sales, something’s gotta give.”

Hotch straightened in his chair. “Rossi suggested cutting back on the print subscriptions.”

“Oh, no,” you said, feigning horror. “What will he do without his monthly shipment of Fine Living Magazine?”

Hotch sighed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But only because you make it so easy.”

As the weeks went on, the tension between you and Hotch became undeniable. The banter turned sharper, the lingering glances longer, the air in those meetings thicker with something unspoken.

It all came to a head late one evening, long after everyone else had gone home. Hotch was leaving his office when he saw your light still on. Against his better judgment, he knocked and stepped inside.

“Still working?” he asked.

You glanced up, surprised. “Someone’s gotta keep the lights on.”

He closed the door behind him. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Is that an offer to help?” you asked, leaning back in your chair. “Because I could use a second set of eyes on these reports.”

Hotch stepped closer, the tension crackling between you like static electricity. "You’re good at what you do. The team is lucky to have you.”

For once, your usual smirk faltered. “Thanks, Aaron.”

The silence stretched, heavy with possibility. Then you smiled again, playful and challenging. “Careful, Hotchner. If you keep talking like that, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He let out a rare laugh, low and genuine. “Maybe I do.”

Your eyes widened slightly before you recovered, your grin turning sly. “Well, that’s a start.”

The next budget meeting arrived with its usual dose of tension—and not just the financial kind. Hotch entered the conference room early, a strategic move to reclaim some semblance of control. You were already there, of course, seated at the head of the table, the tablet glowing in front of you.

“Early today,” you said, glancing at your watch with mock surprise. “Did someone finally read my strongly worded emails about punctuality?”

"I'm always on time, and I always read your emails,” he replied dryly, taking his usual seat across from you.

“Sure you do,” you said, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s why you never respond.”

“I’m busy running a team of federal agents.”

“And yet somehow Penelope has time to order monogrammed pen holders.”

Hotch sighed, his hand already moving to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”

“Not a chance, Aaron.”

The meeting was halfway through when Penelope barged in, her presence as colorful as ever.

“Sir!” she chirped, holding a bright pink folder that screamed unnecessary expense. “Quick update—I managed to upgrade the entire team’s software licenses. State of the art, cutting-edge, only the best for my BAU fam.”

Hotch stared at her, his mouth a thin line. “Garcia, we discussed this.”

“I know!” she said, beaming. “That’s why I made sure to get a bulk discount. I saved us 12%.”

You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip to stifle a laugh. “Twelve percent? Wow, Aaron, she’s practically a financial wizard.”

Hotch glared at you. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, “with savings like that, we’ll be out of the red in no time. What’s next, Penelope? A popcorn machine for movie nights in the bullpen?”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, her eyes lighting up. “That’s genius. The camaraderie…I—”

“No,” Hotch said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Penelope pouted, but she left without further incident. As soon as the door closed, you turned to Hotch, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“She’s incredible,” you said, shaking your head. “Completely unhinged--but incredible.”

“She’s a lot of things,” Hotch muttered. “Mostly expensive.”

“And you,” you added, grinning, “are such a softie for her.”

Hotch scoffed, leaning back in his chair, but the slight upward twitch of his lips betrayed him. “Softie? I’m her supervisor, not her enabler.”

You laughed, a low, melodic sound that Hotch had come to recognize as the precursor to trouble. “Please. You bend over backward for her, and we both know it.”

“She’s part of my team,” he replied evenly. “It’s my job to advocate for them.”

“Advocating for a new monitor system with glitter decals?” you teased, leaning forward slightly, your grin widening. “Aaron, that’s not advocacy—that’s indulgence. She's like your team's equivalent to 'happy wife, happy life.'"

Hotch crossed his arms, his stoicism cracking just enough to let his dry humor slip through. “I’d call it picking my battles.”

“Oh, really?” you shot back. “And what battle are you avoiding by letting Penelope order custom beanbag chairs?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but you caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Do you know what happens if I say no to her?”

“I can only imagine,” you said, leaning your chin on your hand. “Please, enlighten me.”

“She gets creative,” Hotch said gravely. “Very creative. The last time I vetoed one of her purchases, she launched a campaign with color-coded charts and heartfelt video testimonials from the team about how much they needed a slushie machine in the bullpen.”

Your laughter filled the room again, and Hotch let the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. “A slushie machine? You’ve got to give her credit—that’s bold....and random.”

“She called it a ‘hydration initiative,’” he deadpanned.

You leaned back, shaking your head in disbelief. “You are such a softie.”

“I’m pragmatic,” he corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s easier to approve the monitors than to explain to Strauss why there’s a PowerPoint presentation titled ‘Ice-Cold Justice.’”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter, and Hotch found himself momentarily distracted by the way your eyes sparkled with amusement. It wasn’t often he let himself relax enough to notice those things, but with you, it was becoming harder to keep the line between professional and personal intact.

“And yet,” you finally said, regaining your composure, “you’re here, pleading her case to me instead of just putting your foot down.”

“She has her merits,” he admitted, his voice softening just enough to remind you why people followed him so loyally. “The work she does is critical. Even when it’s…excessive.”

“See? Softie,” you said triumphantly, pointing your pen at him. “You can’t fool me, Hotchner. You’re all gruff on the outside, but deep down, you’re just one big teddy bear.”

“I’m not sure that’s how the rest of the Bureau would describe me,” he replied dryly.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward with a sly smile, “the rest of the Bureau doesn’t get to see you begging for beanbags.”

He gave you a long, measured look, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to shift. “I don’t beg.”

“No?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow. “What would you call this, then?”

“I’d call it negotiation,” he replied, his voice low but steady. “And if you’re not careful, I might actually win.”

Your grin widened. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Hotch allowed himself a small smirk, the kind that was so rare it felt like a reward in itself. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, Aaron,” you said, leaning back in your chair, your tone playful and just a little daring. “I live to tempt you.”

For a brief moment, the tension crackled, sharper than the wit you both wielded like weapons. Then you straightened, tapping your pen against the table as if to signal the end of the moment.

“Alright, Mr. Softie,” you said lightly, “I’ll see what I can do about those monitors. But don’t think this means you’re getting that cappuccino machine Rossi asked for.”

Hotch stood, smoothing his tie as if to regain his composure. “One victory at a time.”

As he turned to leave, you called after him, your voice laced with amusement. “Don’t forget to tell Penelope her beanbags are still on the chopping block.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at you with a look that was almost fond. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

By the time Hotch left the meeting, he felt thoroughly defeated. You had grilled him on every expenditure, from coffee pods to the mysterious disappearance of two office chairs. You’d teased him mercilessly, of course, but you’d also offered solutions, which only made you more infuriatingly attractive.

Later that afternoon, Rossi cornered him in his office.

“Aaron,” Rossi began, settling into the chair across from his desk. “I have a proposition.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” Rossi said smoothly. “I’ve been re-thinking about how to improve morale around here. You know what we need? A cappuccino machine. The kind they have in those fancy Italian cafes.”

Hotch blinked. “A cappuccino machine. We talked about this. We have coffee in the break room.”

Rossi looked hurt by Hotch's definition of coffee. “That isn’t coffee. This is an investment in productivity. Caffeine keeps the team sharp.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Hotch exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You do realize I have to explain this to Y/L/N?”

Rossi grinned. “You’re good with words. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

That evening, Hotch found himself in your office again, this time with what he knew was a losing argument.

“A cappuccino machine?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Is that really where we’re at again?”

“Rossi insists it’s for team morale.”

You laughed, leaning forward on your desk. “Aaron, if I approve this, what’s next? A hot tub in the break room? A second private jet for local cases?”

He gave you a long-suffering look. “I wouldn’t put it past Rossi to suggest either of those.”

Your laughter bubbled out again, and a small smile that tugged at Hotch’s lips. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You mean brilliant,” you corrected, your tone playful. “Come on, admit it—you love these little matches.”

Hotch hesitated, just long enough for the moment to stretch between you. “I do.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Well, don’t get too comfortable, Hotchner. You might actually win one of these someday.”

“And if I do?”

Your grin turned sly again. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

The tension between you and Hotch simmered like an unsaid promise, lingering in the spaces between your words and the way your eyes lingered just a beat too long. It wasn’t until another late night when the office was quiet and the shadows stretched long, that Hotch found himself once again at your door.

“You know,” you said as he stepped inside, “if you keep showing up here after hours, people are going to start talking.”

“Let them,” he said, surprising himself with the bluntness of his response.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair. “That sounded suspiciously like flirting.”

“Did it?”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “It did. And for the record, Aaron, I don’t mind.”

For once, Aaron Hotchner didn’t have a retort. Instead, he let the silence speak, the weight of it filled with possibilities he hadn’t dared entertain before.

And when you smiled at him again, he thought that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something worth breaking the rules for.

Hotch stood frozen in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, your words echoing in his mind. “For the record, Aaron, I don’t mind.”

He cleared his throat, stepping fully into your office and closing the door behind him. It wasn’t often that Aaron Hotchner found himself at a loss for words, but there was something about you—your sharp tongue, your disarming wit, the way you looked at him like you knew exactly what you were doing—that threw him off balance.

You leaned back in your chair, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What brings you here this time? More cappuccino machine negotiations? Or did Rossi decide the bullpen needs a wine fridge?”

“Neither,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “I wanted to talk.”

“Oh, talk,” you said, your lips curving into a playful smile. “That sounds serious.”

“It is,” he admitted, surprising himself again with his own candor.

You arched an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. “Alright, Aaron. You’ve got my attention. What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he wasn’t sure how far he was willing to let this go. The boundary between professional and personal was already blurred; one more step and it might vanish entirely. And yet, as you sat there watching him with that sly, confident smile, he found he didn’t care as much as he should have.

“You,” he said finally, the single word weighted with more meaning than he intended.

Your smile faltered for just a second, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. Then it was back, brighter and sharper than ever. “Well, that’s unexpected. Flattered, of course, but unexpected.”

He allowed himself a small smile, stepping closer to your desk. “I doubt anything surprises you.”

“Not often,” you admitted, leaning forward slightly. “But I’ll admit, I didn’t peg you as the type to make the first move.”

“Who says this is a move?”

You laughed, the sound warm and low. “Oh, Aaron. If this isn’t a move, then I’m very curious to see what one looks like.”

He didn’t answer right away, letting the silence hang between you like a challenge. Finally, he leaned forward, placing his hands on your desk, and met your gaze head-on.

“What if I am making a move?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with something that made your breath catch.

For the first time since he’d met you, you seemed genuinely caught off guard. Your confident smirk wavered, replaced by a flicker of something more tentative. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, and it struck him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Well,” you said after a beat, your voice quieter than before. “In that case, I’d say it’s about time.”

His heart thudded once, hard and unexpected, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Forgot who he was. All he could think about was how close you were, how easy it would be to reach across the desk and close the distance.

But then you leaned back, your smile returning with a hint of mischief. “Of course, if this isn’t a move, I’d hate to embarrass myself.”

“Consider yourself safe,” he said, straightening but not stepping back. “For now.”

Your laughter filled the room again, light and teasing. “Careful, Aaron. I’m thinking you actually enjoy these little games.”

“I do,” he said, surprising himself once more with his honesty.

You tilted your head, studying him with a newfound intensity. “Well, in that case, I’ll make sure to keep things interesting.”

As he left your office that night, the air between you charged with unspoken tension, Aaron Hotchner realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider before: he wasn’t just drawn to you because of your sharp wit or your undeniable charm. He was drawn to you because you made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Alive.

The roundtable room was unusually quiet when Hotch gathered the team for an impromptu meeting. That should have been his first clue. They were always at their most dangerous when they were waiting for the hammer to drop.

“All right,” he began, standing at the head of the conference table. “We need to talk about the budget.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, a smirk already forming. “This is about the cappuccino machine, isn’t it?”

“It’s not about the cappuccino machine,” Hotch said firmly. “Though that’s still off the table.”

“Good thing I didn’t submit the requisition for the margarita blender,” Morgan muttered, earning a stifled laugh from JJ.

Hotch gave him a pointed look before continuing. “We’ve been asked to cut back on end-of-year expenses. That means scaling back on travel accommodations for the next few cases.”

“Scaling back how?” Prentiss asked, her tone cautious.

“Fewer hotels,” Hotch said. “We’ll have to bunk up where possible.”

There was a collective groan around the table.

“Bunk up?” Garcia appeared in the doorway, her dramatic gasp signaling she’d overheard. “Do you mean to tell me we, the esteemed agents of the BAU, are being reduced to sharing rooms? What is this, a slumber party?”

“Garcia, you rarely travel with us. Would it kill you to share a room with JJ or Emily for a few nights, if and when you do?” Hotch asked, his tone dry.

“It’s not about me, sir,” Garcia replied, clutching her chest like he’d wounded her. “It’s about the principle. We’re public servants, heroes even. Heroes deserve better than twin beds and bad room service.”

“Twin beds?” Reid asked, looking genuinely horrified.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Come on, Hotch. We all know you’ve got an in with Y/N in finance. Can’t she pull some strings before Garcia does?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “Y/N is doing her job, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?” Rossi said with a grin, earning a ripple of laughter from the team.

“Funny,” Hotch deadpanned. “But unless any of you have a better solution, this is how it’s going to be.”

“Sure, sure,” Morgan said, his grin widening. “But if anyone could sweet-talk Y/N, it’s you, Hotch. You’ve got that whole brooding, stoic charm thing going for you. She loves that.”

“I’m not sweet-talking anyone,” Hotch said, his tone clipped.

“Really?” Prentiss chimed in, raising an eyebrow. “Because rumor has it you’ve been spending a lot of time in her office lately.”

“That’s called managing the budget,” Hotch replied evenly, though his ears felt uncomfortably warm. “The budget we keep going over. Which is what I’m trying to do right now.”

“Right,” JJ said, her voice full of mock seriousness. “Managing the budget.”

The laughter around the table grew louder, and even Garcia joined in with an exaggerated wink.

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This conversation is over.”

“But the bunking isn’t,” Rossi said, still grinning. “Good to know.”

Later, Hotch sat across from you, his tie slightly loosened after the long day. The hum of your sarcasm was already in the air, a comfort he’d never admit aloud.

“Back so soon?” you asked, glancing up from your tablet. “What’s the crisis this time? Let me guess—the team didn’t take kindly to the budgeting suggestion?”

“They had…questions,” Hotch replied, his tone dry. “And commentary.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you said, smirking as you leaned back in your chair. “Let me guess: Rossi wants to requisition a wine fridge instead of a cappuccino machine? Garcia--who if I remember correctly doesn’t even travel with the team--staged a protest? Or did Morgan suggest you charm me into pulling some strings?”

Hotch blinked, caught momentarily off guard. “Actually, yes. That’s almost word for word what he said.”

You laughed, the sound warm and far too satisfying. “I knew it. The whole team thinks I’m your budgetary fairy godmother, don’t they?”

“They’re not subtle about it,” he admitted, leaning forward slightly. “And if I’m honest, they’re starting to have…suspicions.”

Your eyebrows lifted, your smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “Oh, suspicions, huh? About what exactly?”

“That I might have an ‘in’ with you,” he said, his tone measured but carrying a hint of something wry. “And that I use it to get my way.”

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand. “Well, you do have an in with me, Aaron.”

“I do?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Mm-hmm,” you said, your grin widening. “You come in here all brooding and stoic, with that deep voice and those puppy-dog eyes, and I’m supposed to say no to you? Please.”

He let out a rare chuckle, low and brief. “So you’re saying you find me…persuasive?”

“I’m saying I find you irritating,” you replied, though the teasing lilt in your voice betrayed you. “But occasionally charming.”

“Occasionally?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

“Don’t push your luck,” you said, though your smile hadn’t wavered. “Now, what exactly are you hoping I’ll do?”

Hotch straightened, slipping back into his professional demeanor. “The travel budget is tight. We need to cut back on some of the accommodations for the next few cases. If there’s any room to reallocate funds or find efficiencies, I’d like your input.”

You studied him for a moment, your pen tapping against the desk. “You know,” you said finally, “you could’ve just sent an email. But you didn’t, which means you wanted to have this conversation in person.”

“Maybe I thought it would be more effective,” he said, his voice steady.

“And maybe,” you said, leaning forward with a sly smile, “you just like spending time with me.”

Hotch’s gaze held yours, the tension between you thick enough to cut. “Maybe the team isn’t wrong to have their suspicions.”

That caught you off guard, and for the briefest moment, your confident grin faltered. Then you recovered, your smile turning soft around the edges. “Well, if you’re going to keep coming to me, Aaron, I guess I’ll have to live up to their expectations.”

“So you’ll help?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

You rolled your eyes, though your grin didn’t fade. “Of course, I’ll help. But only because I’d hate for Garcia to have to share a room on the rare chance she joined you on a trip. Can you imagine the drama?”

Hotch stood, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you said, your tone playful. “I might make you owe me one.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at you. “I think I already do.”

Your laughter followed him out, and Hotch didn’t mind giving up a little control.

The next few weeks blurred into a whirlwind of cases, budget meetings, and what Hotch could only describe as a game of mutual teasing with you that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to win. The team’s jabs about his “in” with you only got more relentless, but the truth was, they weren’t wrong. He found himself seeking out your company more often than he’d care to admit, and not just because of budgetary crises.

One evening, well after most of the team had gone home, Hotch walked into your office to find you perched on the edge of your desk, heels kicked off, and a pen tucked behind your ear as you typed furiously on your tablet.

“You work too much,” he said by way of greeting, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You glanced up, smirking. “Says the man who just came from his own office. What brings you here, Aaron? More budget drama? Or are you just here for the company?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Would it be so bad if it were both?”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, but the smile that followed was slow and dangerous. “Well, well. Are you finally admitting that you like me?”

He hesitated for half a second before replying, his voice low but steady. “I think you already know I do.”

That made you pause. Your usual sharp wit seemed momentarily replaced by something softer, something vulnerable, before you quickly masked it with your trademark confidence. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flirt before, Hotchner. You’re better at it than I expected.”

“I don’t flirt,” he said, stepping closer. “At least, not intentionally.”

“Oh,” you said, your voice dropping slightly. “So this is just you being your naturally charming self?”

“Something like that,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk.

You laughed, shaking your head as you set your tablet aside. “You know, if you keep talking like that, I might start to think you’re actually serious.”

“What if I am?” he asked, taking another step closer.

Your grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. “Aaron…”

He stopped just in front of you, close enough that he could see the faintest flush on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said quietly. “But I don’t regret it.”

You tilted your head, studying him as if trying to determine whether he was being sincere. Then, slowly, your lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile that he hadn’t seen before. “Well, that’s good,” you said, your voice lighter now. “Because I’d hate to think I’ve been wasting my time trying to get under your skin.”

“You’ve been very effective,” he admitted, his voice laced with dry humor.

You laughed again, the tension between you easing slightly. “Good to know.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, the air between you charged with possibilities. Then you leaned forward just enough that your shoulder brushed his, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “So what now, Aaron? You going to keep playing it safe, or are you finally going to make a move and follow through?”

Hotch held your gaze, his pulse quickening in a way that was entirely unfamiliar and yet oddly welcome. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you replied, your grin returning.

Before he could overthink it, he leaned down, his hand resting lightly on the edge of your desk as his lips brushed against yours. The kiss was brief but electric, leaving both of you slightly breathless when he pulled back.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your voice a little unsteady but filled with warmth. “That’s one way to balance the budget.”

Hotch chuckled softly, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I hope that’s not the only thing you take away from this.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, your grin turning wicked again. “I’ll send you the itemized breakdown tomorrow.”

He laughed, a rare, genuine sound, and as the two of you stood there in the quiet of your office, Hotch couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what he’d been missing.

The next morning, Hotch walked into the bullpen, his usual stoic demeanor firmly in place—at least on the outside. Inside, he felt lighter than he had in years. But any illusion of subtlety was shattered the moment he saw Morgan smirking at him from across the room.

“Morning, Hotch,” Morgan said, his tone far too casual. “You look…different today. Get a good night’s sleep?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, choosing not to dignify the comment with a response. He made his way toward his office, but before he could escape, Garcia intercepted him, practically bouncing on her heels.

“Oh, boss man, you’ve got that look,” she teased, waggling her eyebrows. “The look of a man who’s either won the lottery or—” Her eyes widened in dramatic realization. “—had a life-altering, swoon-worthy moment with a certain someone in finance.”

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Garcia—”

“Don’t deny it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I have sources.”

Before he could reply, the elevator dinged, and you stepped out, striding confidently into the bullpen with your signature blend of poise and sass. You caught Hotch’s eye and shot him a subtle, knowing smile that sent a ripple of warmth through him.

Garcia caught the exchange and gasped audibly. “Oh my God! It’s true!”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I knew it. Didn’t I say he had an in with her?”

“You said it,” Prentiss confirmed, her tone amused. “Repeatedly. But he's really getting it in with her.”

JJ just shook her head, smiling. “Well, at least we know why the budget meetings keep getting longer.”

Hotch leveled a calm, measured glare at his team. “I don’t recall calling a team meeting on my personal life.”

“Ah, but your personal life is so much more interesting than budget cuts,” Rossi said with a wink. “You should let us enjoy it.”

“I’m glad you’re all entertained,” Hotch said dryly, turning toward his office. But as he walked away, he caught your voice behind him.

“Don’t be too hard on them, Aaron,” you called amusement lacing your tone.

The laughter that followed was warm and genuine, and for once, Hotch didn’t mind being the subject of it. As he stepped into his office and closed the door, he glanced back at you through the glass, catching your playful smile once more.

Yes, this was definitely worth breaking the rules for.

Tag List:

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@lover-of-books-and-tea

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#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x bombshell reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #kiwriteswords #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #hotch x you #hotch x reader #hotch #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fanfic

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qlossytbh · 11 months ago

Text

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 in which you and spencer almost say i love you four times and one time where you actually do.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 16+ minors dni!, fem!reader, established relationship, spencer is down bad, so is reader tho, idiots in love, they’re both lowkey rlly hormonal bro, pet names (love, handsome), this one’s a rollercoaster, fluff, angst, lots of suggestiveness because reader likes to tease lol, allusions to smut (didn’t actually write it tho sorry!) fighting, spencer kinda acts like a bitch, makeoutshesh, mentions of reader being insecure of her physical appearance, mentions of typical cm content, mentions of blood, mentions of reader getting hurt, protective!spencer, derek and reader have a cute friendship, lots of mentions of maeve so spoilers on that end, pls let me know if i forgot anything!!!,

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 8.1k (damn)

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 so i had many cute loose concepts and i kinda meshed it all into one fic. this is also loosely based on birds of a feather by billie eilish! im in love with this piece ugh

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first time

“You look different,” Derek mumbled, mostly to himself, but loud enough to catch on. You turned towards his voice. The only thing different was that Hotch had let you come in later than your usual schedule since you had a random doctor's appointment— Oh, and the recently purchased light-blue button up you were wearing.

Your brows furrowed at Derek, one hand adjusting the strap of the purse that hung loosely on your shoulder as a light brown bag sat comfortably in the other. “Different..?”

Emily followed Derek, joining in as she glanced over at you from her own respective desk. “Actually he’s right,”

“I’m wearing a new shirt..?” You fiddled with the first button of your shirt, pursing your lips in bewilderment.

“No—“ Emily squinted at you. “It’s something else..”

Your mouth hung slightly open, not really sure how to respond to their prying eyes. They both were glancing at you, then at each other, then you again, but this time up and down—

“I hope it’s a good difference,” You commented as you waltzed past them and towards your boyfriend's desk. Spencer was hunched over at his desk, eyes practically burning holes into the files that sat in front of him.

His lips were pursed familiarly, just like he always did when he was so concentrated, along with the familiar furrow in his brow. His hair was tousled, a strand or two falling flat in front of his forehead. He looked so good it made you dizzy.

An instinctive smile had already reached your face once you made it to his desk. You leaned over him, slapping the brown bag on top of the files he was reading. He flinched slightly, but nevertheless, was finally pulled out of his deep concentration pool. You placed your palms on his shoulders, running them down his chest as you leaned over to hug him from behind.

You placed a kiss underneath his ear. “Hi handsome,”

He sank in his desk, realizing it was only just you and immediately easing. He hummed placidly, entranced by the sound of your sickeningly sweet voice. You pulled away to which he took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at you.

You gave him a soft smile, one you used that made his heart soar. How your eyes grew lenient and lips curved gently upwards as you scanned as much of his features as your brain could possibly take in.

You placed both hands on his shoulder and nudged your chin towards the bag. “Brought you your favorite,”

His hands were already on the bag before you could say anything else and when he looked inside he was in fact correct on his suspicions when he saw two chocolate sprinkled doughnuts.

They smelled heavenly and he knew they were enough to cure his very major and very much present sweet tooth he had woken up with this morning. A large uncontrollable smile slapped right onto his face as he opened his mouth. “I—“

He stopped, clamping his mouth shut abruptly.

Thank god. He swallowed those three words that had nearly left his mouth, pushing them right back into the back of his throat before the damage could be done.

It wouldn’t necessarily be the first time this week where he let the confession accidentally slip. He realized that as of recently, he would catch himself with more and more of a necessity to tell you how he felt.

The two of you started seeing each other romantically about six months back. It was completely out of nowhere when he asked you out for the first time. The second— and third, and fourth and continuing times after were more than expected.

It didn’t take much for the two of you to realize how much of an importance the other partook in your day to day basis, even despite being friends for so long prior to the dating.

And everyday he saw you he felt this big tightening in his chest that made it actually impossible for him to breathe. He felt all this pent up emotion that was getting harder for him to manage with every passing day.

It scared him, how much he cared about you. How much he wanted you to be a part of his everyday life and how much he wanted to tell you how it made him feel— how you made him feel.

But that fear was exactly the reason why he’d clamp his mouth shut every single time he felt like he wanted to tell you.

“I—uhm,” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, really I—“

You watched him, titling your head to the side with a prying gaze. “Have I ever told you how amazingly perfect you are?”

You purse your lips, leaning over his shoulder and pretending to be deep in thought. “I’m not sure— I think you’re gonna need to jog up my memory.”

He shook his head, huffing a laugh as you leaned down and pressing a long kiss onto his lips. You hummed in contentment, feeling the fuzziness in your chest reach every nerve in your body.

“Hey,” You pulled away, glaring over at Derek from Spencer’s desk. “Calm your hormones or I’m telling Hotch to hit HR up,”

“Actually hormones aren’t something you can consciously control, they’re a biological response to situations we find—“ Spencer quipped, earning a loud groan from Morgan.

You rolled your eyes, looking down at Spencer and reaching a hand up, running it ploddingly through his thick brown curls. “Are you coming over tonight?”

He nodded. “Yeah,”

“Looking forward to it,” You pecked his lips once more. Before rounding his desk and making a b-line for your own.

Spencer scanned you up and down as you waltzed away, not realizing you were wearing the shirt you bought last weekend. The one that enhanced the beauty of your hair and skin color, mapping a perfect picture he wanted to get lost looking at. He also couldn’t fail to avoid the way the shirt deliciously hugged every curve and bump your body had to offer. And those dress pants—

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning internally. He then thumped his forehead onto his desk, cheeks blazing with heat, knowing he was more screwed than anyone in this whole building, a lost cause if you will.

As you strutted past Derek and Emily’s desk towards your own, Emily gasped loudly. “I think I finally got it,”

“Yeah, I completely agree with you,” Derek followed. You looked at them both quizzically.

“Could it be?— No,” Emily gasped once again and you immediately noticed that it was fake, alarming you of whatever game they were getting at.

“Yeah, I think it’s finally happened.” Derek leaned back in his chair, clicking his tongue and smirking over at you. “Pretty girl here is in love,”

Your cheeks turned hot, as your eyebrows shot up defensively. “What?”

Derek liked to say the two of you were still in your ‘honeymoon phase’ and you couldn’t disagree with him— it was the most accurate description of your relationship with Spencer.

But saying in love triggered something— physically and emotionally.

“No wonder she looks so different,” Emily tutted. “She’s got that ‘happy in love’ glow to her.”

“Shut up,” You have the strap of your purse on a death grip as you opened your mouth to protest but failed miserably as all the words died in the back of your throat. Thank god Spencer seemed preoccupied with the donut you had just given him.

“I’m—“ You shuffled, slapping yourself internally. Way to give it away. “You guys need to find a better hobby.”

And with blazing cheeks, a dry throat and a concerning pattering heart blaring against your throat, you stalked your way back to your desk.

The second time

“But that isn’t fair Spencer!” You groaned, gripping your bag as if your life depended on it. “You can’t expect to save everyone and then blame yourself when it doesn’t go well,”

There had been a sensitive case today, clearly an unsuccessful one. Spencer, like usual, jumped at the first opportunity to start blaming himself— for not being quicker, for not being smarter.. Whatever reason he could nitpick at, he was currently doing so.

You tore your purse off your body and tossed it into a small basket by your front door. You roughly tore your heels off, slightly relieved at the feeling off the palms of your feet on the wooden floor.

“There were flaws in the profile— flaws in the geographical profile,” He huffed, frustrated, filling every fiber of his words. He tore his satchel off his body, grabbing his files from it prior and slapping them onto your coffee table. “We couldn’t even correctly pinpoint the Unsubs M.O before he started sadistically killing again, we couldn’t—“

You felt for him, you truly did. Spencer was one of the most kind hearted, considerate people you knew, but that came with a lot of self-demands. He had to be everything at once, and be there for everyone at once and if he didn’t reach the bar he’d set up for himself, this would happen.

He pushed past you and towards your kitchen. “Spence, we aren’t going to solve every case, no matter how good our work may be.”

“You think I don’t know that? The average percent of homicides cleared or "solved" is 60 to 65 but around 35 to 40 percent go unsolved.” You opened your fridge, grabbing a pitcher of water and grabbing a glass from your cabinet as you listened to Spencer.

“35 to 40 percent, do you know how high that is?!” He stressed. You realized his irritation was heavy because he was reaching his peak of rambling.

Spencer just couldn’t stand when things like this happened. When people did horrible things and got the luxury of roaming free— he couldn’t help but feel like he was at fault for that. If he was just quicker, or smarter maybe they would’ve caught whatever bastard was terrorizing people.

“I know you know that!” You huffed a breath of frustration. “But that’s the way this job works Spence!”

“What would you know about how this job works?” He turned, hot on his heels, facing you with an indescribable exasperation pooling around his eyes.

You stopped in your tracks, looking up at him sharply and setting the still empty glass of water and pitcher back onto the table “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes were deeply upset— cold and hard and so much different from the soft and welcoming gaze of your partner. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about being a profiler. You joined the team around three years after the rest of us.”

You stared at him with incredulity. When in a relationship with somebody, as well as learning all of their admirable virtues, you also learn their defects. And one of Spencer’s defects was that he had no filter whatsoever when he got angry. He just said the first thing that came to mind and spit it out and towards whichever person was unlucky enough to fall victim.

Not that the two of you fought often because you quite literally never did— but you’d see him pissed at people and his petty side sometimes felt the need to make an appearance.

You, however, had never had to experience this firsthand. You’d seen it happen at work, with JJ, with Derek, with the press. But two of you had never spoken to each other the way you were doing now. And if he thought you were gonna let him slide, he’s got another thing coming.

“What about Rossi?” You challenged as you crossed your arms across your chest. “I was accepted into the team just months after he was, you’re gonna tell him he wouldn’t know the first thing about being a profiler?”

“That’s different—“

“How?” Your veins were pumping with adrenaline. Your fingers shook violently, and the back of your throat suddenly burned with the need to cry. “I had jobs before getting called into the BAU, and I busted my ass off in college—“

“It’s not the same!” He spat. “You had never worked with the team before, it took you months to learn how we processed things, how we handled them.”

You could visually see Spencer bite down on his tongue only now attempting to reel himself down back to earth. And if you didn’t know him better, you wouldn’t be able to recognize the identifiable regret that appeared in his eyes while you continued on.

“And who are you to hold that against me Spencer?”

He swallowed thickly and let out a heavy sigh. You ran a frustrated hand through your curled hair. “All i’m saying is that—“

“I know what this job is like, which is why I’m telling you to get out of your goddamn head.” You didn’t scream at him, but there was a firmness in your voice that could scare practically anyone off.

“The things that have happened, happened today or will happen are never going to be in our control,” You told him. “Never.”

“Just because you’re angry and pissed does not give you a free card to attack me,” You slammed the glass cup onto the counter and pushed past him, making your way out of the kitchen. Spencer didn’t follow you to your room, he knew it wasn’t a smart idea.

So as your bedroom door slammed shut, he stalked over to your couch, opening up the paper files onto your coffee table, and rerunning them once again. He wasn’t able to concentrate at all though, knowing you were in the other room tossed in bed and probably crying because of him.

A few long hours later, Spencer closed his files and looked over towards your door. There had been no noise emitted whatsoever from your room, which he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

He felt like an idiot. Presumably so, he was so stupid for just lashing out like that on you. Your intentions were never ill intended, yet he still pushed you away and he hated himself for that.

He stood up, making his way into your kitchen and grabbing the empty glass. He poured some water into it and went over to your door.

You were lying down, blankets wrapped around you protectively as your back faced him. He couldn’t help but smile, feeling the endearment tighten in his chest.

You stirred in your sleep as the bed sunk beside you, groaning softly. Spencer hovered over you, setting down the glass of water on the nightstand beside your head.

“Hey,” His voice was very soft, maybe even enough to send you back into the nap you were in— until you remembered what had happened earlier and thought that maybe talking to him was a better idea.

Your eyes burned and your head hurt. You sniffed away the buildup that the crying had caused. You then blinked away the grogginess from your eyes, along with the slight burning sensation due to the tears you had shed earlier. “Hey,”

Your sleepy voice was enough to send Spencer into a whirlwind. It tugged at the strings of his heart and all he wanted to do right now was grab you in his arms and hold you there forever.

He laid on his side beside you, running a soft hand across your arm with the encouragement for you to turn around and face him.

A slight sense of anxiety was coursing through him. He was scared that a part of you was still mad at the way he spoke to you, and the worst part was that he couldn’t blame you, because he had in fact acted like an idiot.

You blinked up at him from over your shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Around nine?” You hummed, flipping on your side and turning to face him. Spencer slapped at the nerves inside him and shifted slightly in his position.

“Hey,” He reached his hand over to yours and intertwined his fingers with your own. “Were you crying?”

“Yeah,” His tone hadn’t been patronizing or ridicule intended, it was more so concerned. You reached up to rub your eye.“You were pretty fucking mean.”

Spencer wanted to kick himself. Truly. There wasn’t anything else to say but how utterly stupid he had been for causing you any type of harm when his main promise was to prevent you from any of it.

“You should drink some water,” He lifted himself up by his elbow, hovering over you again and reaching for the glass.

“I’m not thirsty,” You mumbled, snuggling closer into your pillow.

“You should still drink love, you haven’t had a single drop of water since we got here and you’re probably dehydrated,” You didn’t look at him. “I added those watermelon electrolytes you like so much.”

You peered at the glass, suddenly feeling deathly thirsty. With a huff, you reached for the glass. “Fine,”

You downed the whole drink in a matter of seconds, melting at the taste of the sweet watermelon tartness on your tongue. Once you finished the glass, you handed it back to Spencer who set it on the opposite nightstand.

“Can we talk?” You nodded. “I’m sorry,”

You looked up at him, opting him to continue. “I shouldn’t have snapped the way I did. You were trying to help me, and by attempting to push you away I said stuff I really, really shouldn’t have and I’m so sorry,”

With a few seconds of silence, you reached down, intertwining both of your hands. Your thumb glided over his knuckles as you listened to him.

You mumbled. “It’s okay Spence,”

He shook his head. “It’s not, honestly. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

Yeah, good point.

“I know,” You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “But you said that you're sorry and next time we’ll learn how to manage these things a little more efficiently.”

You quickly pulled his arm over your body and scooted forward, too tired to dwell in an emotionally exhausting conversation, nuzzling your face into his neck while his arms instinctively tightened around your frame. “We’ll get the hang of this, okay?”

There was silence after that. One that could’ve been filled by anything, honestly.

Those three words were all you wanted to say right then and there. It had been on your mind a lot recently, how Spencer was making you feel a ton of scary and big and complicated feelings— all amazing but terrifying. And those three words felt the most accurate when it came to telling him how you felt about him.

You really wanted to tell him at that moment. You don’t know where the necessity came from but it hit you like a tidal wave. Strong and capricious. Uncontrollable almost.

But then the fear settled in and you’d obstruct yourself from doing so.

So you didn’t say it, even though you may have wanted to.

Instead you just held him tighter and nuzzled into him as close as you physically could, hoping that somehow the message would get across. He placed a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Okay.”

The third time

You smiled into the kiss, tugging at his hair as you leaned back, supporting yourself solely on his grip around your lower back. Your legs rested on either side of him, sitting in his lap while his hands raked across your back in a way that made you feverish.

His lips moved swiftly across yours. He squeezed your hips, fingertips slipping just slightly underneath your shirt. You shivered at the contrast of his cold fingertips against your blazing skin. Spencer pulled away, voice breathy. “Is this okay..?”

“Yes,” You whispered back before pulling him onto your lips again.

Your relationship with Spencer was something that made your heart feel so light and airy— something so pure and easy. It made you grow dizzy just thinking about his hands on you and all the sweet things he’d whisper in your ear constantly. How he was always so considerate and sweet and perfect.

You were staying the night at Spencer’s apartment, too tired to drive back to your own apartment after work. But some things lead to others and well— yeah.

When having to restrain so much physical contact at work, strictly wanting to remain as professional as possible, you could merely blame yourself for needing him like this once back at eithers apartment.

You hummed against his lips, raking your hands slowly through his hair. The kissing hadn’t stopped for the past half hour or so— honestly you lost track of time.

Spencer pulled away breathlessly and placed a few messy but calculated kisses on your jaw and neck. You smiled almost stupidly. He pulled away, looking at your dozy face and feeling his chest tighten.

Your lips were slightly pinker than usual, and puffier. Your hair was just slightly tousled while your cheeks glowed a beautiful red hue. Your fingers remained tangled in the locks of his curls.

“You look pretty,” He was saying that as if it was another one of his scientifically proven facts, as if no one could say or believe otherwise. You tucked a small curl that had slipped onto the side of his face behind his ear, humming passingly. However, you never found his eyes, only focusing now on the curls that sat comfortably framing his face.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed, fiddling with the hem of your loose shirt. “You do that often,”

You look down at him, questioning him with a hum. “Do what?”

“Overlook the things I say when I compliment you,” He remarked. “Like you don’t believe me.”

You still didn’t move your attention from his curls. You didn’t believe him most of the time.

You weren’t an insecure person, not entirely anyways. You put a lot of focus on your physical appearance, always maintaining your clean look intact to the public eye. To many, you were considered extremely attractive. But unlike popular belief, you had many insecurities that you always tried to overlook. Sometimes it was hard though.

It was just hard for you to understand how he saw you so perfectly, like you had not a single flaw. ‘Beautiful’ and ‘breathtaking’, just like he always says when he sees you at work or back at your apartments. How he’s able to litter you with a million compliments

“I don’t overlook your compliments,” You let out an airy laugh, pulling back slightly to look at him properly, hands resting on his shoulders.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t..!” You laughed, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a long kiss. He drew away, only by a few centimeters, desperately trying to get his point across because god forbid Spencer keep his thoughts to himself.

“You’re deflecting,” He whispered over your lips before you laid another feather-like kiss into his lips. You hummed dismissively, assuring him that you weren’t avoiding anything.

But god, if you didn’t stop kissing him so softly and so painfully slowly, if you didn’t stop shifting around on his lap the way you were and if you didn’t stop your hands from wandering their way across his shoulders and chest— he was going to have a hard time remaining composed.

“You’re—“ A kiss.

“trying to—“ Another kiss.

“distract me,” It was as if you were a magnet he was so desperately trying to detach himself from, but failing miserably. Gravity itself pulled him towards you, he couldn’t help nor control it. He couldn’t blame himself either.

“Is it working?” You whispered, voice dangerously close to a taunt. Your hands began fiddling with the buttons of his dress shirt, popping the first two undone.

Spencer found himself growing dizzy as his hands dug into your hips. “Unfortunately,”

You kissed his jaw, and Spencer let out a stifled groan. With the willpower of the gods themselves, he reached up and grabbed your hands into his own, stopping their mission at undoing his shirts buttons. You pouted with a glare, pulling away from him as his thumb gilded affectionately across your knuckles.

“So wait,” You pulled back. “Is this your way of saying you don’t want to sleep with me.?”

Spencer choked. “What?— No!”

Spencer groaned as you stifled a giggle. Oh, how you loved teasing and getting him all flustered. “That’s not— No.”

You tilted your head. His hands rested on your hips, as he sighed looking up at you. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

You blushed. “You tell me often,”

“I know you’re beautiful,” He shook his head and sat up, trailing his hands across your back. “Do you?”

“People tell me often,” You smirked and when he glared at you all you could do was kiss it off him. “But I only like hearing it from you,”

“I asked you something,” He let out.

“Sort of,” You admitted meekly, finally responding to his question. His hands came back to the hem of your t-shirt, tugging at it as his lips found yours again.

“You’re probably the most beautiful person I know,” He whispered above your lips matter of factly.

“Probably..?”

“Definitely,” His hands gripped at the plush flesh of your hips in a way that was making you want to fall to the ground and melt into a puddle of goop. It was so gentle yet there was a specific urgency to it.

He pulled away, kissing your cheek immediately after. “You’re also so smart and kind,”

He kisses traveled across your cheek, to your temple, towards your jaw and that damn spot on your neck that he knew drove you crazy. All while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Your witt was slowly melting away with any trace of self control you had left in you as you closed your eyes, arching yourself into his addictive touch. ”And funny,”

“Spence..” You warned.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” He looked back at you, reaching up and cupping your cheek in his hand. “I—“

His words failed him as they whipped all the way back into his throat, daring not to leave his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to say it, there wasn’t anything else he wanted to say to you, because no matter how much he’d wash you in compliments, those three words were the closest thing to allowing you to understand just how much you truly meant to him— hell, it didn’t even feel like enough sometimes.

And that scared the shit out of him.

Which is why he quickly thought of the closest thing to those three words and spat them out, avoiding any growing suspicions. “I love the way you make me feel.”

You weren’t gonna lie, the first two words had gotten your hopes up in ways that were too pathetic to admit out loud. But his words had other intentions, so it seems, and you had to force yourself from slouching your shoulders foward in disappointment.

Beside, it’s not like the things he was saying weren’t causing a wonderful heat to pool in the pit of your stomach— and among other places.

You watched him, for a second or two, trying to maybe tell him with your eyes what you couldn’t tell him with your words. But it still wasn’t enough, and if you didn’t release the neediness that was starting to take shape within you, you'd quite literally explode.

You tangled your fingers within his hair and pulled his mouth onto yours in a steady but desperate kiss. He responded pretty well, given since his hands found your waist instantly and tugged them towards himself in a feverish manner.

He began pulling at the bottom of your shirt, signaling he needed it off of you and pulled away, whispering breathlessly. “Can I?—“

“Please.”

The fourth time

“Ouch,” You hissed as Morgan dabbed a piece of gauze onto the now stitched up cut on your head. “Are you trying to give me another concussion?”

Derek deadpanned at you, slightly relieved that you still found the energy to pick on him after being whacked in the back of the head with a pipe by the Unsub.

The team was searching for a local Serial Killer that targeted young women around the area, per usual. You and Morgan were put in charge of entering the Unsubs apartment since Garcia had been able to track it down while you and Morgan were on call.

It wasn’t anything past ordinary. This was your job, you had done this more than a thousand times before— much less carelessly and it wasn’t like you to be so careless. But sometimes you get so comfortable and cocky with your job that you forget about the actual risks of it.

Eventually that cockiness would have turned around and bit you in the ass.

When you and Morgan busted down the door, guns in hand, you split up, each directioning yourselves into different rooms of the apartment— in hindsight that was a horrible idea.

When you walked into what seemed to be an empty room, you stupidly failed to check the back of the door. Which was why a second later, when you opened your mouth to inform Morgan that the room was clear, something solid and cold wacked you across the back of the head, knocking you out unconscious.

You weren’t aware of what happened after that, given how the blunt force had knocked you out profusely and you really couldn't recall anything prior to the attack when you regained consciousness. All you knew is that you were alive and the Unsub had been caught, which was all that mattered honestly.

Derek was now wallowing in the self inflicted guilt of not knowing better. But to be completely fair, you didn’t know better either— you were as much to blame as he was.

But Derek was convincing himself that because of his lack of observation, you had ended up with a concussion, six stitches and a bruised cheekbone.

“Derek—” You pleaded, watching him dump the ice pack onto the counter of the back of the ambulance with an angry toss.

All he was doing right now was huffing in anger. “Come on,”

He turned to look down at you. Shot him a stiff thumbs up and a smile, signaling that you were more than okay. Sure, your head was throbbing, but you weren’t dying.

“Stop doing that,” You rolled your eyes and squashed your eyes shut, attempting to relieve your headache.

“Doing what?”

“The sulking,”

“I’m not sulking,” Derek scoffed. Now it was your turn to deadpan him. He opened his mouth, intending to jump instantly to his defense.

“Where is she?” A panicked voice from the depths of the crowd caused you to grimace, immediately recognizing it to be Spencer’s. Derek suddenly felt dread when realizing he now had to face him.

Spencer could be rather ardent when it came to you and your safety— you knew you were fine, but having to convince Spencer that you were fine as well was a tougher job.

Spencer pushed through the vast amounts of people, finally breaking through the last line of them and finding you sitting placidly in the back of the ambulance. The panic Spencer felt coursing within him was something he wished upon no one.

When Hotch told the team that you were down, Spencer couldn’t help but freak out. He hid it well, knowing he had to stay focused on the case, but god was he slowly crashing. His usual sharp intellect was fogged, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything but your wellbeing. His head was flooded with questions and worries and he needed to know that you were okay.

He strided over to you, quickly crouching and taking your cold hands into his own. His distressed eyes flew all over your face, scanning it as his hand came up to cup your cheek. His thumb gilded gently over your bruise and the deep furrow in his brows was enough to tell you that his mind was going haywire.

“Hey you,” You said, humor glistening your tone while smiling sweetly and oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Spencer forced a weak smile to spread across his own face.

“Hey,” He cooed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine actually,”

Spencer straightened himself out, turning to Derek. “What did the paramedics say?”

“They gave her six stitches for the superficial cut on the crown of her head and some ice for the bruised cheekbone,” He crossed his arms. “They say it’s probable she has a concussion.”

Spencer felt his blood run cold. “A concussion?!”

You could tell Spencer was trying his hardest to remain calm. It was evident in the deep breaths he was taking and the tapping of his fingers against the side of his leg. He was doing a horrible job at it though, although you wouldn’t tell him that because he’d just freak out some more. His voice was getting all pitchy and his shoulders shook feebly. He sucked in a deeper breath, closing his eyes and attempting to regain his composure.

“Spencer,” You didn’t need him panicking more than he already was. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, probably to scold you or maybe even defend himself, Hotch's stoic voice cut through.

“We need to deliver a statement. Morgan, Reid,”

Spencer looked down at you. But you pushed him to head over to wherever your chief needed him to be. ��Go. You can—“

“Hotch, I’m going to stay,” He told the chief, almost finally.

“For the first 24 hours after the injury, it’s important for someone to stay with her to keep an eye out for any new symptoms that develop.”

You clamped your mouth shut and looked at Hotch, who remained neutral watching the two of you. You offered him a shrug, and the two of you knew there was no getting through to him. Hotch hesitated momentarily, but knew Spencer would be more of use if he wasn’t with him worrying about you.

Spencer was as smart as they came but god could he be stubborn.

With a final nod from Hotch, he and Morgan pushed through the group of press. You followed Spencer’s movements with a sweet smile glued onto your face. He sat next to you, close enough so that you could feel the side of his thigh warm against yours.

“How are you feeling?” Spencer asked again, voice small, worrying that if he spoke too harshly or too loudly it would hurt you further.

“Surprisingly good for someone who was smacked in the back of the head with a metal pole,” You shrugged indifferently. Spencer, however, did not find your humor amusing.

“How sleepy are you on a scale from one to ten?” He asked urgently. You pulled back, pursing your lips quizzically.

“Like three? I slept like shit last night—”

“How about your neck? Does it feel stiff?” His hands reached up, cupping the sides of your neck as his thumbs traced your jaw.

“No,”

“Are you unable to move any part of your body?” His questions were spewing out of him uncontrollably, and it was getting hard for you to keep up.

“I don’t—“

“What about your pupils? Did the paramedics check them?”

“Spence,” You whined, slumping your shoulders forward while your face still rested in his hands. “The bright lights and harsh noises are giving me slight headaches, but that’s it.”

He stared at you. Long and hard, he just looked at you and wondered what he wanted to say out of all the things swirling around in his head.

“What were you thinking?” He asked finally. You stared at him and his eyes hard with annoyance, but still shining an amount of concern. His voice was barely above a whisper. You let your shoulders fall, licking your bottom lip.

You reached up, grabbing his hands steadily from your face and lacing your fingers with his. “We weren’t,”

“We jumped in head first and didn’t think coherently,” His frustration was rational, but to a certain extent. You really wanted to validate his concern, but he was not allowed to get mad at you. “Spencer.”

As you called his name firmly, he only looked away, jaw and shoulders tense and constricted. You sat there, silently waiting for him to react however it is he needed to in order to process.

“I should’ve gone with you, I should’ve—” His head ducked low. His voice was full of frustration, at himself mostly. It didn’t have to be because this was not something he could have prevented.

“Spencer,“ You gave his hands a firm squeeze and tugged on them slightly. “What did we talk about when it came to personal prevention?“

He remained silent. “I’m serious, there isn’t anything we could’ve done to prevent this.”

Spencer couldn't call to mind the last time he had felt this strongly about someone. Maybe Maeve, but he knew deep down it wasn’t the same. He was almost positive he really hadn’t ever felt this way about someone— he’d been in love, but never like this.

Your entire existence ameriolated his entire being. There wasn’t a moment in the day where he didn’t think of you, where he didn’t wonder what you would think of things, where he wasn’t excited to see you every morning for work. A life without you didn’t exist to him anymore— he didn’t want it too.

That could be the main basis as to why Spencer felt so implausibly terrified at the idea of losing you.

His hand left yours, replacing it with a cold emptiness. His free hand flew up to his eyes urgently, pinching them simultaneously to get rid of the minor tears that had welled upon them. He ducked his head low, not wanting you to notice that he had started tearing up.

Immediately, your whole face softened at the realization that he was crying. It tugged on the strings that held your heart up and made your stomach churn in the worst way possible. “Spence…”

Seeing him cry, possibly because of the fear of losing you, made you feel— funny. It gave you this airy feeling in your head that caused you to feel lightheaded and filled your chest with blithe. You weren’t sure if it was your concussion or the affection you felt towards Spencer that made you feel this way.

You smiled meekly, fondness across every one of your features. Spencer cleared his throat and spoke, voice wobbly and unsteady. He sat up, trying to recollect himself. “Sorry, I— I don’t know what i’m crying for—”

You looked into his eyes, eyebrows swooped downwards. At that second a million thoughts ran through your head, but only those three freaking worlds were the only ones that felt adequate enough to say in that moment.

“I—“ You started.

It was right there. It sat in the back of your throat irksomely. You were ready to jump off the edge, to slip into the abyss— to say those words that you’ve been holding off for the past weeks, months even. Spencer watched you, simultaneously growing nervous because he could tell by the way you swallowed thickly that you were about to say something.

“I think I’m seeing double,” You opted. Just the way his eyes blew wide was enough to make you giggle.

Next time.

“What do you mean?! Like actually double or are you—“ His voice died down at the sound of your snort and soon enough you began laughing. He blinked a few times before he glared at you.

“That is not funny.” It irked him massively how you had the capacity to always joke when he wasn’t at all in the mood to. But it also unraveled the itching anxiety that had grown in his chest and replaced it with a deep affection that surged throughout him entirely as he watched you laugh. “I’m serious.”

“Did you know that you look so cute when you’re mad?” Your hands reached up, cradling his face in your palms. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips.

When you pulled away his frown was still present. The pads of your thumbs rested on both corners of his lips, pushing them upwards and creating a makeshift smile.

“I’ll let you baby me these next few days all you want,” Your voice was soft and sweet, making his head spin as you hovered your lips over his, placing another slow kiss there. “But right now, I’m promising you that I am fine, okay?”

His jaw clenched, eyes flying down to avoid your prying one’s. “Spence.”

You were saying his name one too many times that he was finding it increasingly hard to compose himself. He glanced up at you, nodding weakly. “Okay.”

The fifth time

You leaned forward in the mirror of Spencer bathroom, poking at the scarring on the crown of your head. “It feels weird,”

“It’s scarring tissue, it’ll feel weird for a bit, love” He watched you silently from his seat on the edge of his bed.

“Do you think it’ll leave a scar?” You mumbled, voice tight with concern. “The bruising on my cheek is fading but god help me, if this leaves a weird bump on my head I’ll physically seek this psycho out in jail and give him his own bump to worry about,”

Spencer stopped himself from laughing, finding your pouting adorable.

“After an injury, the inflammatory process signals fibroblasts to lay down new, protective tissue in the form of scars,” Spencer quipped. “But it won’t be noticeable since it’s hidden underneath the rest of your hair.”

You huffed, poking at the bruise on your cheekbone and admitting. “It’s hard to feel pretty when I’m all busted up.”

“You always look pretty,” You continued to poke at your cheekbone to which Spencer stood up, walking into the bathroom and planting himself behind you.

“Stop poking at it like that,” He scolded, reaching behind you and grabbing your wrist. You focused on your face, huffing a breath of frustration.

This past week has been utter hell for Spencer. A newfound persistent anxiety managed to find him after your injury and sink its teeth into him, claiming him victim. You've been staying with him since your concussion, ensuring him that you were safe, but he noticed he’d grown more vigilant to his surroundings when he was at work, more possessive when it came to you and your wellbeing and more conscientious.

You didn’t obtrude, since you understood it was a perfectly normal reaction for him to have.

But he hated it. He hated this clawing anxiety he was having. He hated having the persistent fear of losing you. He tried to decipher whether it truly was all related to the recent events or if there was something deeper. But he knew for sure that the thought of you getting hurt was making him sick to his stomach.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. You grabbed his arms, rubbing soft circles onto it with the soft pads of your thumb.

“Bruises make me feel ugly,” You miffed. “Except the ones you give me, I love those,”

Spencer looked up from your neck, catching your gaze and watching your mischievous smile lighten up through the mirror as he cocked a brow at you. You giggled out a laugh.

Spencer zoned out. He just looked at you, watching your pretty eyes latch onto his through the mirror, seeing your body safe and warm and alive in his arms. His throat tightened and as much as he hated it, his mind immediately thought of Maeve.

Not because he was comparing, of course not. He could never— the two of you meant very different things to him and they were very different relationships.

But he could remember how he wasn’t able to tell Maeve that he loved her— he wasn’t given the chance.

And it made him think about your recent accident, and all the times he'd been stopping himself from telling you. Fear, worry— whatever it was, he had been stopping himself time after time from telling you how he felt.

The thought of him losing you before he could ever tell you how he truly feels is something that made him want to throw up.

“Hotch said I could go back to work on Monday,”

“I love you.”

He said it because he could, he said it because he meant it, and he said it because he didn’t want to live a second longer without you knowing how he felt despite its reciprocity.

He won’t ever forget the way your face just fell. Just stopped moving, mouth hanging open and eyebrows shooting upwards. How your mind just went blank. God, his heart was in his throat and your silence wasn’t helping.

“What did you just say?” You asked, mostly in disbelief— entirely in disbelief.

“I love you.” He’d repeat it for you as many times as you wanted him too. He’d do anything for you.

You turned and his grip around you loosened. Now facing him, your eyes shot around every fraction of his face to determine that this wasn’t a lie or a joke or something cruel he was planning.

“Say that again,”

“I love you.”

And it definitely wasn’t.

You pushed yourself onto the tip of your toes, leaning up and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him into a suffocating kiss. One that was desperate, and urgent and full of passion and all over the place.

He pushed you against the marble counter, quickly hoisting you up onto the cold tile as your mouth moved along his perfectly. Your hands dug themselves into his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist, tugged at his body, pulling him impossibly closer to your own.

He pulled away breathing over your lips. “I love you,”

He kissed you again before pulling away and whispering once again. “I’m in love with you.”

He rested his forehead onto you, reaching up and tangling his hands in your hair. The two of you heaved. Your chest was hammering against your rib cages, the oxygen wasn’t fully reaching your head or lungs and you were pretty sure you were going to faint. It was too much. “You are?”

You both peered your eyes open, looking at each other deeply. He whispered, voice crackling slightly. “How could I not?”

You kissed him, this time slowly and softly, wanting to show him how much you loved him back— needing to tell him how much you loved him back.

“I love you,” You said, wavering an unsteady laugh. He opened his eyes and pulled away, looking at you and infatuated with every part of your existence.

“Really?”

“Spencer..!” Your voice cracked in a protest, ludicrously referring to such a stupid assumption— you’d love him till the day you died. You pulled him closer. “It is physically impossible for me not to love you. Don’t act so surprised.”

He smiled. A big, wide and stupid smile that probably made him look like a kid on christmas morning. He kissed your forehead. “You have no idea how much of a relief it is to say it.”

You perched up, hands falling onto his chest. “How long have you wanted to say it?”

He cringed bashfully, letting his hands fall to your waist as he shook his head shamefully. “Too long,”

“Well that makes two of us then,” You leaned forward, placing a relaxed kiss on his jaw. “Was there a point you realized?”

He shook his head. He’s pretty sure that after a month of going out on dates and seeing you consecutively outside and inside of work, he knew he’d fall in love with you. How could he not? “My breaking point, however, was the day you were wearing your new shirt,”

He kissed your neck, giving your hips a tight squeeze. “Which by the way, looked absolutely incredible on you,”

“Is that so?” You mumbled, lips curving up in a smirk.

“I love how it looked on you,” He admitted. “I love you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I’m never going to get tired of hearing you say that,”

“I’m never going to get tired of saying it,” He responded. “When did you realize?”

“It was either that time after our first big fight or on that night on the couch when we,” You shot him a sneaky look, to which his cheeks turned pink, recalling the events of that night. You shrugged. “You know.”

You were going to be the literal death of him.

He kissed your jaw twice more. He loved you and you loved him. It seemed like something too good to be true. “I think I’m going to need you to jog up my memory,”

You giggled at the reference, heart doubling in size at the amount of affection you were feeling towards him at that moment. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, emitting a loud shriek followed by a string of laughter as he hoisted you up and carried you over to his bed.

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holylulusworld · 3 months ago

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The Captain and his bombshell (1)

Summary: Golden Boy in the streets – the devil in the sheets.

Pairing: Steve Rogers (Post Endgame) x Plussized!Reader

Warnings: angst, fat shaming, bullying, cocky reader, self-confident reader, reader has powers, implied kinky/rough Steve

A/N: A drabble collection of cocky reader & kinky Steve.

The Captain and his bombshell masterlist

A thick skin. That’s your superpower.

That’s your way to ricochet bitchy comments and nasty looks.

You’re a master at ignoring the kind of people wanting to make themselves feel better by treating others like trash.

Not only that. It gave you the power to be a cocky bitch.

Just like now. Some of the women at a bar believe that only because one of them fucked Steve Rogers, one of your team members some weeks ago, they can get bitchy.

“She was staring at him when he walked around shirtless,” the woman spats, looking in your direction. “As if Captain America would ever be interested in that hippo. I don’t even know why she’s one of the Avengers. What’s her superpower? Being fat.”

She’s not wrong, though. After Steve was done with his disappointing encounter with her, he was walking into the kitchen in only his boxer briefs.

You were about to feed the stray Bucky brought home some weeks back when Steve caught your attention.

Your eyes roamed his body, and you decided to save the memory for lonely nights.

Steve never tried to make a move on you. He’s usually shy around you. Maybe the woman is right. Steve would never try to put his hands on you. You’re just not his type.

“It was a case of second-hand embarrassment,” she continues. “I was looking for Stevie and saw her stare at him as if he’s the next cake she wants to wolf down.”

You have heard enough. Usually, your skin is thick enough to ignore nasty comments or stupid babbling coming from women like her. Tonight is different. You’re in the mood to be a bitch.

Slowly stalking toward their table, your head held high and a dark smirk on your crimson lips, you prepare yourself to wipe that grin off her face.

“Well, sweetie,” you coo, and put on your best fake smile, “at least I wouldn’t whine and cry the whole time he’s fucking me because I can’t take it. You see,” you slap your butt with your right hand. “This booty is made for rough treatment.”

“I—what?” She stammers, eyes wide, and her cheeks are on fire. “What are you talking about?”

The other women stare at her, mouth agape. They wait for her reply, but it never comes. Typically. They can only throw punches, but not take a single blow.

“I don’t need super-hearing to know that you didn’t enjoy yourself. I know, I know.” You laugh in her face. “Everyone believes Stevie is all sweet and cuddly. But a super-soldier needs to release some steam sometimes. He likes it rough, just like me. You shouldn't play with fire if you can’t take the heat.”

You turn on your heels and walk off, smiling to yourself as you can hear the women soothe their friend.

Steve is following you around town. After you knocked the woman he slept with some weeks ago down a peg or two, he couldn’t think straight.

You heard him have sex with that squeaky mouse and wished it was you. Why, he has no clue. All the time he knew you, Steve believed you, the bombshell straight out of his wet dreams, could never be into him.

Now he’s confused and horny—unsure about his next step.

Steve only knows one thing. He cannot stay away from you for much longer…

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

#The Captain and his bombshell #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x plussized reader #plussized reader #chubby reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n

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thesilvertheorist · 1 month ago

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• unprofessional •

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Fic summary: [set in s4] Five is forced to go into mandatory active therapy in order to ensure that he can perform well at the CIA, he finds himself opposite a young lady (21+ ish) who's taken him on as her first client. Five is resistant at first but soon begins to develop ALL kinds of feelings for this woman.

Warnings/tags: ptsd related traumas, flashbacks, self harm, self loathing, resistance to help, attitude, scandalous age gap (five is mentally 60+, body of a 21 year old), developing feelings, inappropriate relationship, unprofessional relationship, anguish, angst, sexually explicit content, mdni, stalker!five, reader should really contact the authorities in all honesty.

you have been warned

Masterlist

CHAPTER THREE

[12k words]

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Five felt his own breath catch and suffocate him inside his lungs. He dared not move for fear of ruining the agonisingly tense, teasing spell she was casting over him…he finally found himself to be a willing victim. All this time he had spent roaming the earth and various differing timelines, imposing himself on others and ensuring they knew that it was his way or the highway seemingly fell silent under his own will to submit to her. This time, he was being imposed on, on someone else’s highway – and better yet, he wasn’t even driving, she was.

Five snapped himself back to reality when his lungs finally opened and swallowed a breath larger than he expected. Fucking hell, he’d just been caught red handed in her office, palming himself through the expensive fabric of his trousers, and she wanted him to keep going. It took all Five had not to cum in his boxers then and there. She had given him permission to do something so vile and revoltingly invasive…and she’d done it with such a soft smile that seemed genuine and welcoming. Those lightly painted lips of hers instructing him to surrender himself were all too alluring and surely couldn’t be real. Yet, here she was, plain as day and holding his hand in her own – pulse against pulse…beckoning him to continue offending her.

Fuck.

He didn’t move, not even an inch. He couldn’t. He just locked her gaze and felt her hand in his own, relishing in some human contact that wasn’t a bloody fistfight. Five had all but forgotten that humans could hold each other so softly, so gently, and with such kindness. He never wanted to let go.

She must have noticed his fawned expression; she was softly squeezing his hand whilst slowly undoing his belt for him, freeing him from two prisons with one single action. One physical and cotton bound, one mental and trauma bound…

“Do you want to keep going, Five?” she asked, her expression calming from something so sultry to an expression which carried much more care.

Five took a moment before realising that she probably needed some sort of response, some sort of indication that he was actually into this and didn’t want to bolt again. He needed to assure her that this was all he’d actually been yearning for. He wanted her, and now she was here, checking on him. Fuck, he needed to say something.

He managed to force the muscles in his spine and neck enough to nod, feeling his eyelids droop heavy and his mind fall heavier. She didn’t seem content with his pathetic response though.

“Words, Five. You know I need you to say it.”

Her words were calm yet firm, forcing Five to open his mouth and say something, to agree to crumbling beneath her as he knew he would…to agree to showing her this – showing her him.

“Y-yes, I want this…please-” he managed to choke out, feeling his voice break upon airing the first syllable.

“That’s it. Very good, Five. Aren’t you just so good when you behave, hm?”

This was infuriating… she was right. He was behaving…and it did feel good…and he was being good…and he was behaving…and it felt good…and he was behaving…and he was being good…because he was behaving…he felt good because he was behaving…he felt good because he was behaving…he felt good because he was behaving…

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiiit…

…this felt too good and she hadn’t even started yet.

“Okay, Five, here’s how this is going to go…I’m going to give you very specific instructions… and you’re going to be really good for me and do exactly as you’re told…sound good?”

Five felt himself fall deeper and deeper into the cloudy fog of her presence with each word she spoke to him. How on earth could she expect him to focus enough to listen when she’d already reduced his brain to a useless pile of grey matter? She was asking too much of him – but oh, did he want to impress her… to show her that he was strong and good…worthy of her praise.

“Mhm,” Five began in response, “sounds perfect- please, tell me what to do”

He could do this, he could show her that he wasn’t broken, that he didn’t need her stupid therapy for emotionally stunted sexual deviants. He was going to prove to her that he was capable of beating her at her own game. She’d never expect him to listen, never expect obedience out of him… not him, so that’s what he hit her with.

He didn’t realise he’d actually enjoy it though…

“Let me see you, I need to know what I’m working with.”

Five’s hand flew from where she was holding it, freeing himself from the last tethers of below-the-belt clothing he needed to before she could see him spring up. He felt the cold air pinch at his engorged tip as he tucked his waistbands under his thighs to keep them in place.

She gestured to his vest and crisp dress shirt. Those too? That was fine, he could call her bluff…and he did. He unbuttoned them both but left them on his shoulders, giving him some semblance of modesty in this exceedingly whorish position she had him in. His tie was still tight around his shirt collar, he hadn’t been instructed to remove it – so he didn’t…even if it did feel as though it were choking the fight out of him, forcing him further under her whether he was conscious of it or not.

She leaned back a little from her spot on the coffee table, adjusting her legs and crossing one over the other, leaning forwards towards him again once she’d ensured to give him a pervy preview of her tits in that ridiculously tight fitted blouse. She was drinking him in, not touching him…watching intently as his cock stood proud against the pinching air of her draughty office…as his nipples hardened under the same ridicule…

He swore he saw her take mental notes. Cataloguing him in her meticulously organised therapist brain under ‘filthy, free-use whore’. He was nothing more than a porno mag to her; his pages ruffled and ruined, some desecrated in dried cum and others stuck together – hiding his vulnerability from her. His beauty positioned exactly as she wanted so she could snap images of him for herself, mounting them on the walls of her psyche.

“Well, aren’t we excited? Enjoying yourself?”

“Obviously-”

“Ah- less of the backchat. Good boys listen. Now, stroke yourself for me…nice and slow…that’s it, good boy. Base to tip. Just like that. Keep going for me. Let me watch you.”

Five followed her instructions as she demanded. He took himself in hand and began to stroke himself base to tip in long, slow strokes, twisting his wrist on each upstroke to demonstrate his talent. He felt himself pulse against his own hand. Felt his cock get angrier as it pleaded for more. Unyielding, Five remained doing exactly and only what she’d told him.

Slowly…

..,base to tip…

……let her watch.

She watched him like this for what seemed like an eternity. Five only realised that time was passing as his hand grew tired and cramped along with the aching call from his cock for something more.

“Need more, Five?”

“Mhm,” He nodded back to her, holding her hazy gaze as he had since he sat down, “need it.”

“Speed up for me, perfect. So good for me. Feeling good?”

Why did she need to know if he was still feeling good? Surely she could fucking see that from the dire state of his prick and his oh so snappy temper. His enjoyment should have meant nothing to her in this moment; she was treating him like a puppet, his strings tied in knots from her honeyed voice and fraying from her relentless teasing. Yer, he still managed to be pulled by them, by her. Her wishes were his to grant and her demands were his to meet. So much so, that Five began to feel possessive over this moment, over having her here like this. He’d allowed her this amount of control, and he was well aware that he could withdraw it from her at any second and take the upper hand by force – only, he didn’t want to. He only allowed a breathy ‘yes’ to leave his lips in response.

Five wanted to feel small, powerless, and used. He craved the feeling of relinquishing that detrimentally heavy, demanding boulder of expectational control he carried over every situation. He longed for someone else to take the weight off his shoulders and allow him a moment to breathe, to offer him instruction as opposed to the time-crunched hell of anxiety ridden, self-imposed insistence of his own expectations.

She offered him exactly that, and he accepted her help.

The heaviness of Five’s balls and the overwhelming burn in his cock were familiar signs of an imminent and unstoppable release of his pent up whatever-the -fuck was going on inside him. He felt the need to alert her so she could move back a little. His instincts were crying out at him to shower her in his cum, to mark her as his, dishevel her good image and disgrace her reputation…he wanted to…but he wanted to listen more.

Pulling himself together for only a millisecond, Five managed to bid his vocal cords and tongue to move and voice his upcoming explosion, hoping and praying to any and all deities that she wouldn’t tell him to stop.

“Close-”

“Okay, Five. Listen carefully. Make yourself feel good, I want to see you come fully undone. Don’t rush it, just spill for me, relax.”

He did as she asked, even if it was plain old torture to do so – and it was. He’d usually have cum four times by now if it were up to him, dragging it out felt hellish. Regardless, he followed her instructions. He focused his attention more towards his tip and began to neglect his length, knowing he felt a torturous relief around the sensitivity of his glans. Swirling his fist over his tip sent him reeling and the protruding muscles and veins in his neck pushed against the cage of his top button and tie, collaring him in his own dresswear.

Feeling himself twitch in his hand, Five met her gaze again and felt himself inhale sharply, his mouth dropping agape. He put himself on display for her, leaning into the imagery of being her x-rated programme.

Her tongue slightly darted over her painted lips before she bit down on the lower one, leaning forward to hover just over and between Five’s manspread knees, her eyes locked on his as her elbows pushed her cleavage together…which he could now catch out of the corner of his eye…oh fuck…when had she undone that button?

Five came hard, shooting into the air as his body convulsed and his highly-strung nerves finally snapped. He felt reams of cum release from his rigid prison, landing on his belly and abdomen. One splodge of his incriminating evidence landed on the leather of her chair, damning it along with him as the debauched stage for his tragic undoing.

His hand didn’t stop as he came, he made himself feel good as she’d said. He pushed and pushed his pleasure until whiny gasps and pathetic whimpers fell from his lips, pleasure on the edge of pain, his ears filling with water as his eyes followed suit. That’s when she stopped him, her hand reaching over his just before he inflicted any of that pain onto himself.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” She whispered over to him empathetically.

He deserved it though…he deserved to feel hurt. It was the price of pleasure; pain. He felt so good only a moment ago, better than he had felt in years and she was telling him that there was to be no retribution for that. Five didn’t understand what she was getting at as he finally hid his eyes from her and allowed his salty tears to spill down his flushed cheeks.

She engulfed him, leaping forwards, covering him in care and blanketing him with a welcoming hug as he cried. She let him hide himself in her shoulder and bury himself into the fabric of one, very sexually confusing, blouse. The once sensual item now providing him an oasis to drown his sorrows into. The duality of her sent Five reeling once again, lost inside his head.

She didn’t stop him though, never hurried him through it, never forcing him to regain his composure. She just held him there. Entirely unstartled when Five’s pathetic, half-hearted and scared swatting turned into grasping at her for dear life. She was immovable. There. He clung to her, finally accepting a reality that was tangible.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you…” she began as she traced her fingers under his tie to loosen it along with his damned top button, the air returning to his lungs was something Five was familiar with around her by now – but this felt different, “I’ve got you, Five. You did so well. I just don’t want to see you hurt, okay? I’m not angry with you.”

She wasn’t angry with him. She didn’t hate him. All this and she still didn’t hate him? Five had absolutely no clue what to do other than steer into her skid. He felt himself lean into her more as his heaving began to slow and his tears dried. She ensured not to let go first, holding him for as long as he needed to be held. Her heartbeat setting the pace for his own. A tuning fork for the petulant ringing in his ears.

Five’s senses did eventually come back to him; only through the warm embrace of her words and gentle affirmations of pride and care. Five relished in her feeling, feeling wholly undeserving of whatever she was treating him with. She had no idea what she was in for when it came to him, none. Clearly, he wasn’t her regular kind of client. She needed to run fast and run far – away from the hellscape of his emotional range and subsequent lack of growth. Yet, her insolent and arrogant self only stayed at his side, stubborn and boarish – thinking she knew best. She needed a reality check.

Five managed to pry his face from her shoulder once he regained control of his breathing, avoiding her eyes altogether, turning his face in any other direction than her. She wasn’t offput by this, following his movements ever so slightly and insisting she remained in his space. After all, he still hadn’t let go.

“I’m sorry, I should really go…”

“It’s okay to stay, Five. Do you really want to leave?”

“No, yes - hell if I know what I want! It’s not right, I’m not right!”

Five’s snappy words and harsher demeanour still hadn’t put her off; neither of their hands moved to let the other go, his fearmongering tactics weren’t working…

“I dispute those statements but I’ll put a pin in them for now,” she sighed, swiping Five’s hair from his eyes once again, finally meeting his gaze once more, “I’ll make this simpler for you. If you’d like to leave, forget this ever happened, and transfer to a new therapist the same second you step out of this office – let me go. If not, don’t. There’s no expectation of you either way.”

Five remained still. He’d heard her, and he remained still.

“Staying here?”

“If that’s okay?”

She didn’t reply immediately, she just pulled him back into her embrace and allowed him to breathe in her perfume. Once intoxicating and suffocating – now welcoming and as necessary to him as oxygen.

“Of course that’s okay.” She whispered.

It wasn’t long before her laptop pinged over in the corner, it was an alarm of some sort, a notification perhaps. Five didn’t care what it was but he was truly hurt to know that it meant their time together today was over. Her lunch break had nearly ended and he needed to fit himself back into his trousers before making himself scarce.

She assured him that he didn’t need to feel ashamed about what had happened here today. She even helped him back into his clothes, repositioning his tie, leaving it a touch looser than before. Before Five stood, she made her way over to her desk and wrote something down on a blank notecard, slipping it into Five’s blazer pocket.

“Just in case.”

After a final check over Five’s appearance, she unlocked and opened the door for him to leave, though still not forcing him out the door. They would continue their normal appointments, and now Five could see her on her lunch break – he was content with those facts. He stepped over the threshold with a grateful glance over at her, thanking her wordlessly for the time she’d allowed him today. She smiled back and watched as he turned the corridor corner on his way back to the lifts.

He didn’t have to hide in stairwells now.

She had fed the stray, knowing he’d be back for more.

As Five stepped away, he noticed that he felt content enough to step into the lift alone this time. He didn’t feel that same anxiety-fuelled suffocation that he usually did. As he descended the floors back to the foyer, he couldn’t help but notice his own ease. Only a few minutes ago he was having a nervous breakdown with someone he’d essentially committed a crime against…and she’d comforted him…and it worked.

Stepping outside of the main building and getting some fresh air gave Five a moment of contemplation. The hustle and bustle of life wasn’t irritating him as much as usual – his usually boiling blood cooling down to a gentle simmer. This was comfort; relaxation.

The realisation of this comfort didn’t fill Five with as much dread as he initially considered that it might, though it did rush his veins full of a mild enough confusion that he began to bite a little at his nails and pick at his hangnails for the remainder of his shift. He felt utterly weirded out that he was still experiencing her comfort, even though the event of his emotional plunge had ended. He couldn’t even smell her, but he could feel her energy, like a warm-weighted blanket given to traumatised rescue animals in shelters.

The thought of being her rescue didn’t scare Five…

…it enlightened him.

It gave him the strength to finish his shift instead of bolting. She’d unlocked his tenacity, his resilience that was so downtrodden after yet another timeline reset, she brought the shine back to his shaggy (and somewhat ill maintained) coat.

The end of the day unfortunately brought Five’s usual nerves back to him after dealing with his other colleagues and filing his report on the case he’d almost forgotten about, he was left all alone with his thoughts – knowing her work day was soon to be over and she was soon to be no longer around. He deemed it too much of an imposition to follow her around again after she’d shown him so much kindness, so he just watched the clock on his office wall as the final few minutes of her day concluded.

He imagined himself waiting downstairs for her, clocking their ID’s out together, and walking the same way home…but he didn’t quite recognise the direction. It wasn’t to his place, or to hers, they were heading somewhere new.

Only, they weren’t, because Five was stuck sulking in his office because his pathetically short social battery had already run out despite having been completely charged at lunch. He began to recall their entire interaction today: how she’d caught him, teased him, encouraged him, and then held him through one of the worst emotional dips he’d ever experienced…and how she’d slipped a note into his blazer pocket!

Thank fuck.

Five wasted no time in pulling the note from his inside pocket, reading the writing on the embossed card.

It was her address, and at the bottom she’d written ‘just in case’.

Five’s jaw went slightly slack as he began to finally realise the depth of her infuriating cleverness. This little notecard gave Five coordinates to set as his centre. A safehaven. A place of sanctuary…and, best of all, it gave him the opportunity to use this at his discretion. Perhaps she wasn’t such of a control freak after all…

His own sense of self control began to return to him as Five decided not to act on this card tonight. The door was unlocked and open for him, though he didn’t need to step through it just yet. He wouldn’t force himself into her space and hand himself over just like that. No, he thought it best to see her more first, to get comfortable with her scheduled absence. So he did.

He went home alone that night, contented. He had a shower, had a small meal with whatever the hell hanging around his kitchen cupboards, and finally managed to steal more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time in what felt like centuries.

Five visited her office every week as scheduled for their appointments, where in which they had their standoffish (and mostly redundant) admin-bound check in with one another to prove Five’s sanity after collecting their coffees from the foyer café and sharing a lift ride for seven anticipatory floors.

Though…

…the two met in her office each lunch-break…five days a week…for something much more therapeutic than one measly and mandatory hour a week.

Five was at her mercy like this, and that freed him. He valued the way she kept him in line and handled the heavy shit with him as opposed to for him. In this hour, they were equals, a willed push and pull keeping them both fluid and open to one another.

She would handle his avoidant issues with healthy attachment and correct his temper with an edged discipline that only servicemen truly recognise. She gave him release in every way – only, she wouldn’t touch him, and it was driving him insane.

She would rile him up and open his heart (and his pants) just to talk him through it each time, only touching him when his high hormones fell into despair and shame. She was surely reinforcing that her touch was one of aid and not one of torture, though Five began to fear that this very curved thought was coming full circle.

One Friday lunchtime held the catalyst. Their routine was set and Five was in her chair again, their Monday positions paralleled. Five was no less the subject, even if he was sat in her physical position of command. It buzzed his senses to realise that her control was not bound in the leather of that chair, not held together by the meticulous stitching, seemingly allowing for multiple stages to be presented all at once. The duality of a mundane leather chair, the chair they shared, the chair she utilised quickly evolved into the duality of her.

Five was sat where she usually berates him, trousers round his ankles, shirt open all save for his top button and tie, hand on his cock, praises ringing in his ears as he meets her demands – the usual. His uniquely prescribed kinaesthetic therapy, doctors’ orders. She had her rescue dog working for her once again, earning his keep. Collared and panting. Jumping and humping for treats. Performing tricks. Earning praise.

“Aren’t you just so well behaved today? Making me so proud.”

Five hadn’t neglected to notice that she had increased her praise and affections as time went on and their lunchtime encounters became more relaxed, more reliable. It was clear that she’d grown truly fond of him and not only in his state of undress and dishevelment…she smiled at him in passing, saved space for him in the lift, backed him up in meetings with his superiors. She liked him.

The shock and abject horror of a knock at her locked office door punched the air out of Five’s lungs once again…in the worst way possible…after he’d only just re-learned how to breathe freely. Five felt terror run through him and seize his muscles. His eyes wide and his heaving manic, he searched between the door and her for answers – for what to do. Their safe space had been disturbed and was soon to be invaded if she unlocked the door.

She reached for him.

She actually touched him.

Cupping his face in one hand, pulling his hand away from his dick gently with the other, leaning her forehead against his. Care. Though, it wasn’t enough; just as her comfort had began to blanket him once again, another ripping knock reverberated in his ears – drying up her honey. Five was spiralling. No help in sight with the consistent onslaught of whoever the hell decided to ruin his one place of true solace.

“Let me handle it, stay put for me,” she began, lifting his trousers for him, urging him to get the point, “I’m not leaving you, I’m still here.” Were the words she uttered before standing straight again and telling the dickhead on the opposite side of the door that this was her lunch break and if they needed her, they were to wait another twenty-six minutes for her to become available, no sooner. Ending her rant with a harsh ‘get lost’.

Five appreciated her defending this space as she did, he could hear the arsehole feign an apology and retreat away from the door, leaving what they presumed to be just her in peace as she ate her lunch. However, the damage had already been done, and it felt irreparable.

Buckling himself back in and doing his buttons back up, Five insisted that he had to go. He had to leave. Had to bolt. Even though their threshold was never crossed, it came all too close to being discovered. He knew all too well that the best things never last long if they’re discovered; they get raped of their exclusivity and safety. This space was still theirs but, this was too close of a call for Five to ignore. If she’d have been caught seducing one of her clients, her life would be ruined. She was too young for that, too kind. He couldn’t allow that to happen, especially not because of him. So he straightened himself up, and ran.

He ran straight home, trapping himself in. Caging himself inside. A useless mutt like him belonged in isolation, deserved to run away and die hungry – after all, that was the story of his life. He slumped against the back of his locked door, hoping as though somehow it may absorb him and make his existence redundant. He didn’t make it more than two hours into this obscene self-isolation before he heard a light knock above his head. One notably much softer than the one he’d been shot with earlier.

He never cared to make friends with neighbours so this came as a surprise, though all became clear when honey began to seep through the cracks in the varnished wood, seeping past the lock and key, straight back into his ears – drowning out his fears.

“Five? It’s me, I know you’re there…” she waited for him to respond, but Five couldn’t mutter a sound for fear she’d stop speaking, “You don’t have to let me in, I just came to check on you.”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuckshitfuck.

She’d come to check on him…come to his rescue…to bring him out of this…and she meant it.

Five felt the door shift as she slid down the other side of it, the two of them now back to back kept apart by a cheap wooden door – a threshold. She wasn’t pressing him for answers, but she must have known he was listening to her; she just spoke to him and shared the boundary, shared the space. She spoke about how sorry she was that she got him into this and that she put him in that position. She explained that she’d have been with him earlier but she had to find his address, along with signing him out for a ‘medical day’ as not to get him in trouble with the higher up’s. She’d done her best by him, done as much damage control as humanly possible…and now she was here, apologising for having upset him and telling him that he never had to speak to her again if he didn’t want to.

He must have spent half an hour listening to her. Not replying. Just listening. Bathing in her. Accepting her presence. Controlling his anger over her sorrow. She was not at fault for him feeling this way or isolating; he was terrible for her and she deserved someone much less complicated to deal with. His fists tightened as she apologised, wondering if his larynx might actually permit him to oppose her…it didn’t.

He sat there, in cowardice, letting her take the blame for doing everything perfectly and handling this with such grace. She couldn’t have done anything more for him, and yet here she was, doing just that.

His world shattered when she slid a piece of paper through the letterbox, asking him if he would read it and telling him that if he signed it and passed it back through, she’d submit it and he’d never have to see her at work again. She’d given him the option of a transfer. She’d given him the option of losing her forever. The worst thing was, she was going to handle it for him if he agreed; her final act ever concerning him would be one of care and service…for his comfort.

He didn’t sign the form.

She didn’t seem to mind though, his lack of response was something she was very well acquainted with. She knew what that meant…or he hoped she did.

“Okay, well, you know where to find me if you need me.”

‘just in case’

She moved a moment later, her weight lifting off the back of the door as she stood, shaking Five’s foundations yet again. Untethered. Lost. Unbalanced. He listened as her kitten heels made small clicks against the floor of the hallway outside, grateful that he could still hear them. He dreaded them fading into silence as she took herself home.

Five couldn’t stand as she did, only feeling himself reach to grasp the door handle from where he was sat, forgetting that he’d locked the bastard thing behind him when he returned home. Defeated, he sat there wallowing in his own agony as he did hear those kitten clicks drift away…ticking like seconds, a countdown to his demise.

He let himself feel it, let himself taste the despair and revel in the separation, allowing her to fade into a nothingness. He didn’t manage to stop her leaving. He wouldn’t have wanted to influence that decision for her. Though, he was outwardly reaching for her and that was something he just couldn’t give up.

So, he got up.

He willed his legs to lift themselves, forced his knees to shift his weight as he demanded that his spine hold him upright. He stood facing the door, hand on the lock, for what felt like an eternity and yet no time at all. His blood had almost stopped in his veins and he was on the verge of cardiac arrest when he felt a tear drop down his face…and he unlocked the door, springing after her.

Five had never resembled newborn Bambi as much in his entire life totalled together as he did in that moment, if he were to play the moment back he’s sure he’d be humbled by his comedic scrambling and falling over his own feet. All the moment called for was for him to trip and fall flat on his face before reaching the lift, though he did manage to save himself that particular embarrassment.

His eyes burned and his throat tightened as his body fought through cries to push him forward, converting his all-encompassing angst into pure, forward-moving, kinaesthetic energy. He’s only ever felt this type of need to move once before…and that was back in the barn. Only, now he couldn’t blink. He was at the mercy of his own humanity. This desperation felt the same on his nerves as he loathed his frazzled endings into reforming themselves into some semblance of working team.

The lift didn’t arrive quickly enough; she’d taken it down. Five decided that the stairs were the better option, thinking perhaps he could intercept her on her way out of his shitty apartment complex. He couldn’t move quick enough, the lack of powers spiting him increasingly as the detrimental moments slipped past him. Practically falling down the stairs, Five reached the outer door of the complex realising that he’d just missed her. Following her outside, he knew which way she’d be headed. He knew her route home from here, two underground trains and a short walk. He had time to gain on her.

Or, he thought he did.

Rushes of people began to slow him down, traffic lights and crossings adding to his infuriation with the human race and their stifling urban jungles. He missed her by a hair at every step, seeing her board a train that drove off just before he could reach the doors, shouting after her despite knowing she couldn’t hear him from that distance. There were no alternate routes to get to her connecting train…Five needed a new idea. He reached inside his blazer pocket – ‘just in case’ had finally come.

Committing the address to memory, Five raced back outside of the station and got into a cab, angrily barking at the driver to take him straight there. This plan went swimmingly until they got caught in some sort of emergency pile up, the traffic went back miles. Oh, how the emergencies of others inconvenienced his own…could they really not have done this on a different day?

Throwing some screwed up notes at the driver, Five ran back on himself before realising how close to her address he actually was. He could probably beat her there at this rate. Pulling himself together once again, Five ran his little cantankerous heart out. His dried up tears causing his skin to feel tight against the air pushing past him. He was only a few moments away from her, she flashed in his brain with every step he took. Her stupid hair clip, her ridiculous shoes, her annoying perfume…her sickly, honey-like voice. He wanted those things for himself, and it’s well known that when Five Hargreeves wants something, he’s going to get it. No two ways about it.

He reached her door with adrenaline clouding his judgement. This was such a stupid thing to be doing. She’s not his…but oh, was he hers. Her neighbourhood was nicer than his, she lived in an apartment the same as him, but she was much more distinguished with her upstairs flat in a converted townhouse as opposed to his cheap-arse, dingy, murder complex that he gets on the cheap.

He saw her light turn on upstairs, likely her living room light. She’d just got back. Five didn’t know what to do other than knock on the outside door hoping that her downstairs neighbour might let him in. No one answered. He grabbed pebbles from her neighbours gravel garden, pelting them against her window with the force of an Olympic javelin competitor, cracking the upper corner in the process.

It worked, she answered.

Opening the window he’d just cracked, she looked around steaming with an irritation Five hadn’t yet seen from her.

“Five?! What the hell? I have a doorbell, you know!”

Oh yeah, doorbell.

Dickhead.

“I have to talk to you!”

“Yeah, I gathered that! Hang on-”

Five waited patiently as she came down the stairs and unlocked the outer door for him to enter through, his irritation matched hers as she seemingly took years to make her way down. He blatantly ignored the irony of his initial rush and her then apparent laziness. Eventually, she opened the door, stepping aside a little to let him in – as if her being stood there would have stopped him from entering, which it most certainly would not have done.

He ascended the stairs without even sparing her a glance, adjusting his hair on the walk up to her flat, huffing ever so kindly about her under his breath. He didn’t even wait for her to enter her flat first, he just barged in and stood in the entryway waiting for her to get her frustratingly alluring behind inside. She followed him tentatively, likely wondering if he was going to break something else if she eased her attention on him for even a second. Her eyes never held condescension or belittlement over him though, she looked at him with the same care as she always had, even in their most deliciously deviant moments – that care never seemed to change…and, it was absolutely not a look one would bestow upon a client of theirs.

He had her, hook, line, and sinker…

…but she had him first.

Five closed her door gently behind her as she stepped into the flat. His energy dissipating with every passing second. His outrageous attitude for himself was the only thing keeping him upright; he could have just fallen into her when he laid eyes on her again, had her hold him as he fell into something other than complete despair for once. He wasn’t entirely sure what being held would feel like, but he yearned for it nonetheless.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, Five?”

Running his hand through his sweaty hair, Five had apparently lost all semblance of sentence structures and phonemes because he couldn’t utter a single word in response. What did he want to say to her? He couldn’t remember. Her comfort was already consuming him – his previous panic-fuelled marathon closing off behind him. That’s how he remembered, he couldn’t be away from her. That’s what he wanted to say.

“Why did you give me this form?”

“I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with me around work. I felt it easier to just give you a quiet exit if that’s what you wanted-”

“-It’s not what I want. Ever. Never be under that impression.”

“Oh, okay,” She smiled, “that could have been an email, you didn’t come all the way here for that did you?”

Fuck her.

Five scoffed and stepped further into her space, she didn’t back away though. She didn’t for a single second let him intimidate her away, or let his attitude consume her. She held her ground, firm but fair. He held the letter up slightly, gesturing to it.

“This,” he said as he wafted it closer to her, “is an abomination and a disgrace.”

“Mhm, seems so.”

“You do not speak for me, this form is an insult.”

“So much for the gentle approach, huh?” she smirked, matching his energy now, getting into his space, “You don’t have to sign it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be signing shit-paper.”

“It would appear not.”

“Why did you post this personally?”

“Duty of care, personal touch.”

“Surely even you aren’t blind to the irony of what you just said.”

“Well, Mr Hargreeves, it’s not my fault that you’re afraid of your own feelings. Far be it for me to leave you in pain.”

“I am not an injured bird, and for the last time, don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, did I hit a nerve, Bitch Boy? I never said you were.”

Five was losing it with this back and forth they had going on. He could feel his own tension build and his jaw clench with every irritating answer she gave him. ‘duty’, what utter horseshit. She knew it, and now – so did he.

“Y’know, it’s highly inappropriate for you to be here, especially in this state. You must have come with intention. Spill it.”

“You already know.”

“Don’t just assume that. You doubt my intelligence daily – you’re doing it now. Spell it out for me won’t you? I’ll get my notebook.”

Five snapped, his tense patience pulled too tight and breaking clean in two. He closed the gap between them and kissed her, harsh. Though, he regretted his rough approach immediately; she was so gentle with him regardless of her words or his temper. She took all his brash energy and converted it into something so much softer. She absorbed him entirely.

Five struggled with where to put his hands, but luckily she was one step ahead of him, as she traced one hand through his hair, she took back that ridiculous form with the other, throwing it somewhere to the side of them both. She then led both his hands to her waist, allowing him to take hold of her as she had him.

Five had found gravity.

He soared and yet had such a strong tether that he felt comfortable in this new experience. This was nothing like he’d imagined it to be or like he’d experienced with Delores in the past. This was real. She was real…

…and she wanted him.

She led their kiss as Five’s frustration melted away under her touch. He was drinking her in as she gained entrance into his mouth, clashing their tongues together. He pulled her impossibly closer to him, begging silently for her to flush with him, become one. She complied and let her hands trace back up over his arms, over his shoulders, and under his blazer. Leaning back, she let Five catch his breath, asking one simple question in a tone no louder than a whisper:

“Are you sure?”

“God, yes,” he replied instantly, “take me.”

Without another word, she engulfed him again, tongues resuming as small whines of pleasure left Five’s throat. She pushed his blazer off his shoulders, freeing him from his first layer. Five was too focused on the magic happening inside his mouth (and his boxers) to pay attention to the layers he was losing. Before he knew it, she had his shirt undone and his tie loosened around his neck.

Something must have clicked in her brain that the entryway of her flat wasn’t the best place to do this because she led him with kisses all the way to her bedroom, careful not to trip on his discarded clothes en route. Five was only vaguely aware of the change of scenery until the edge of her plush bed met the back of his knees. He wanted to fall on it and pull her down with him, directly on top of him, but she held his hips in place.

“Hang on, pretty boy, I want you to be comfortable,” she said as she moved away from him to set up pillows against her headboard and ensured her sheets were straight, “lay back for me.”

Five did as he was asked, falling back onto her mattress with a ‘duf’, the only things keeping him awake now being the raging boner in his pants and his crippling desire not to miss a second of this. She leaned over him slightly as she began to undo his laces and remove his shoes, socks were next. She placed them both by the side of her bed. She looked him dead in the eye before unbuckling his belt, waiting for him to give her a slight nod, a confirmation of his ongoing want. He did just that, but it accompanied a whoreish whine and him gripping the sheets underneath him.

“Both, take them both off-”

“Okay, if you’re sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my entire life, it fucking hurts.”

He wasn’t lying either; when she got his pants and boxers down after lifting his hips for him, she was faced with his cock. Rock hard, solid, leaky, and painfully red. He dripped precum onto his abdomen as he waited for her to faff around with whatever the hell she was doing. Probably folding his trousers knowing her. Regardless of how long she took, Five couldn’t rip his eyes open. He just laid there in growing anticipation, willing himself not to cum untouched.

When she came back to him, she crawled over him, Five’s hands finding their place once again on her hips…that were now bare save for her underwear. He inhaled and sighed out as he traced his hands up her waist, finding her skin smoother than he thought it would be. If ever there was any supporting evidence for the argument that she wasn’t a dragon or poisonous snake – this was it; her skin was too silky to have scales.

She didn’t stop him as he continued tracing his hands up her body, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and he felt her straddled him and let him find his way to her bra. That ripped his eyes open, causing him to let out a slightly startled moan at what he saw, finding her to be more gorgeous than that ridiculous blouse could ever do justice for.

Her cleavage sat pretty in her bra, and her necklaces hung off her in such a way it nearly hypnotised him. Hell, he knew she was hot but he didn’t quite grasp how hot. He looked at her from under his lashes and she nodded and allowed him to palm her over the cups of her work-bra. Five must have pulled his confidence out of his arsehole because after he’d had a good grope of her over the top of the offending article, he shimmied his hands underneath the wires and took her tits in hand fully, neglecting the sting of the unforgiving underwired scraping against his hands.

“Here,” she said, reaching behind herself to unclasp the wretched torture-device and let it fall off her shoulders – though, in this moment, it was only torturing Five, “better?”

Five didn’t answer, he couldn’t. He was utterly beholden to touching her. He felt the weight of each breast in his hand, massaging them as he felt his stresses melt away. His mouth watered at the sight of her nipples. At first, he’d only caught a quick glance, but that led him to looking at them completely. A small, almost inaudible, giggle caught his attention as he realised he’d been subconsciously sticking his tongue further and further out the longer he stared at her chest.

Embarrassed, Five put his puppy-like tongue away and got too far into his head about acting like a small abandoned little mutt as opposed to the wolf he’d convinced himself she’d trapped in the first instance. She was soon to show him that all dogs could be domesticated with just a little encouragement.

“Go ahead,” she spoke gently, “no need to be shy, pretty boy.”

“Ohhhhmmmmmh-” Five moaned as he leant slightly forwards to take her left tit into his mouth, gliding his tongue across her nipple, relishing in her small sigh of relief at the contact.

Five swirled his tongue and sucked at her as if she were his very life essence. His own whines adding to the heat of the moment. He couldn’t stop the small moans of pleasure from escaping him and vibrating onto her as he latched further and further onto her, reluctant to let go, spit dribbling down his chin. She held the back of his head as he sucked and slightly nipped at her, moving his messed up bangs from his eyes as she combed her hands through his hair yet again.

Five didn’t even try to hide his pleasure, he felt his hips rut up as he tried desperately to drink her in. The warm air of her flat was ironically more unforgiving than that of his unheated one; it allowed his treacherous cock to get comfortable and prepare to offload – dangerous territory when you’re in bed with someone for the first time, especially when you’ve been pining for them for weeks.

Unfortunately his hips were met with nothing, he wasn’t given the opportunity to end this quicker than he wanted. He was rutting into air and that just wouldn’t cut it, not how he’d felt her. She was magnetising, she had him in clutch, ready to fling himself over the edge at the word go. Five craved this moment, and now he had it, and it was flooding his senses.

“Give me your hand, baby.”

He did as he was told without leaving her tit, he let her take his left hand in her right and lead him down to the hemline of her panties. She let him feel around and pull at handfuls of her arsecheeks. Five was bewildered at how firm she was, how perfectly shaped, how she fit his palms so well. He was getting impossibly harder and started to make a leaky mess all over his belly. He hadn’t cum yet, but he felt like he’d been edging himself for hours already. Only, he was at her disposal. She’d been edging him without even realising it.

She helped Five gather himself enough to hook his fingers under the band of her panies, pulling them about halfway down her arse before meeting the resistance of her open hips. She gently tapped Five’s head to have him release her tit from his warm mouth, a line of saliva lewdly connecting them both. He whined at the lack of contact as he fell back against the mattress and headboard, watching under lidded eyes as she lifted her weight fully onto her knees to remove her panties fully, a similar string of wetness following the telling wet spot on the fabric between her legs as it is removed from her cunt.

Five’s mouth was watering again. Oh, how badly he wanted for that slick to run down his chin, to coat his tongue and throat, to settle his dangerously anxious stomach. Though, she seemed to have other ideas as she took his left hand once again, letting him touch her, feel her wetness as he explores her folds.

Five all but combusted when he feels her slick beneath his fingers. His moan was loud this time, airy and desperate as his law slacked and his eyes fought not to roll into the back of his head. He followed her as she showed directed him wordlessly to her clit, rubbing in slow strokes and small, firm circles as she ground down onto his hand.

“Just like that, good boy.”

Her praise rang in his ears and he wanted nothing more than to have her spill that same sentence time and time again as she released more of this sweetness onto his hand. He lost himself in the movement as he watched her, she threw her head back and kneeled straight above him, entirely on display.

A goddess made flesh.

The next thing she did was straight out of some cheesy porno; she took her hairclip out and let her hair down, cascading down her like the waves of pleasure flowing through the both of them. What on earth had Five done in his life to deserve this honour?

She began to grind harder and harder against Five’s hand, forcing his long strokes on the outside of her pussy to go further and further to where Five’s limited theoretical sexual education told him her entrance would be. Did she want him in there?

“Inside, baby. Put them inside.”

She stilled so that he could position his hand as to access her hold without hurting her or adding to the potential of a hand cramp. Five tentatively felt around her hole with nervous fingers, her hand returned to offer him support as he began to push his middle finger inside her, seating it entirely as she clamped and clenched onto him – swallowing him. She’s the wolf.

“You’re doing so good, Five. Add another.” she breathed out, her eyes locking onto his as he carefully collected enough of her wetness on his fingers to enter into her smoothly.

She was truly all encompassing. She was so hot inside, scoldingly so. Her walls were tight and responsive to every little movement Five made. Thanking his lucky stars, Five let out a sigh of relief when she began to fuck herself onto his hand in tune with the small movements he could muster up. She found her own rhythm and Five followed sit, matching it perfectly. The constant thrusting of his fingers inside him had a ghostly feeling mirror the same thing on his cock. It longed to be inside her and now was emulating the feeling of thrusting up into her. She was mind fucking him, with little mercy, in all respects.

“Please-” Five uttered, voice outrageously hoarse, “Pleasepleaseplease-”

“Please what, baby?”

“Take me…”

She lifted her hips off his hand, removing him from her wetness. Five wondered if he’d upset her by trying to hurry her along, though he was quickly pulled from this thinking when he felt her grasp his cock in hand, giving him a few teasing strokes before aiming his tip at her folds. Gathering slick along his length. Coating him. Preparing him. She leaned over him as he prodded at her entrance, kissing him softly as she began to seat herself along on his cock. Five broke their kiss to moan into her mouth, overwhelmed by the feeling of being enveloped by her warmth.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhfffffffffffuuuuuuuckkkkk”

Once seated and comfortable, she kept him there, still. Clenching. Tightening. Milking him. Five was a mess beneath her as the two shared air and saliva. He squirmed and writhed in pleasure, his senses alight. He had all of about a second of caught breath before she rocked her hips against him. His hands firmly planted on them, feigning themselves as guides, moreso just hanging on for the ride.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! Please please please- so good, so wet-”

“Mhm, you feel so good, baby. Feeling good?”

“Too good- am gonna-!”

How humiliating. All of thirty seconds inside her and he was already about to bust. She wasn’t helping him though; she didn’t stop her hips, she just kept going – letting him lose himself. Enabling it. Encouraging it. Catching his eyes again, she held his face as she gave him four very sacred words of permission.

“Let go for me.”

Five couldn’t stop his body, he couldn’t halt the pouring of cum as he spilled himself into her. His moans bordered on screams and fell silent in a deafened scream of pure pleasure. His hips finally sprung to life as he fucked his milky ropes further up into her sopping cunt. Mixing fluid. He came so much he felt it leak down his length and pool on his pelvis. He committed everything he could to memory before he lost his brain servers. The way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she tasted…the way she felt.

It all became too much for him and he all but passed out from the lightning shocking it’s way through his system. He wrapped his arms around her back, pulled her flush to him once again, and his face in her neck as he rode out his high, finding her to be the only thin tying him to reality.

She was so kind to him through it, too. She praised him to no end. Calling him her good boy, saying he was doing such a good job, making her feel so good, filling her up so well. It was in that moment that Five’s lack of brain servers actually gave him some enlightening clarity: she was no wolf, no hunter – she was a sanctuary.

She didn’t even rush him as he came down from his climax. No mention of disappointment in his embarrassingly early finish. Nothing. Only careful kisses and praise. Comfort.

Love.

Five was receiving love.

And he didn’t feel guilty about it.

Fuck.

Talk about bombshell.

She held him close until he caught his breath and his heart rate slowed. He moved his head back from her shoulders to reveal a tearstained face that he hadn’t even noticed was stinging until the air hit. He was crying…not because he was sad – but because he’d finally felt love.

She kissed away his tears and brushed his hair through for him once again, tracing his skin with love and covering him in an unwavering devotion. One that he didn’t feel he’d ever earned and yet would continue to lap up until his dying breath.

“You did so well.”

“-m’sorry.” Five forced out, falling out of his headspace fast, worrying she’d hate him for his lack of reciprocation in her pleasure, “m’ so sorry, I didn’t mean to…so quickly…”

“Shhhh, baby. You did nothing wrong. I’m so pleased with you.”

Nothing else was said, but she held him increasingly close as he let tears fall onto her skin. She didn’t rush him, she just held him, keeping him safe and warm whilst he slowly softened inside her.

An indeterminable amount of time passed as Five let himself be comforted. He sat inside her as she kept him there. The intimacy grounding him, chasing away any lingering sense of insecurity or imbalance. Five had little idea what this meant for him, for them; they’d clearly crossed their professional boundaries and this wasn’t something he was likely to forget, nor did he want to forget it. It was clear to Five that, if he were to keep her, he’d have to surrender – in every aspect.

Willingly.

He was now no longer her willing victim but her willing counterpart.

Feeling her shift on top of him, Five wondered if she’d begun to regret this turn of events – hoping and praying that she wouldn’t evict him from the empathetic embrace (which closely resembled the benefits of a weighted blanket) they had tangled themselves in. To his comfort, he found that she was shifting in effort to lay down beside him…yet never forcibly removing his cock from inside her.

“Here, baby, let me get next to you.” She said softly as they both turned to the side, still linked together but in a position likely to be much more comfortable for her in the long run.

She had her leg hooked over Five’s hip so that he didn’t have to leave her warmth and though the comforting weight of her on top of him had shifted, he felt equally as comfortable in this new position, finding it easier to lean into her and come down from his rather dramatic emotional highs. He heard her whisper about getting some rest and that she’d still be here when he woke up. Although, it became apparent that he had absolutely no control over his body because as soon as those words left het lips, he was out like a light, not even responding to her.

He couldn’t have slept for too long because it was still dark when he opened his eyes. He was elated to notice that they were still in the same position as when he drifted off; she stuck to her word. She hadn’t left. She was still there.

“Hey,” she spoke gently, feeling Five stretch and shift as his servers came back online, “how’re you feeling?”

How was he feeling?

Rested? Comfortable? Happy for the first time in decades? All of the above.

“M’good. You?”

“Fantastic.” She shot back at him without even a hint of irony in her tone… she meant it.

“How long was I out?”

“Mmm a little over two hours, I think.”

Five simply hummed in response to her, snuggling deeper into her, nuzzling into her neck once again. She started to trace lines up and down his arms and back, letting out small giggles upon finding Five’s ticklish spots. Making constellations with the freckles that trickled down his shoulders and arms. Five could have stayed like this forever, could have stayed here forever – with her, however he’d become acutely aware of how they were still connected. He felt himself twitch inside of her and cursed himself for ruining such a pleasant moment.

To his surprise, she didn’t scold him. She pulled him in closer with her leg and ensured that he’d stay put. Yet, she didn’t seem to give any indication of wanting anything from him either. It appeared she was back to her ridiculous mixed messaging.

Memories of their earlier encounter came flooding back to Five as he hardened inside her. The heat flooding him once again. Visions of her teaching him, guiding him, finishing him came back like a pornographic highlights reel in his head. Oh, he wanted to do that again. To prove that he could last longer than all of a few pumps. To please her. That’s when he remembered the one thing he didn’t get to experience in their last encounter: tasting her.

As his blood began to boil back up and his mind lost more blood, he started kissing and nipping at her neck, neglecting to realise that he was leaving adorable little love bites along the way. He shifted slightly so that he could get at her tits once again, this time paying adequate attention to each one and being gentle with his biting tendencies. He noticed as her breathing quickened and her pussy clenched around him. He just couldn’t stop himself.

“You don’t have to-” she started, having realised his intentions

“-I want to…please- I’ll be good I swear.” He pleaded with her.

“Okay, baby. Go ahead.”

Her permission hit him like a truck and he almost came on command then and there, but he managed to get himself together enough to shift them so she was on her back, and he was kneeling between her legs – still connected. His hands were all over her, less nervous than before. He groped at her, loved up on her, and pleaded with her body as he made the harrowing realisation that he’d have to exit her warm cunt in order to taste it.

Finding that to be a hard but worthwhile decision, Five softly thrusted inside her a few times before leaving, both building the courage for the next event and satisfying his need for friction all at once as he warded off thoughts of remaining there for the rest of eternity.

He trailed wet kisses down her belly and pelvis as he positioned himself between her legs, feeling his dick get trapped between him and the bed, providing that damning friction he craved. Looking up at her, he silently asked for some guidance on how to please her, and he was met with her hands in his hair – reinforcing her love.

Five watched her face closely as he licked one long stripe up her cunt, delighting in how she arched her back and moaned at the contact he gave her, earning a moan from himself in return. He then took to lapping at her folds, tasting every inch of her and leaving nowhere unexplored by his tongue. Her hands tightened in his hair and forced a groan from his throat that he didn’t realise he was holding back. She guided him to where she wanted him most, making her clit the centre point of his devotion. Five latched onto it similarly to how he’d latched onto her tits, suckling like there was no tomorrow, as if his very life force depended on it…

…because it did…

……she tasted too good, he just couldn’t put his finger on what she tasted like – it was addicting.

Her pleasure was now his goal.

She locked her legs behind his neck and kept him in place as she began to grind on his mouth, relishing in the fact that even this couldn’t shut him up; he was arguably being louder than she was. The vibrations of his sweet moans send shockwaves up her spine that Five was proud to be the deliverer of. His own tension built and built inside his abdomen, finding that his hips were grinding on her bed the at the same pace in which she ground down against his tongue.

Five lost count of how many times he came during this.

He got more and more overstimulated with each climax he had, finding it impossible to tear his mouth away from her for even a second to tell her that he was cumming. She must have known; he was erratic.

Her own climax came shortly after this realisation. She kept Five in precisely the same placed, holding him there tightly, grinding down harder and stronger with every slick trace of his tongue against her. Five had no idea how to handle it, he was drowning. The only thing he thought he could do was bring his fingers up to enter her, working two digits immediately inside her, feeling her clamp down on them familiarly as she came undone above him.

“Ohhhh fuck, good boy, good boyyy. Fuck. Doing so well for me - just like that! Oh!”

She rode out her high for what seemed like forever, seemingly overstimulating herself with his mouth as his fingers worked on that soft spot inside her. Five would never admit that he actually lost his breath throughout this, finding this to be the only thing worthy of his wordlessness. Though, one thing was set to throw him over the edge yet again. As she released her hold on him and let him do as he pleased against her cunt, he made the gratifying mistake of removing his fingers and swallowing up the cum from inside her hole, realising that it was mixed cum. His and hers.

He came again, harder than any of the other times; this is what she tasted like...what they tasted like.

Honey and salt.

He must have blacked out from his climax because when he came to, she was fussing over him. Fanning him and checking him over.

“Oh thank- thought I’d lost you for a minute there, fucking hell.”

“Your fault…” he smiled back to her as she pulled him into another loving embrace. He couldn’t get enough of their closeness.

“I’m sorry I pushed you too far.”

“God no, don’t apologise. That was…everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They sat together for a moment, enjoying the calmness of their combined company. Relaxing into each other. Floating on intimacy clouds. Nothing would ruin this moment for them, not even the traffic outside of her window or the chill in the air now that her central heating had automatically clicked off. A comfortable and contented silence set the tone, their breathing setting a melody, their heartbeats keeping them both in tune.

Five realised this is what he must have been after all along – closeness. A devotion so deep for another person that he cared deeply about their experience and their pleasure as opposed to purely his own selfish interests. He longed for love, yearned for connection, sought closeness…even if his methods were a little untoward and unorthodox. He couldn’t let go of this, of her.

He wouldn’t.

“What does this mean?” he whispered to her, fear stricken.

“Well, I think it’s pretty clear that I cant just be your therapist.”

Five wondered what that meant, scared she thought this would be their last encounter. Was this all her saying goodbye? Was she going to leave him? After all this? He locked eyes with her, tears forming along his waterlines as he prepared himself to hear the worst…but he never heard it; she said something rather to the contrary.

“I care about you, more than our boundaries at work will allow for…but I want this to be your choice. I won’t force it on you.”

“Yes.”

“’Yes’ what?”

“I don’t really know what you’re going to ask me but…if you’re asking me if I’ll be yours – whatever that means – then the answer is yes. If you’re asking me to leave you alone or if I want to transfer, then I’m afraid that answer is going to be a resounding no…I just don’t think I’m capable of that.”

“I see,” she began, “well, I was going to ask if you wanted to go on a proper date. Not one that happens to be in my office.”

“Oh…I’d like that.”

“I would too, obviously. Also, we don’t have to tell work right away. I won’t have you transferred, and we can see where this goes because…as far as I’m concerned, you’ve got me, Five Hargreeves.”

They spent the rest of the evening into the next morning talking about the parameters of their new arrangement, which did wonders for Five’s overactive mind. She put every concern he had to bed. Quite literally. Her honeied chirps smoothed over his open emotional wounds and healed his scars. She made their situation quite clear: they liked each other, she was positive about this turn of events, and they’d see where it went…even if they could pretty much see where it was headed already.

If the CIA found out before they declared it, they’d be in heaps of trouble and forced to split at the very least, it wouldn’t be surprising if they were both fired…so they’d keep their, rather unprofessional relationship, to themselves for the time being. They’d disclose it later, but for now – it was theirs…and that’s how they liked it.

link to: Chapter One

link to: Chapter Two

Do not repost - reblogs welcome <3

TAGLIST NOTES - PLEASE READ:

A cherished friend of mine on this platform left a little while back but they asked that i continued their taglist. i hold a lot of love for this friend, i hope that they are doing well, i dedicate this chapter to them - wherever they may be. they asked that i added their taglist onto this post so that their community could get some Five Hargreeves content that they thought you'd all enjoy, and i agreed that i would do my best to honour their legacy and wishes. if you would like to be added/removed, please let me know <3.

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rabotimagines · 2 months ago

Text

"Insecticon assault" GN BOT Reader x The insecticons (Noncon!)

Summary: Reader experiences a triple insecticon attack while under Bombshells' outlier ability.

Warnings: Noncon!, Smut 🔞 MDNI

G1 characters: The insecticons!

Genre/Theme: Smut 🔞 Scenario

Notes: Reader gets hit with one of bombshells mind control shells. They call reader "slave" because of this. Reader has limited control of themselves. Reader is also mostly just annoyed about the entire ordeal to be completely honest. Autobot reader!

Pronouns: You, your, yours, them, they, their

You don't know how the pit you got into this situation. You were on night watch and saw some suspicious activity on the outside the ark camera so you noted it to Teletraan 1 to alert the others if you didn't relay back in a few klicks and went to check it out. Next thing you know, you're getting electrocuted so hard your senses reset themselves. You come to on your back with the spark damned insecticons standing over you. You jerk upwards, ready to physically bash your way out if you have too, only for Bombshell to shove himself forward and something to strike you in between your optical ridge.

You have half a nanoklick to realize you're fragged before your frame slacks of its own accord under Bombshells control. "Ha lucky- lucky! We got the one we wanted! Wanted-!" Shrapnel grabs at your faceplate and tilts your helm side to side.

"Autobot slave! You'll forget how to use your communication system while under our command." Bombshells voice is ringing on your audials, and just like that, you forget exactly how to use your com system. Oh Primus, what were they gonna have you do for them. Slag, what could they have you do before Teletrann 1 alerted the others-?

"Lie back slave!" Your frame slacks on the ground, and you're staring at the trees now- "Open your interface panel." Oh- Wait- This is happening? Your interface panel snapped back, exposing your array to the open air. Digits are suddenly rubbing between your valve mesh and- Oh yeah, this was apparently just happening!

"Slave, you're in control of your own frame, As long as you don't move from your spot on the ground, close your panel, or touch my shell." Your optics snap wide when you abruptly have even partial control of yourself again. And you have exactly enough time to get your elbows under you before you get jumped.

Now you're staring down, wide opticed, at the insecticons who've readily taken to slobbering all over your array. Bombshells between your thighs and using his usually hidden mouth to lap greedy strips along your valve. (Why is his glossia so long!?) You can't see him over Kickback and Shrapnel. Who are on either side of your hips and dragging their glossias along the length of your spike. Your servos had tried to push at them, but it only served for both of them to grab one of your wrists. You hissed in a vent and watched when Shrapnel dragged his glossia along the underside of your spikes head. Your spike throbbed on the insecticons' glossia, while Kickback dragged his own glossia along the side of your shaft. Bombshells digits suddenly slipping inside your valve made you buck your hips. "Slave tastes good. Good-!" Shrapnel's words sends humming fits down your spike since he's muttering against you.

You can- Can you call for help? Slag, would it be loud enough, though? It might just only make them order you to stay quiet- and Teletraan 1 should alert someone soon anyway. You just needed to hold on- Bombshell sucking hard on your anterior node makes you cry out and abruptly start overloading right onto Shrapnel. Shrapnel got a splash of your transfluid right in the faceplate, which made him jerk back in surprise. Kickback only leaned forward and started stroking your spike off as you continued overloaded all over yourself. You grunted when bombshell began to curl his digits and lap at your anterior node.

"Naughty slave." Kickback murmured and started lapping at your spike again- like you hadn't just overloaded. Shrapnel wiped your transfluid off of his faceplate and lapped it off his own digits before joining Kickback in cleaning your spike- Slag slag slag- You were sensitive still- Your digits flexed against the dirt.

"Stop-" you whined when Bombshell quickly pulled his digits out of your valve. You could see his helm suddenly, his mask back in place, and something else was pressing against your valve- "Don't-!" Bombshell bottomed out inside you with no remorse. Your back jerked, but your frame refused to raise off the ground. You could only grunt when his hips snapped against your aft in short but forceful thursts.

Bombshell groaned, "Your valves taking me well, slave." Bombshell brazenly admitted, before grabbing one of your legs to hoist onto his own pauldron. His pelvis knocked against your aft every time he thrust back into your valve.

Your attention was quickly brought back to your lap when Kickback and Shrapnel actually started fighting over your spike. Kickback finally raised a leg and smashed it into Shrapnels chassis, sending him tumbling off through the shrubbery. Kickback laughed and threw the already raised leg over your hip. The cons array snapped back, spike pressurizing and valve dripping onto your own plating. Kickback lowered himself, making your spike kiss his valve entrance. "Wait-" Bombshell bottomed out in you hard enough, his pelvis grinded down on your anterior node- And Kickbacks valve was suddenly taking in the entire length of your spike. Your servos latched onto Kickbacks waist, your digits tight enough to want to warp the metal underneath it.

Kickback only laughed "Big- and nice." Kickback rocked back and forth, and you whined through clenched denta. His valve squeezing down on you without remorse. Kickback didn't hesitate to get his own thighs under him and promptly start slamming himself up and back down your length. Valve fluttering over your spike and making your thoughts get even more muddled. Bombshells spike slammed into a deeper pleasure node, and you cried out again.

"Slagger Kickback! Slagger-!" Shrapnel hissed, scampering back over to where you were. You didn't even have the chance to glance at the angry con. Too focused on getting fragged and rode with no regard. So you weren't exactly ready when Shrapnel suddenly straddled your throat with his array out. "Use your glossia slave! Slave-" Your mouth opened on its own accord, and Shrapnel didn't wait to sit his valve right on top of your faceplate. Your muffled noise of protest only made Shrapnel grind down on you with a huffy laugh. Your servos abandoned Kickbacks waist and clung onto Shrapnels thighs instead. Your glossia moved itself against Shrapnels mesh and node. At least he didn't taste terrible (Small mercies.). But Primus, they were using you like an interface toy!

You groaned against Shrapnel when Bombshells spike smacked into another deeper node in your valve. You instinctively clenched down on his length, which made the con groan. Bombshells thrusts only picked up till he was practically slamming back into you to bottom out every time. Kickback started picking up his own pace, his servos grabbing onto your chassis. Thighs working faster to frag himself down your spike. Shrapnel only ground down more enthusiastically, his servos grabbing at your helm kibble. "Good slave-! Take it- take it!" You groaned against his valve, and you felt your second overload rear it's helm and smack you right in the chassis.

You arched as well as you good against the three of them. Overloading under the triple insecticon assault. Kickback overloaded right after you, his valve fluttering in pulses around your spike. Kickback laughed and ground down on your length through his own overload, making you keen pathetically against Shrapnel. Bombshell overloaded next, spike buried deep as he could be inside you and pumping your valve full of transfluid. His servos were squeezing your thighs, and you could feel what you thought was his glossia lapping strips along your leg. Shrapnel finally overloaded with a breathy cackle- hips grinding down on your faceplate through it. Servos clutching your kibble tight and keeping your helm still. Once Shrapnel finally slacked, you relaxed under all three of them.

Shrapnel pulled himself off of your faceplate. You gasped in vents only to watch Shrapnel turn, so he was above your helm- you tilted your helm back to keep a view on him only to find his spike tip kissing your derma. "Now take my spike! Open up slave! Slave-" Your mouth opened of its own volition, and Sharpnel shoved his spike into your intake. A muffled noise echoed out of you when Kickback started fragging himself back on your spike again. Bombshell followed soon after and started fragging your valve again. Valve fluttering and squelching when he fragged his own transfluid out of you.

Frag- They were insatiable- they always were! Just- you just needed to wait for help- you could do that! Your glossia lapped along Shrapnels spike, your servos grabbing back onto Kickbacks waist for some type of purchase. You could survive this- just- You needed to hold on. You could hold on!

...Right?

It was morning, the sun streaming through the gaps in the trees. Your helm was fuzzy from how many overloads the insecticons dragged out of you. If the insecticons are smaller then you (which considering they were about minibot sized, the chances were high) They'd end up figuring out that you can take two of their spikes in your valve at the same time. After that, your valve was constantly double stuffed for the rest of the night. (If you're noticeably bigger than them, then they will attempt to fit all three of their spikes in your valve simultaneously.)

They ended up making you overload so hard at the end that your senses reset again. Only when you came to this time, they were gone. Bombshell did not pull his shell off of your helm before he left, so you're stuck on the ground- Covered in transfluid and fragged silly. With copious amounts of transfluid still dripping out of your valve. Waiting for rescue still- Primus, you wish you remembered how to use your comm system.

"-I don't understand how Teletraan 1 shorted out." A familiar voice makes you perk up- as well as you could anyway still stuck on the ground.

"There was a big electrical surge, and Teletraan 1 couldn't handle the output, so Teletrann 1 reset and couldn't turn back on. We only realized it this morning- and they sent that alert actual earth hours ago- I just hope they're okay."

Hoist! And Grapple! Primus! Okay! You could get help. And well... it suddenly made sense why you got fragged till morning with no help at all.

You glanced down at your transfluid stained self.

Yeah, there was no hiding this. You were covered in purple, dark, and silver paint transfers, too. You stared at your still open modesty panel. Which you still couldn't close because of the shell...

Slag it all. Hoist was a medic, and Grapple wasn't the type to gossip. At least your spike wasn't still pressurized. Plus, you technically just got... sexually assaulted. And neither of them were afts, so you should be fine.

Knowing you wouldn't keep what little dignity you had you through your helm back and shouted for help. You thankfully heard your designation being called back and the shrubbery starting to shuffle towards you.

At least Red Alert couldn't be mad at you for abandoning your post... small mercies.

...

And thank Primus Ratchet had replaced your baffles last week... Primus sized mercies.

#🔞#transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #transformers x y/n #the insecticons #x reader #x gn reader #insecticons x reader #g1 bombshell #g1 shrapnel #g1 kickback #everyone who liked this say thank you to the anon who asked for it to be posted!#valveplug #rabot writes

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crying-fantasies · 7 months ago

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Insecticons

Masterlist

Featuring G1! Shrapnel, Bombshell and Kickback, smut/fluff/humor, CW: stretch marks fetish too(?), insect courting (goes with the mech I guess?), oral (receiving), the Insecticons do it like insects and you rock their world moving, Bombshell is into gore (caution).

Most wildlife on Earth are optic catching, sometimes colorful or dull, they have come to realize it is sometimes due to the species and the regulations of their environment or to attract a mate.

They've been on Earth for so long, they've seen it all and eaten it all, stripes and dots, wings and long legs, Kickback can't stop to compare those with the ones of his alt-mode, but also notices the lack of other patterns, he likes the stripes, for example, the way they look pretty and he has seen insects with them, shiny colors as they follow a possible mate around, flying and showing themselves to prove worthy of continuing their primitive organic coding.

He felt jealous, he won't lie about it, looking at the two things canoodling, immersed in their world, interfacing could be good, but Shrapnel is mean, he likes to zap him, and Bombshell would pluck out his wings in his version of foreplay.

So when he finds you he can hardly stop his antenna and wings from picking up at the sight of you. Suddenly understanding the reason cicadas sing at dusk, and male mantis let their female eat their head, his alt-mode may be a grass jumper, but his song makes your hands hold your little audials in distress, he promises to practice more when Shrapnel tells him to shut up. He should tell them, they are his partners, but he is also sure Shrapnel will try to steal you away, Bombshell, Primus no, he could cut you open to see how you worked from the inside.

Too much risk, it was better to see you on the outskirts of their hideout, where they wouldn't see you, and to get you away from any other Decepticon, oh, but if Autobots dared to see you he was promising to snap their helms from their frames, such is the insecticon’s way.

Not much progress was made, and Kickback understood, that maybe you only mate in certain seasons or had to eat something nourishing, it was fine, he was good with holding your tiny hands, letting you sleep above his chassis, and even changing colors slightly, one day, after your session of sunbathing, he noticed.

Could have been the warm season, could have been the necessity to show off, but his optics centered over your exposed skin so much that his visor was glowing, how could you blame him? He just saw something he never expected to see in you.

Something that he never knew would make his spark bloom with excess energy.

“Kicky, dim off the lights I can't see”

You had stripes, pretty ones at that, of a slightly different color than the rest of your skin, his spark started to cycle along his biolights, and you smiled while asking a happy “What?” when his servos and digits started to roam over the different textures on your stripes, “stop it” There was no ounce of malice as you pushed him away by his helm, his sharp denta gripped at your wrist in a playful nip.

Maybe you were entering your mating season, or not, as you just continued to sunbathe above him, not minding where his servos roamed over more exposed skin as days passed by and the heat started to rise, more stripes started to appear, Kickback counted them as a way to pass the time, solar panels doing their work as you indulged in a collection of sheets done with plants, it was another day basking in your presence.

Until he felt the change of static in the area, a single designation popping on his processor as he tried to rush you out of their territory.

Shrapnel found out about you, most likely with Bombshell tailing behind him.

It was no surprise when his fits of protection did nothing more than give him a beating as you tried to get away as soon as possible, his leader reminding him of the no humans rule, to think with his tank was one thing that Shrapnel understood, but to think to mingle with a human was another different, still, that didn't stop Kickback to try and explain his case with the obvious interest from Bombshell.

Things were laid out clearly and strictly, no biting, no killing, no dismembering, “I’m serious, Bomb”, and if you said no, Kickback was sure to protect you even if he was the youngest, assuring you to come back, his partners wouldn't do you any harm, what's more, they would like you and you, them, little by little.

But Shrapnel wanted to try, showing off his alt-mode just as Bombshell did the same, “Are not all organics attracted to these displays?”, turns out, you don't, and it was agonizing, “How can you look at my frame and feel nothing but lustful desire?”

Unsaid rejection became common, but also did the scratches, and the collective sunbathing, sooner than later Shrapnel wasn't so opposed to the idea of you near and even eating with them, fruits were reserved for your consumption once you showed up, Bombshell stopped looking at you strangely and in change started to be attracted to your stripes in the same way Kickback did, just that his servo stopped from being pulled way sooner than later.

When or how you finally caught your place in their hierarchy was a mystery, as one day you came back as always, the sun was bright and the wetness promised rusty plating and achy joints, Bombshell was in his usual sunbathing spot when you plopped next to him and kissed a side of his helm.

Kickback was thrilled to finally see an accepting gesture on your part, Shrapnel was mad for not being the first.

But you let him be first, expecting on the ground over towels and blankets you didn't want to ask their origin, his servos roamed over your body, and a bolt of electricity was evident before his digit pressed over your ribs, Bombshell hissed in warning, earning a growl from Shrapnel, attempting to calm himself, but he couldn't while watching your face so close when he rolled you over your first thought was that he liked this position.

Nothing could have prepared you when he penetrated, pumping greedily as his arms hugged you to him, pressing you a little to the front, ass up, chattering as he always does, “so nice and full, such great Earthling, earthling”, Shrapnel mouthed over your neck once he finally slammed home.

He didn't move for a while, and it made Kickback retain a whimper, imagining for himself how nice it would be to lay his transfluid inside your body, did you have a forge? If you did and it was active, then all their problems about being outnumbered would be gone.

But humans work differently from insects, “huh, who could've thought”, Shrapnel said after he growled over your squirming body, trying to keep you close and immovable as he mounted you from behind, finally letting go of the stiffness as you, the innovative, delightful creature that you are, started rocking your hips against him, earning a different kind of growl, words chocked on his glossa as he began to move too, “Wait, Earthling, wait, wait” feeling all the crevices inside, your innermost flesh pushing and turning over his nodes just right as he was a mess, sprawled over your rear, holding to you, dripping noises could be heard, Bombshell only watched, calculative as always, apparently impressed by the way Shrapnel seemed so lost in you, eagerly waiting for his turn, Kickback wasn't so lucky, last in the hierarchy meant last to be served, he was soon to reach a newfound limit while watching you pursuit release, moving and working hard for it, ready to overload as your face showed nothing but pleasure once Shrapnel started to move too.

His painful and hot array was noticed by Bombshell, but he only watched for a second before returning his optics to his leader and you, whimpering almost in silence as your face contorted in full bliss as Shrapnel dumped loads inside you.

It was messy, the way Shrapnel’s spike was drenched by transfluid and whatever your body secreted was nauseating but also made them go and clean both with purring content, Kickback was soon to start cleaning his leader but Bombshell stopped him, servo over his midsection and throwing him next to your trembling body, “go first” is all he said while tending to his leader, who almost overloads again, Kickback didn't have to be told twice before holding your hips with his servos, massaging over the stripes on your rear and the beginning of your leg struts, purring so hard at the surprised sound you made once the clarity came back to your foggy mind, just to find him grinning like a maniac between your legs, showing off sharp fangs, dermas soon touching over your array panel, or lack thereof, glossa soon following, cleaning transfluid that has already dripped away and pushed what he can save inside once again, content at the sound you make as he frags you with his glossa and the way your hips can hardly move, held back by his servos as he has dropped to the floor, kneeling to let you have some leverage, your hands come to his helm, trying to rut against his faceplate, his chuckle makes you moan by how it vibrates to your tender flesh, “told you they would like you”.

The G1 Insecticons always was a soft spot for me, I like their madness and whole destructive factor, but there is little of them in the series or the fandom, praying this little work gets people more worked up on them because damn, they're so fine.

@tf-kinktober2024

#transformers #reader insert #x reader #transformers x reader #transformers x human reader #g1 transformers #tf insecticons #insecticons x reader #tf shrapnel #tf bombshell #tf kickback #tf kinktober 2024

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primeofprimes115 · 8 months ago

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A Long Awaited Dance - (Bombshell) Supergirl x Male Reader

Note: Fluff 🥰

Based from the DC Bombshells Universe - Earth-24

Second of September 1945... The War had officially ended on all fronts, while the war between Germany and Britain ended in May fourth of the same year... The war on the rest of the countries officially ended on the second of September.

The Bombshells played a big part on the front, starting from 1940 during the war, the Bombshells were created and put together by Amanda Waller, an expert pilot, leader and the best at military protocol.

The Bombshells went all around the world at each time, Wonder Woman went to Berlin to make the Reich surrender, with all the events that transpired before hand, the world being invaded by strange forces on that other hand, it was all stopped in the end.

Though it came with a cost of Power Girl's and Superman's life, cloned from Supergirl's DNA in 1942, their sacrifices brought a victory that brought peace finally after six years. A victory sweeter than strawberries.

Kara Starikov had lost a lot during this war, Kortni; her sister, her family, and deemed a traitor by her own country; Soviet Russia. She vowed to protect the Motherland regardless, a promise she still kept when it was attacked eventually, she was raised in Soviet Russia, she grieved the loss of Power Girl and Superman but their memory would live on through her, she vowed it so.

Her sister Kortni aka Stargirl had sacrificed herself in 1941 within London, Britain where the bombings were taking place, a creature of pure power had threatened the entire city and world, the Bombshells soon responded to this threat. Kara wanted to sacrifice herself after she thought she was a danger to the world were she still alive, now deemed a traitor to Soviet Russia, her homeland, the only home and country she grew up in.

She knew she was special, her parents told her she came from the stars one night, within a strange mechanism like vehicle, she was their biological daughter, but they were her parents, they raised her alongside Kortni.

Returning from Russia, she flew all the way back to the US, to meet someone she had fallen in love with back in 1942, a special unit soldier that took unprecedented risks in his missions against the Axis Powers, a young man who travelled far and wide to assist the Allies, his name was Y/N L/N, his father served in WWII as a Sergeant, who unfortunately died in 1944 during the Allied Retaking of France, months after D-Day.

Kara was there for him when he grieved for the loss of his father, as he did when she lost her parents in 1942, during a altercation which they sacrificed their lives with the help of Swamp Thing to contain a threat that is still contained to this day, the Bombshells would answer to this Doomsday aka Faora-Ul if she were to escape one day and finish what was started in Leningrad.

Y/N was injured in March 6th, 1945, when a covert mission went wrong, resulted in him getting caught and captured by the Reich.

When word got out of Y/N's mission gone wrong, Supergirl went out of jurisdiction to find and bring the love of her life back from the front, alive. Flying out with a blaze of fury and determination to rescue him from the Germans, before eventually finding him, dismantling the Germans that had captured and tortured him for information, Y/N had bruises, cuts and had dried up blood all over him. He was malnourished too.

He remembered being relieved when Kara came to rescue him, she hadn't killed the Germans holding him prisoner but he swore she might've, based on how in bad shape he was, it was surprising he hadn't broke just yet. All he heard was shouting, shooting and screaming, Germans being thrown and punched while bullets bounced off her.

He remembered looking into the dark, seeing a pair of red glowing eyes approaching him before shutting off, returning to normal once Supergirl came into view, her red cape-like-scarf bundled-in-two flowing behind her like her skirt as she rushed up to him. Her soothing worried voice soon cutting him free and flying him out that day... All the way back to the US where he could be treated for his injuries.

He mumbled one word that day during the flight back to his country for medical care. And again said it once he awoke on the date, eighth of July, 1945 after being in a coma for months. Kara would make frequent visits to check on him and tell him about everything that was going on.

"Printessa" a word in Russian which meant Princess to her, it was a word he'd usually call her, other than "Solnyshko" for when they first met. Y/N was fluent in Russian and a few other languages, useful for infiltration and so fourth. The moment was tear-jerking for her, hearing his first word after being in a coma for months, his eyes had began to open following this while she hugged and cried happily in his shoulder, all that happened next was her sleeping with her head resting on his chest in the medical bay.

As of currently however, Supergirl flown herself back to see Y/N, the young man she fell in love with back in 1942. It had been a day since the war ended, Y/N was almost back to full health but still recovering, he wasn't clear for field work during the final days of the war like he hoped he would, which was nothing but unfortunate for himself.

In the home he was driven back to, his mother's home, Y/N sat on the chair, writing a letter to his friends who were still in the army, a newspaper on the table beside him, the big obvious title claiming that "THE WAR IS OVER", published from the Daily Planet in Metropolis.

Kara Starikov, Supergirl, thought about potentially being Metropolis's protector, it was a mere mention that sprang across his mind once his eyes laid upon the newspaper that was labelled by the Daily Planet. She had been thinking very hard about it since then, knowing she can't ever fully return to Soviet Russia, to Moscow, but she'd protect it as a watchful angel.

Soon enough after placing down his fountain pen and finishing writing the letter, he looked out to his window to see Supergirl landing just a few steps away from the door, before her eyes drifted to the window itself.

A big toothy smile grew upon her face while his came out as a smirk, she soon approached the door and knocked on it, knowing Y/N's mother was inside.

Kara couldn't keep her eyes off him after knocking on the door gently, the wind picking up her long, wavy blonde hair, the double sided scarf that acted as a cape billowing behind her along with her skirt, her big teething smile teasing him through the window.

Y/N couldn't either, her smile always seemed to distract him, let alone her face and beauty, she was the prettiest girl he had ever met, he hadn't known how pretty Russian girls really were until his eyes fell upon her in 1942, when he was given orders by the British to eliminate Dr. Hugo Strange who was in Leningrad at the time.

He ran into a few misfits during his mission, most notably Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Reaper aka Andrea Gruenwald and a Newspaper Girl named Eloisa Lane aka Lois Lane for short, who worked for the Daily Planet.

It turned out that Reaper wanted revenge on Hugo Strange for what he's done to her and Y/N's covert mission was to kill Strange, so the two worked together, with Lois tagging along, though Y/N had tried to convince her not to come with, since she was a civilian, however... Lois was pretty helpful and smart, convincing him to allow her to tag along... For now,

Eventually, he'd meet Kara Starikov aka Supergirl after he sabotaged Strange's security with Reaper's help, with Kara convincing Power Girl to turn against Strange, rescuing Steve Trevor next who was also captured besides Kara.

At a moments notice? When Y/N made himself known with helping Lois Lane out of the hidden window within the wall they climbed through, mentioning they were responsible for the power shortage in Strange's security.

He fell in love...

Butterflies went through his stomach at a moments notice of her making eye contact with him, he felt his face heat up in that moment, he had heard about the Soviet's having a 'Superweapon' to be used for the War... But he didn't expect it to be a person, let alone... A beautiful young woman.

Y/N solely remembered that day... Where his life soon changed forever afterwards.

______________________________________________________________

[Flashback |Soviet Russia, Leningrad, 1942 | Strange's Laboratory]

"I.. Wow... Uh" Y/N looked at her speechless, while helping Lois out of the hidden window in the wall, noticing him looking at the 'Superweapon'. "Well... Originally we weren't meant to rescue you, I had no idea the weapon would be... A you" he rubbed the back of his neck, Lois helped Andrea out from the window in response, smirking away at the covert soldier's awkwardness. "I suppose it was a change of plans".

Y/N soon applauded the young woman's words toward the clone she was fighting, the things she made her realize, the woman soon softly smiled in his direction as he approached her, standing just slightly taller than her

"I'm... Uh..." Y/N found himself hesitant to even say his own name, though he went under the alias; Cobra, his name was mostly classified amongst all military personnel, knowing this... 'Superweapon' came from the Soviet Union, he felt... Sick about the fact the Soviets were wanting to use this young woman as a weapon due to her power.

"Have you forgotten your name?" the young woman giggled softly, still keeping her eyes on him, a light tint of pink rushed across his cheeks as he laughed softly. Steve Trevor took notice of this and stayed back for now, watching as this went down.

"No, no. It's Y/N... Y/N L/N" he brought his hand out and soon... She took it to shake it.

"And my name is Kara Starikov" she announced to him in her Russian accent, smiling at him as she shook his hand gently and respectively.

"But they call her..." Steve Trevor stepped into the conversation. "'Supergirl'" he announced to him, Kara still couldn't keep her eyes off him as he did the same, her warm smile taking shape as she blinked softly and slowly.

"Supergirl?" he questioned, a tinted smile appearing on the young man's face towards Kara.

"The Motherland originally called me that" her Russian nature explained it all, making him nod at her answer.

Y/N soon thought to himself, liking the name they had for her, though she admitted she never came up with the name. It was Russia that named her that "So... You're apart of the Bombshells, right? I heard about that group making a lot of moves recently, helping out with the war effort".

"{Yes}, I'm apart of the Bombshells, I defected the Communist Party, along with..." pain arose in her voice, before Power Girl came crashing in, ending the conversation... For now that was.

________________________________________________________________________________

[Present Day | US, West Virginia, 1945 | L/N American Household]

Y/N daydreamed on that day of being carried out by Kara when they first met, after she was able to fly again, dealing with the fact she lost her sister and as much as it pained her, she pushed on... In Kortni's name and love. Eventually telling him of the loss she recently suffered, about the fact the Communist Party deemed her a traitor since she wouldn't kill innocent lives in the name of the Soviet Union.

She felt her country was corrupt, she may love Russia as a country, but not the people in charge.

Soon enough, he could hear the front door opening with Kara joining her hands together in front of her.

"Hello Mrs. L/N, I... I'm here to see your son, Y/N" she hadn't met his mother yet, but he could see she was being awkward a little, not expecting to meet his mother without a proper introduction.

"Oh, you're the girl he told me about. Come in, come in!" his mother invited her in, happy to finally meet her. "Y/N!! Your woman is here!" the older woman shouted for her son in her London accent. As much as it felt embarrassing to hear her tell him about Kara's arrival. He felt his face heating up with embarrassment from the announcement alone.

His mother was told about Kara Starikov after he came home, though he was supposed to come back to check on her the year father was killed in the line of duty, they had grieved their loses after he came home to recover from being off the field.

"Might I say that you look absolutely gorgeous, young woman. My son must be lucky to have met you" Helen L/N's voice bloomed through the house, with the door in Y/N's room slightly opened, the music playing on his phonograph at a lower level as he was writing earlier.

"Oh, [thank you], but I thought I was lucky to have met him?" Kara replied, Helen looked at her funny however, not knowing what word she meant earlier as Kara realized what she said. "Oh, sorry! My mistake on that part, I-I said thank you in Russian. I'm sure he told you I was raised in the Motherland" her voice was closer to the door than it was earlier after being invited in.

"The Russian accent says it all, it's okay, Ms. Starikov" Helen nodded with a smile. "He's in there, writing. I'm sure he probably expected you".

"Oh, I'm sure he does" the Russian Bombshell smirked before Helen walked off back into the living room, to continue knitting. Kara on the other hand soon pushed the door open, seeing Y/N already stood up and his eyes falling on her.

"Kara, my Printessa" he smiled brightly, calling her by his many nicknames for her. the Bombshell that had rescued him on multiple occasions, especially the one where he was on the verge of death months back.

"Dorogoy!" a nickname (means Sweetheart in English) she'd call him time to time, she sped into his arms and planted her lips on his, with papers flying all about from his desk after she super sped up to him with a hug and kiss in mind.

Soon his arms wrapped around her waist as hers sprang around his upper back, her sleeve-gloved hands feeling and stroking the back of his head, her fingers running against his hair as he brings his arms up to her curly, long, blonde hair that drove down behind her and parted to the right hand side of her face, where his hands now felt the curls of her hair as their kiss continued.

"Mmm" a soft moan escaped Supergirl's throat after she felt Y/N tapped where her skin was showing from the shoulders and upper back twice, since she wore a corset for her overall attire as she's been wearing since 1940. "I missed you" her Russian accent whispered softly to him, an accent he missed hearing from the last few weeks since she last came to visit, now within the home where he mostly grew up in after moving her when he was young.

"So did I, Supergirl... So did I" he smiled as their foreheads gently collided, with their smiles brighter as the sun shining in the morning. "I heard the war is over, we won" Y/N soon brought up, Kara nodded with a hum before kissing him again for a few seconds, then both parties looked toward the newspaper lying on the floor, no thanks to Kara super speeding into the man's arms.

Kara unwrapped her arms from Y/N as he did the same, the Bombshell knelt down and picked up the newspaper with a 'oops' expression on her face, noticing the papers that had been flown around the place. Soon placing the newspaper on the table Y/N was working on earlier.

"I think I caused this?" she made it known to him as he chuckled about it, seeing the expression on her face.

"It's alright, Kara" he grabbed her by the hand gently with a consoling touch. "It's adorable when you... Do that fast speeding thing" he looked into her eyes, smiling right at her.

"If you say so" she batted her eyes toward him before floating off the ground to be a little taller than him, making him look up at her just a little which made him chuckle.

"For some reason my dear? I like it when you do that" he smiled right up at her before being pulled into a loving kiss that lasted for as long as he could take it, tapping her shoulder lightly when he needed some air after their lips continued to smack softly off each other for a minute.

"And for some reason, my Sakharok" the Bombshell pulled her lips back from his just slightly, whispering to him. "I knew you did, you would've said something already if you hadn't liked it" Kara's English sounded so surprisingly perfect still, for someone who was raised in Russia, she sure knew how to speak English fluently, even when she met him for the first time in 1942, though she's spoken English before hand, she was a quick learner.

Only Russian thing there when speaking English was her Russian accent, which Y/N found attractive at best. The two continued locking eyes as Y/N attentionally rocked side to side slightly to the sound of the music playing on the phonograph, the volume lowered down still.

"I... Heard what happened, the invaders and all that" Y/N then brought up after the two exchanged looks and smiles. The Kryptonian woman's expression soon turned serious a little, knowing what he was going to ask.

"Did-"

"They died..." Kara interrupted abruptly, as Y/N's expression soon turned into shock.

"Kara..." he called her by name, as she looked away in a little bit of pain. "Power Girl and...".

"[Yes, they did]" she answered in Russian. "I brought their bodies back from space. Before she left, she told me not to grieve much, it was hers and Kal-El's choice, they did it for the Motherland" she then continued with her word, before thinking to herself, wanting to correct herself from what she said. "No, for the world, for Earth... For us".

"They were... A good bunch of people, great in the Circus as well" he noted, and Kara hummed in agreement.

"I'm going to miss their acts" Supergirl slightly smiled, looking into Y/N's eyes next before her boots made contact with the ground. "Their memory will live through me, as does Kortni's and my family's" she smiled at that fact.

"And mine? When my time eventually comes?" Y/N smirked as the Russian Bombshell looked at him with a frown.

"Don't say that you {Idiot!}" Supergirl pouted as Y/N smiled and laughed softly. "I don't get your humor sometimes, that's something very serious".

"Oh you're so pretty when you're all serious" he flirted. "It's such a gas" he smiled soon after again, making her roll her eyes and smiling back at him.

"And your mother said you were lucky to have me, I think I now see why" Kara soon replied, not thinking twice to break eye contact.

"I heard, and she's right in a way" Y/N nodded, agreeing with that statement. "I'm extremely lucky to have you, you've saved me plenty of times, helped me, rescued me months ago, and in return I've done the same. I'm lucky to have met a woman like you, and even luckier to be romantically involved with you for the last three years since we met. On that topic..." he stopped for a moment to smile at himself, it's been three years since they've been in a relationship. "I love you, Kara Starikov, Supergirl"

"I love you too, Y/N L/N, {Cobra}" she said back to him with a teething smile, before the next song played on the Phonograph while the two kept their smiles toward each other and their hands intertwined. The fabric of Kara's sleeved-gloves caressing his hands gently and soothingly.

youtube

A jazz type of song, one that a dance worked best with, a song that felt perfect for the two of them, at least that's what Y/N thought soon as it came on. He began to rock side to side again slightly, with Kara taking notice again, laughing softly at his movements as Kara let go of his hands so he could walk over to the phonograph.

The young man decided to turn up the volume a little, so it's at a optimal sound, enough to hear it properly.

"Remember when I promised you a dance?" he asked her, turning around to face her while leaning on the table where the phonograph was.

"Two years ago" she remembered. "I remember clear as day" she began to smile, she had the idea of dancing, the time she was dancing at the Ball Event in the train from Istanbul to Leningrad back in 1942 with Steve Trevor.

"Well... Since the war is over... And I'm able to move again..." he began to smirk. Hinting at the promise he gave her in 1943, which they never got the chance to do so. "May I have this dance?" he asked politely with Kara outstretching her arms and hands out to him.

"I'd be happy to dance with you!" she smiled, her hands out, reaching for his. She had waited so long to hear him ask the question. "I've been wondering when you'd ask" she exclaimed, laughing softly at him as he approached and took both her hands.

The next thing, she brought him toward her completely in a space where they could move more freely in his room, embracing one another with Kara's left arm wrapped around his back, the other holding his hand, his fingers intertwined with her sleeved-gloves that were fingerless.

Y/N's arm wrapped around her waist while the other was around her back, his fingers locked with her own other hand. The Supergirl and the Cobra slowly dancing to the rhythm of the music.

"How long I've waited for this" Y/N cooed to his lover, seeing a big smile grow on her face soon after he whispered to her, their eyes blinking slowly with a love behind it.

"All you had to do was ask, and I waited patiently... For you" she whispered back, her Russian thick Russian accent making her sound more attractive by the minute, every time he heard her speak, it was like he fell in love all over and over again, especially when she whispered.

Silence fell between them as they danced in the one spot slowly to the rhythm of the song, their eyes locked onto each other as they found themselves lost in their worlds together, a kiss soon followed up with it deepening like that one night back in 1944 when the two done the deed on a quiet night after seeing each other once again. Kara remembered that moment very well, the night she lost her virginity, and she felt good after it.

And so did Y/N...

"And who thought an American and a Russian couldn't go well together?" he whispered back to her, making her lightly giggle at his question. Her ocean like eyes not daring to look away from his eyes.

"That's such a stupid question" she giggled a little more as Y/N then twirled her around, spinning her in a slow, smooth moment. Kara began to delight herself in this dance with the woman in the song singing. Let alone... Delighting herself more with Y/N taking the lead.

"Yeah, I guess it is" he rolled his eyes playfully, spinning her around again in the same smooth manner, slow and gentle, Kara's scarf-like-cape and skirt billowed around with the smooth turn as Y/N caught her next.

Supergirl then began to smirk, intertwining her hand with his free hand once again and pulled him close to her body with a little kiss on his lips. The little kiss ended with Y/N giving Kara a surprised look before he smiled. Impressed by the sudden move.

"Good move, very romantic".

"That was good?"

"Yeah, it was a good move, the kiss made it way better" he praised her again.

Kara's blue eyes glistened toward his, like the ocean on a beach, swaying and moving. Her smile bright as the sun, her face prettier than a garden of flowers, her hair that would wave like a golden cape, she was perfect in his eyes. Though she'd highly disagree on that.

The music had drawn the attention of Helen L/N, wondering why the sudden music being turned up earlier, only to see both her son and his woman, Kara Starikov, Supergirl, dancing slowly.

Helen soon smiled at the two through the gap in the door after Kara slightly closed it earlier after entering, Helen wished Y/N's dad were still here to see this, Y/N had his father's looks after all, him dancing with Kara.

The older woman soon left the two alone without interruption, letting them delight in the dance as Y/N thought of something to talk about while their dance continued.

"Y'know... I do wonder what's next in store for us, what's next for us in the future" he brought up to her attention. "I've always wondered about it".

"I don't know, but whatever it is... We'll face it together" she said with a smile.

"Aren't you... Kinda scared?" he asks her with a curious look.

"I mean, it's okay to be scared, you never know what's going to happen" she said wisely. "Steve told me that... Before he...".

Y/N nodded his head, knowing what happened to Steve Trevor, how he died a hero. It was a hard-struck blow to the Allies and Bombshells alike.

"Yeah... I get where you're coming from" he smiled through the pain of loss, Steve Trevor was a good soul, a wise man, one that would be honored as time goes by. "A lot of good people gone, price of war".

"How long do you think that will last?" Kara brought up. "The Great War was only... Twenty-seven years ago, I came to know about the Great War when I learned how the Motherland is today, how it was born" Kara expressed her worries, showing concern for the world itself. "How long until peace is no more?".

"I... Don't think we should worry about that right now" he expressed, freeing his hand from her to caress her face, feeling how soft it was. "Whatever happens, my dear Solnyshko, I will always stick by your side, no matter what happens, nothing is going to tear us apart from each other" he vowed, soon making her smile softly once again.

"{Good}" she said in Russian, before pulling her face closer to his. "As long as we're together" she whispered in his ear, giving him a little wink after pulling back. Their dancing continued slowly with the rhythm.

"On that note..." he spun her around slowly and smoothly again, catching her before spinning her around, she stepped in and lightly pressed herself against his body, dancing to the song slowly with a delighted demeanor. "You still thinking on returning to Moscow?" he asked a good question, one he's still waiting for her answer on as she thought about it.

"Yes... I think it could be for the best... For now at least, but... I don't know if..." she was about to mention the tension between the US and USSR that could happen, regarding the end of the war, she had overheard talks about it all with her super hearing.

A part of herself did not want to be propaganda again, or to be used as a weapon against anyone for that matter alone, she still hasn't forgotten what the Russian leadership tried to make her and Kortni do to innocent Russians back in 1940, leading to them fleeing the country with their mother but failed to rescue their father in time, since he got captured and placed into the Gulag afterwards,

But again... Russia was her country, it was her homeland, perhaps she could be a watchful angel over Russia, protecting it from any form of criminals or something else entirely, to keep the citizens safe.

"If something were to happen... Then... They'd want to use me as a weapon like they tried to do to me and Kortni, they could even-".

"If it does happen, Kara? We can just... Leave" he interrupted her, trying to keep her from worrying too much. "We don't have to get involved... Unless it's a very, very serious matter, like another destructive war from happening" he then made a mental note to himself and her.

"Maybe..." she said with a worried look still. "But run or fly away again?" she asked.

"I know it sounds... Discreet and dumb, I get that. But... I want to build a life with you also, it's an idea to have backups if things turn... Sour, if you understand what I mean" Kara soon nodded her head, turning slowly and rocking side to side with him slowly as they danced in the one spot together.

The Supergirl then began to smile at one part she picked out from Y/N's wording. That he wants to build a life with her, and in her vision? So did she, she wanted this to happen, she was the first to kiss him after all back in December of 1942

"I also want to build a life with you too" she drew her face closer to his once more, batting her eyes toward him. "I remember Faora mentioning something about the crystal necklace I came to Earth with, mentioning it would do something incredible when it contacted ice, like the ice in the North Pole, the Arctic you called it" Kara brought up a previous encounter with Faora back in 1942 before she turned herself into Doomsday, a hybrid at least. "I've always wondered what it would do".

"Hmm" the Cobra hummed a thought, thinking of a potential idea what they could do together, to discover if what Faora said was true back in 42. "How about we discover that... Tomorrow? You and I" he offered as she smiled funnily.

"I thought you weren't cleared for duty?" she asked with a curious smile.

"Who says I need to be cleared for duty? It's not like we're going on a covert mission, right?" the pair still rocked side to side, slowly turning in the same spot still as Y/N's question repeated in Kara's head as she thought for the minute, her eyes off of him to think so she couldn't get too distracted.

"{You're right}" she smiles after thinking, taking up on his offer. "On one condition" she locked eyes with him next.

"What would that be, my dear?" he smirked.

"Can I stay over? It's... Been a while since I last awakened beside you... In a more comfortable spot" she eyed the bed for a moment's notice before looking back at him.

"I'm sure my mother would be fine with that, I'll ask her, highly doubt she'd say no, think she already likes you" he nodded in agreement with a smile still on his face. "But... Let's enjoy the dance, I've been wanting this for a long time".

"I agree" she nodded. Before kissing him softly, her lips were soft like a cushion, pressing against his gently, with Y/N deepening the kiss by melting into her lips, the soft, smacking sounds overlapped by the music still playing as they slowly danced.

"I love you, Kara Starikov" Y/N pulled back slightly to communicate, both smiling softly.

"I love you too, Y/N L/N".

🎵 It's Been a Long, Long Time...🎵

______________________________________________________________

Fin...

Word Count: 5434

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revelboo · 3 months ago

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This exchange about bees made me think of the insecticons and Waspinator. I don't see Wasp's story ending so poorly, but the insecticons are still up in the air. (Like I know it ain't gonna end that way, but they don't know it in the story yet)

Wasp’s human is safe, but, yeah, Bombshell isn’t sold on reader yet. Kickback wants reader, Shrapnel could go either way. I figure the Insecticons only bother to obey if they feel like it

You (Don’t) Know Me Pt 8

Insecticons x Reader

• ‘l’m not eating that.’ Servos curling and uncurling as he stares down at you, Bombshell hisses softly. “You asked me to burn perfectly good meat for you and I did,” he growls as you wrinkle your little nose at him. And you’re eating it even if he has to hold you down and force feed you. ‘It smells like burnt hair.’ Turning his glare on Shrapnel, his brother shrugs weakly. And Kickback is still playing lap pet to try and curry favor. Pretending to be gentle for you. Turning, he crouches and digs his claws into the animal’s haunch, cutting away the skin to get to the meat and he’s aware of the way you stiffen when he tears a chunk free.

• He wouldn’t dare. Tensing when he turns, a fistful of slightly burnt Bambi in his claws. And he lunges right as you scream and roll to scramble away. Aware of the other two getting clear and just watching. Because you’d thought being queen would mean being respected. Not getting manhandled like a picky toddler refusing to take medicine. Swearing when Bombshell catches you around the middle and your feet leave the ground, he just sits with you in his lap, an arm banding around you to pin your arms at your sides as he tries to force feed you.

• Laughing as their little queen twists and tries to avoid the food Bombshell’s determined to feed you, Shrapnel can understand his brother’s frustration. He’d gone hunting to provide for the hive and you’re scorning him. Watches Bombshell retract his mask to tear a sliver of meat free and his mouth crashes against yours. Your head snapping back with a full body shudder. “I wouldn’t spit that out if I were you, you,” Shrapnel says and you glare sullenly up at him. But you finally start chewing even though you look furious. And Bombshell is tearing another strip with his denta before claiming your mouth again. Your annoyance faltering as his pheromones coax you into cooperating until you’re brushing your mouth against his. Demanding the next bite.

• Watching Bombshell feed you since you’d refused to feed yourself, Kickback waits until Shrapnel tears into the meat before helping himself. Can hear Bombshell rumbling to you as you relax against him, compliant again. “Will we build here?” He asks as he eats and Bombshell growls. ‘Not with that Dinobot so close,’ Bombshell mutters, head dipping to tear another bite for you.

• So much for dignity. Body humming as his glossa presses another bite past your lips, it feels like all of your resistance has been stripped away. And you’re annoyed that he’d done it to you again, whatever is in their saliva mellowing you out even as your blood heats and you shift restlessly against him. “Be a good little queen and you’ll get a reward,” Bombshell whispers arm shifting so you’re not pinned and his clawed servos tunnel through your hair.

#transformers x reader #insecticons x reader #shrapnel x reader #bombshell x reader #kickback x reader #g1 bombshell #g1 kickback #g1 shrapnel

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luveline · 1 year ago

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Hiii!! Could I request a bombshell reader x Spencer where someone (a local police maybe) says something rude to her about her appearance or something and normally it doesn’t really get to her, but something snaps and she kinda shuts down/is rude to Spencer until he coaxes it out of her? Sorry it’s long I had an idea and ran w it loollll

ty for requesting angel! confident fem!reader, 1k

Spencer shouldn’t expect his colleague to hold his hand, especially one so confident. What sense would that make, a woman as established as you are, who smiles without a lick of worry nor smugness, wanting to hold his hand?

But you do it all the time, is the thing. In the car on the way to crime scenes, in the hallways of the office, under the round table. It started as a tethering for his distractedness, when one day he’d wanted to talk but hadn’t had the presence of mind to walk at the same time, so you’d taken his hand and led him to the office. You’ve been taking it at your discretion ever since.

Spencer knows something is wrong —you haven’t tried to hold his hand all day. And even if you aren’t interested in him romantically, Spencer has come to crave the touch. He’ll accept platonic hand holding. Anything, really.

“You’re staring very deeply, Dr. Reid,” you mutter, shades from your usual lightness.

“I’m thinking.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“About you.”

“Well,” you smile fleetingly. “You should always be thinking about me.”

“You’re truly humble.”

His joke doesn’t land, it crashes and burns; your smile fades completely into a short, sharp line. Your gaze moves back into the restaurant, waiting for the team's food order in silence once again.

Spencer’s pinky finger twitches across the gap.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Fine.”

You stay quiet, Spencer worries. He takes the bags before you can when they bring your food to the collection desk, two lumps of heat he holds to his thighs as you begin the walk back to the hotel. Tonight, the team will pick at their food together and rehash the same arguments they’ve been making all day, filling in each other's gaps, and tomorrow the work will start again. He can’t have you this unhappy again tomorrow.

“You’re amazing,” he says, watching you turn to him from the corner of his eye, “you know you are, we all do, everyone who meets you. I know you don’t need me to tell you that, or to feel better, but… I’m here for you. If you want to talk. It’s been a hard couple of days, and talking about traumatic events as they happen and directly afterward make them easier to recover from.”

“I’m not traumatised.”

“Upsetting,” he corrects. “Having a shoulder to cry on is good for you, and I can be that shoulder. You know, if you need me to be.”

He can’t know this in the moment, though maybe one day you’ll tell him, further down the line when the hand holding is better defined, but you look at him and you love him. To know Spencer is to love him. Or at least that’s how you’ve always felt. You’d love to cry on his shoulder about what transpired that morning if it weren’t embarrassing to think about, you’re upset over a throwaway comment made by nobody important.

Spencer offers his company earnestly. He stammers. It’s amazingly sincere, as he usually is. He won’t mind if it’s embarrassing, he’ll just listen.

You clear your throat. “I know I’m not to everyone’s taste. I know that the way I… present myself isn’t what most men like. People love confidence, but not when it’s bossy, not when it’s– when it’s vain. And I am vain. I think about my appearance a lot, I think I’m beautiful most of the time, I try so hard to have that be true.” You eye him thoughtfully. “Do you realise that?”

He shakes his head gently, one ear toward one shoulder and then the other, as though balancing. “Sort of. I know you put effort into your appearance, but I also assume a lot of it to be natural.”

“Right, well. It’s not natural. Not really. My natural beauty wouldn’t be all the beautiful to most people. And I’ve accepted that, I know what I like about myself, and–” You’re losing the thread of your point, an upset creeping into your melodic tone and turning it ragged. “When people tell me they don’t like how I look now, I guess it hurts because I know they wouldn’t like me before, either, and I feel defeated because I know I can’t win.”

“Who said they don’t like how you look?” Spencer asks, confused, on his way to annoyed.

“Officer Friendly.” You look to your shoes, watching the steps you take. “Guess he wasn’t as nice as we thought.”

“What did he say to you?”

You shrug. “Same story. He doesn’t like girls who wear makeup. Doesn’t like uppity women.”

“Did he call you that?”

“What are you gonna do if he did?” you ask without malice.

“Morgan’s teaching me self defence for a reason.” You smile at his light joke, though it doesn’t last. He transfers the takeout bags into one hand, the other held out to you, his fingers sliding down your arm to your wrist. “You know you’re beautiful, with or without makeup. And you’re not uppity, you’re out of his league. There’s a difference.”

“You’re flirting with me.”

“No.” He wishes he had the wherewithal sometimes, but this isn’t flirting. “I’m being honest with you. Men like that don’t like you because they know they’ll never, ever have you, or anyone like you. There isn’t anyone like you,” he adds, sliding his hand into yours.

He squeezes all your fingers together twice in quick succession.

“Don’t let a jealous chauvinist halfwit make you think you’re not good enough,” he says.

You curl your fingers around his before he can take his hand back. Slowly, you squeeze his hand. Then, smiling, you let him go.

“I’ve never heard you say something mean like that,” you say. “Halfwit. That’s crass.”

“I was going to say he’s an asshole, if that’s better.”

Your laugh echoes off of the sidewalk. “That’s perfect. Say something meaner.”

The insult he uses next doesn’t bear repeating.

#spencer and bombshell reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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kiwriteswords · 5 months ago

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more bombshell reader and maybe jealous hotch!!

Something in the Way She Moves

Masterlist || Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Bombshell Female Reader||Word Count: 20k!!

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical violence, canon-typical themes, spoilers/mentions of past character's death(s), hurt/comfort, jealousy, fluff, angst, breakups, forbidden romance, smut, sex without protection, yearning Hotch, Reader is Hotch's Boss, holidays, Reader has hair, cheating if you squint (not on each other; not Reader on/by Hotch), mentions of alcohol at social setting, bombshell reader, possessive Hotch, jealous reader

Sypnosis: As the new section chief of the BAU, you’re determined to lead with professionalism—despite an undeniable connection with Aaron Hotchner, the stoic unit chief who understands you like no one else. When your growing romance draws scrutiny from the Bureau and threatens both your careers, breaking things off feels like the only choice. But resisting your feelings is easier said than done, and navigating the fallout proves more complicated—and personal—than either of you anticipated.

Aaron Hotchner had always believed in rules. They provided structure, a way to ensure order in the chaos of the world he inhabited daily. He lived by them—until you walked back into his life.

When you first stepped into Erin Strauss’ old office as the new Section Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Aaron had already known you would get the job. Not because you were an excellent candidate, though that was undeniable, but because he had written the letter of recommendation that tipped the scales. He’d been the one to argue your case, to convince the higher-ups that your tactical mind, people skills, and years of leadership in the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit made you the right choice.

He knew he couldn’t take on the job himself. He didn’t want to sacrifice his time in the field or more time away from Jack. Things with Beth had just mutually ended, and he knew now wasn’t time for a big change in his career. His team needed stability, too. He knew where to find it for them. He couldn’t think of a better boss for himself or his team.

But what Aaron hadn’t expected was how your presence would shift the ground beneath his feet.

From day one, you were everything he remembered—commanding, intelligent, and stunning. But there was a new energy to you now. Your style was impeccable, all sharp lines and elegance, yet undeniably bold. You wore heels that clicked purposefully against the tiled floors, and your perfume lingered just long enough to be distracting. Every room you entered turned its attention to you, though you never seemed to revel in it. You worked hard—harder than anyone—but also knew how to treat yourself. Aaron admired that, envied it even.

And then there was the personal side, the one you didn’t show many. The way you smiled when you spoke about your niece’s upcoming recital. The way your laugh, a warm and genuine sound, filled the briefing room when someone cracked a joke. You were extra, yes—extravagant even—but never entitled. You could be sharp-tongued and exacting, but you were also kind and humble. You never asked anyone for anything you wouldn’t provide for yourself.

You were a paradox, and Aaron found himself drawn to you more every day.

The first time the two of you crossed the line, it had been... unplanned.

It was late, the kind of late where the bullpen was empty except for the faint hum of desk lamps and the rhythmic clicks of Aaron typing. You had come down from your office, a mug of tea in your hand and a softness to your expression he rarely saw as you popped into his opened door.

“You’re still here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, looking up from his laptop as you perched on the edge of his desk.

The conversation started as work but soon meandered. Aaron had always valued your opinion, and it wasn’t unusual for the two of you to linger over cases. But that night, as the hours stretched on, there was a shift.

“I’ve always admired your dedication,” you said quietly, your gaze steady on him.

“Thank you,” Aaron replied, his throat tightening.

“And the way you fought for me to get this position... Aaron, it means more than you know.”

There was a vulnerability in your voice, a crack in the armor you so carefully maintained. Aaron wasn’t sure what compelled him, but before he could second-guess it, his hand covered yours where it rested on his desk.

That simple touch was all it took to change everything.

Weeks passed before either of you acknowledged what was happening. It started innocently enough—a lingering glance across the briefing room, the brush of hands when passing files, the way your voices softened when it was just the two of you. But it didn’t take long for the connection to deepen, slipping past the professional boundaries you had so carefully constructed.

Aaron would find himself texting you late at night, ostensibly to discuss case details, but the conversations often veered into personal territory. It wouldn’t take long until you crossed the boundary, deciding the messages weren’t enough phone calls were needed. He learned that you hated mornings but loved the ritual of your complicated coffee orders, that you missed the simplicity of fieldwork but thrived in your new role because it gave you a broader sense of impact. You learned that he still struggled with guilt over Haley, that he missed spending more time with Jack but refused to let his son see his father falter.

The shift wasn’t dramatic, but it was undeniable. The way you looked at him during meetings lingered too long, your gaze softening when you thought no one else was watching. The way he always stood a little closer to you than necessary, catching your perfume—an elegant mix of jasmine and citrus—that lingered long after you walked away. The stolen moments became something he craved, something he couldn’t ignore.

Aaron knew it was wrong—or, at the very least, complicated. But the way you saw him, truly saw him, made it impossible to stay away. Aaron had met a lot of people in his life, nobody who completely saw him. It was almost as if he spent his whole life searching for it, for it to be looking him in the face all of these years.

The first time he kissed you, it was in your office.

You were pacing, heels clicking against the polished floor, your tailored suit jacket hanging neatly on the back of your chair. The soft silk blouse you wore glimmered faintly in the dim light, catching his attention more than it should have.

“Can you believe this?” you muttered, gesturing toward the papers on your desk. “A dozen forms to approve before tomorrow, as if I don’t already have enough to do. And the Director wants an update on—”

“Stop,” Aaron interrupted gently, his deep voice cutting through your frustration.

You froze mid-stride, turning to face him. Your expression softened slightly, but your eyes—those piercing, calculating eyes that could read anyone in a heartbeat—searched his face for answers.

“What is it, Aaron?” you asked the edge in your tone melting into something warmer.

He stood from the chair opposite your desk, his broad shoulders and crisp suit making him seem even taller in the small space.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he admitted, his voice quiet but firm.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering across your features. “Do what?”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes locked on yours, his presence overwhelming in the best way.

“Pretend that I don’t want more.”

For a moment, the air between you stilled, charged with an unspoken tension that had been building for weeks. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came. Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with the same intensity you reserved for interrogations.

And then your free hand moved, reaching up to curl into his tie, the silk fabric slipping easily between your fingers. You tugged gently, pulling him toward you, your breath mingling with his.

“Aaron,” you murmured, a faint warning still lingering in your tone.

But he didn’t stop. His hand rose to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything so grounding.

The kiss started tentative, almost hesitant, but the moment your lips met, it shattered whatever walls remained between you. You leaned into him, your other hand finding its way to his chest, where his heart pounded beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. His other hand slid to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against the curve of your hip, steadying you as you deepened the kiss.

You tasted like mint and something sweet, and Aaron thought he might be losing his mind. The world outside your office door ceased to exist; there was only you, your warmth, your intoxicating presence.

When you finally pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, and your breathing uneven. His tie was slightly askew, and your fingers still clutched it loosely as if unsure whether to let go.

“Well,” you said, your voice teasing but laced with something raw, something real. “That’s one way to solve a bureaucratic nightmare.”

Aaron chuckled softly, his forehead resting briefly against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, though he didn’t look it. He certainly didn’t feel it.

“Don’t be,” you replied, your fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket. “Just... don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice steady.

And he meant it. Whatever came next, whatever complications or consequences arose, Aaron knew one thing for certain: this—you—was worth it.

Aaron Hotchner had never been one to let himself indulge—not in anything that wasn’t for Jack, at least. His life revolved around necessity and function, keeping his head above water while ensuring those around him could do the same. Haley and Beth had been simple…these minor things didn’t appeal to them. But with you, indulgence didn’t feel frivolous. It felt... right.

The kiss had been a turning point. It wasn’t just the line crossed—it was the invitation to something more. After that moment in your office, there was no going back. Within days, the two of you had quietly shifted from colleagues to something undeniably personal. By the end of the first week, Aaron had asked you out, and to his surprise, you’d agreed without hesitation.

Your first date had been dinner at a small but elegant restaurant nestled in the heart of Georgetown. Aaron had chosen the spot carefully—upscale enough to meet your polished tastes but intimate enough to keep prying eyes at bay.

“I have to admit,” you’d said over a glass of sauvignon blanc, “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to keep up with me.”

Aaron had raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep up with you how?”

Your expression had turned playful, your eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Let’s just say I’ve been accused of having... expensive taste.”

Aaron had leaned back in his chair, swirling his whiskey casually. “You think I don’t know that by now?” he teased. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who insisted on a specific brand of bottled water for office meetings.”

“That’s called maintaining standards,” you countered with mock indignation.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Don’t worry. I might be frugal, but I’m not struggling. And I like to spoil the people I care about.”

The admission had caught you off guard, he could tell. Your confident demeanor had faltered just enough for him to notice, and for a moment, you’d looked down at your glass, your smile softer. “Well,” you’d said finally, meeting his gaze again, “I won’t complain about that.”

By the time you’d gone on a few dates, Aaron found himself more at ease with the idea of what you were becoming. It wasn’t just the shared dinners, the quiet moments in the corners of bars, or the back seats of dimly lit movie theaters. It was the way you fit into his life so seamlessly. Despite your differences—you with your love of extravagance and meticulous planning and him with his pragmatic approach and quiet restraint—you balanced each other.

You worked well together, too. Surprisingly well. If anything, your meticulous attention to detail and unrelenting standards had only strengthened the BAU. Aaron had always considered himself by the book, but compared to you, he realized he could be downright lenient.

“You’re more Type A than I am,” he commented one night after a case briefing, leaning against the doorframe of your office.

You glanced up from your perfectly organized desk, where every file was stacked at precise right angles. “Is that your way of saying I’m bossy?”

“Not at all,” he replied, his tone teasing. “I’m saying you’re by-the-book to a fault. It’s impressive, really.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Says the man who color-codes his case files.”

“Touché,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I don’t panic at the thought of bending the rules when necessary.”

Your expression sobered slightly, and Aaron noticed the way your hands stilled over the papers in front of you. “I just... I don’t want to give anyone a reason to question me—or us.”

Ah. There it was.

“You’re worried about telling the Director,” Aaron said, stepping further into the room.

Your silence was answer enough.

Aaron sat on the edge of your desk, his presence grounding. “Things are going well,” he said firmly. “The team respects you. Cases are running smoothly. We work together seamlessly. There’s no reason for anyone to take issue with this—unless we give them one.”

You looked up at him, your expression vulnerable in a way few ever saw. “But what if they do? What if they say it’s inappropriate or unprofessional? I could lose this position, Aaron.”

He reached for your hand, covering it with his. The touch was gentle, but his grip steady, reassuring. “You won’t lose it. You’ve earned this. No one can take that from you.”

“But what about you?” you asked quietly. “If this affects your place on the team...”

“I won’t let it,” Aaron said with conviction. “We’ve handled worse than bureaucratic red tape. Besides, I think the Director has bigger problems than two senior members of the BAU in a consensual, functional relationship.”

Your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Functional, huh? That’s romantic.”

Aaron smirked, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

You shook your head, your laughter soft but genuine. “I don’t know how you stay so calm about this.”

“Because I’ve spent my life trying to control everything,” he admitted. “And I’ve learned the hard way that some things are worth the risk.”

Your gaze lingered on his, the weight of his words settling between you. And for the first time since this all began, Aaron saw the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice steady. “We’ll tell the Director. Together.”

Aaron nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Together.”

In that moment, as the two of you sat in the quiet comfort of your shared understanding, Aaron knew one thing for certain: whatever the future held, you were worth it. Every risk, every consequence—you were worth it.

Aaron Hotchner had walked into more high-pressure situations than he could count. Interrogating unsubs. Negotiating with armed suspects. Delivering heartbreaking news to grieving families. But as he sat outside the Director’s office with you beside him, he felt a knot in his stomach that rivaled even the most tense of standoffs.

You sat with your legs crossed, your polished heel bouncing ever so slightly—a nervous tick Aaron had come to recognize. You were dressed impeccably, as always, your tailored blazer sharp enough to cut through steel. But Aaron knew you well enough to see the tension in the way you smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from your skirt or adjusted your necklace.

He reached over, his hand brushing yours lightly. “We’ll be fine,” he said quietly, his voice low enough not to carry.

You turned your head, offering him a small smile, but the doubt in your eyes was unmistakable.

Before he could say more, the assistant opened the door. “The Director will see you now.”

The Director’s office was a testament to order and authority. Every book on the shelves was carefully aligned, the awards and commendations behind the desk displayed with precision. Aaron Hotchner had sat across from this desk many times, but today, the air felt heavier. He wasn’t just representing his team or defending a decision. Today was personal.

The Director greeted them with a curt nod, gesturing for them to sit. Aaron glanced at you as you settled into the chair beside him, your posture immaculate, your gaze steady. He knew the nerves beneath the surface were hidden behind that calm, polished exterior.

“You wanted to discuss something... personal,” the Director said, leaning back slightly, his hands folded on the desk.

Aaron cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “Yes, sir. We wanted to inform you about our relationship.”

The Director’s eyebrows rose slightly, but his face remained unreadable. He waited, prompting Aaron to continue.

“We’ve been seeing each other for some time now. We’ve taken every precaution to ensure it doesn’t interfere with our work or the team’s performance. Cases continue to run smoothly, and morale remains high. We believe—”

The Director raised a hand, signaling for Aaron to stop.

Aaron exchanged a brief glance with you. The air seemed to grow heavier.

“I appreciate your honesty,” the Director said, his voice even, almost sympathetic. “But this isn’t acceptable.”

You leaned forward slightly, your tone measured but firm. “With all due respect, sir, we’ve maintained professionalism at all times. There has been no impact on the team’s dynamics or efficiency.”

The Director sighed and leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful but resolute. “This isn’t about professionalism or efficiency, though I trust that both of you believe you’ve kept those intact. It’s about perception. The BAU is already under a microscope. The media, oversight committees, politicians—they’re all waiting for any reason to scrutinize this unit further.”

Aaron shifted in his seat. “Sir, we’ve handled public scrutiny before. We’ve worked under immense pressure and still delivered results. I believe—”

“You believe,” the Director interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “But this is not about what you believe or how well you perform. It’s about how this looks. Two of the highest-ranking members in the same unit, in a romantic relationship? It opens doors for questions about bias, favoritism, and poor judgment.”

You stiffened slightly, and Aaron could feel the tension radiating from you.

“We’ve had to address optics before,” the Director continued, his tone less stern and more weary. “When Erin Strauss was here, we allowed too much to slide—her personal struggles, her decisions that created friction within the team. It put the BAU in a precarious position, one we barely recovered from. And now, with our history, with every move under scrutiny, I can’t let this slide. Not again.”

Aaron pressed his lips into a thin line, forcing himself to remain composed. “Sir, neither of us would let this compromise our responsibilities. Our records speak for themselves.”

The Director nodded slowly. “They do, Hotchner. Both of you have impeccable records, and I trust your intentions. But this isn’t about trust. It’s about precedent. If I allow this, what message does it send? That personal relationships among senior staff are acceptable? That the rules don’t apply here?”

You spoke next, your voice calm but resolute. “We’re not asking for special treatment. We’re asking for acknowledgment that this doesn’t interfere with our ability to lead.”

The Director exhaled, his tone softening. “I understand what you’re saying. And if the world operated on logic alone, I might agree. But the reality is perception matters. The BAU is too visible, too scrutinized. I can’t allow this.”

“What are you saying?” Aaron asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I’m saying one of you has to transfer, or this relationship ends,” the Director said evenly. “Those are your options. I won’t dictate which path you choose, but this arrangement cannot continue while you’re both in these positions.”

The finality in his tone hit like a cold wind. Aaron’s fists clenched in his lap, though his face remained impassive. Beside him, he could feel you bristling but holding yourself together.

“Is there any room for reconsideration?” you asked, your voice level but tight.

The Director shook his head. “I wish there were. I respect both of you immensely. But this is a line we can’t afford to cross.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“I can draft up some reccomendsations for units to transfer,” he continued, “But I’d warn you, that may put a bigger target on your back with the brass.”

“Is that all, sir?” you asked finally, your voice sharper than you likely intended.

“That’s all,” the Director replied, his tone tinged with something almost regretful.

The Director’s words still echoed in Aaron Hotchner’s ears as you stormed out of the office, your heels clicking sharply against the tile floor. Aaron trailed behind you, his thoughts spinning, barely registering the brisk pace you set.

When you reached the bullpen, you didn’t stop. You headed straight for the stairs that led to the upper offices, bypassing your usual elevator ride. Aaron hesitated for a moment before following, his long strides catching up to you as you pushed through the door to your private office and let it slam shut behind you.

For a moment, Aaron stood outside, his hand hovering near the doorknob. He could hear you moving inside—papers rustling, a muffled sigh, the creak of your chair as you sat heavily into it. He took a breath and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it quietly behind him.

You didn’t look at him. Instead, you stared at your desk, your hands resting on its polished surface as if grounding yourself. Your jaw was tight, your expression unreadable, but Aaron had known you long enough to see the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“This is ridiculous,” you said finally, your voice low but trembling with barely contained frustration. “We’ve done everything right. Everything. And it still doesn’t matter.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. What could he say that wouldn’t feel hollow? That he agreed? That he hated the situation just as much as you did? None of it would change the reality bearing down on both of you.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said quietly, though the words felt inadequate even as he spoke them.

Your head snapped up, your eyes blazing as they met his. “How, Aaron? How do we figure this out? Do I transfer? Do you? Do we just pretend we’re fine with throwing everything away?”

Aaron opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He’d been in impossible situations before—ones where no option felt right, but he had to choose anyway. This time, though, the stakes felt different. He wasn’t deciding a case, balancing strategy and risk. He was standing on the precipice of losing something he hadn’t even realized he needed until it was almost too late.

When you finally looked away, your shoulders slumping under the weight of the conversation, Aaron allowed himself a moment to think. To really think.

He imagined what it would mean to leave. Retiring from fieldwork had crossed his mind before—Jack was growing up fast, and Aaron had often wondered if he was missing too much. But the idea of stepping into a more conservative role, away from the pulse of the work, left a hollow ache in his chest.

And then there was you. He thought of you sacrificing your position, giving up this incredible opportunity that you had earned through sheer determination and talent. The thought twisted his stomach.

Aaron couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t let another person give up so much of themselves for his job. He had promised himself, after Haley, that he wouldn’t let his work consume anyone else. That was why he had let Beth go so easily when she wanted more for herself and her career.

But you weren’t Haley or Beth. You were different. You were his equal, his match in every way that mattered. And yet, the guilt and shame of letting you make that kind of sacrifice—for him, for them—was unbearable.

“You shouldn’t have to leave,” Aaron said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but the weight behind the words was impossible to miss.

You looked at him sharply. “And you think you should?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I can’t ask you to give this up. I won’t.”

Your hands curled into fists on the desk, and Aaron saw the flicker of pain in your eyes before you looked away. “So what? We just... stop?”

Aaron exhaled slowly, his heart aching at the rawness in your voice. “I don’t want to,” he said honestly. “But maybe it’s what’s best.”

Your laugh was bitter, your head shaking. “Best for who? Them? The optics? Certainly not us.”

Aaron stepped closer, his hands resting on the edge of your desk. “It’s not fair,” he said quietly, meeting your gaze. “None of this is. But if we keep fighting this, it could hurt the team. It could hurt you. And I can’t live with that.”

Your eyes glistened, but you blinked quickly, refusing to let tears fall. “So that’s it? We just... agree to walk away?”

Aaron’s throat tightened. “I don’t want to,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think we have to.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt heavy, suffocating as if the weight of what you were agreeing to was pressing down on both of you at once.

Finally, you stood, your movements slow and deliberate. You rounded the desk, stopping just in front of him.

“Do you really think this is the right thing to do?” you asked, your voice cracking just enough to betray the strength you were trying to hold on to.

“No,” Aaron admitted, his own voice hoarse. “But I think it’s the only thing we can do.”

The words hung in the air like a final verdict, sealing something neither of you wanted to face.

When you stepped closer, your hand resting lightly on his chest, Aaron’s heart broke a little more. He covered your hand with his, holding it there for a moment as if trying to memorize the feeling.

“I hate this,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his one last time. He didn’t miss the tears beginning to well in them. It was instinct to want to look away, it was a sight too painful to unsee, but he found himself still looking through to you.

“So do I,” he replied, his voice raw.

And then, as you stepped back and let your hand fall away, Aaron felt the loss like a physical blow—a kick to the knees. You walked past him, your steps unsteady but resolute.

He didn’t turn to watch you leave. He couldn’t. All he could do was stand there, alone in your office, knowing that this decision—the right one, the necessary one—was going to haunt him for a long time.

The weeks that followed were some of the hardest Aaron Hotchner had endured, and that was saying something. He had always prided himself on compartmentalizing, on keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work. But this—you—made that impossible.

The day after the decision, you had returned to work with the same polished professionalism you always displayed. Your suit was impeccable, your tone measured, and your focus sharp. But Aaron saw the cracks beneath the surface. He saw the way your eyes avoided his during meetings, the way your smiles—rare as they were now—never reached your eyes.

And it wasn’t just you. Aaron could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, a constant ache in his chest that no amount of distraction could dull. He would catch himself looking at you across the bullpen, remembering how it felt to have you close, to hear you laugh in those unguarded moments. The memories were like splinters—small, sharp reminders of what he’d lost.

He wondered if it were some sort of sick joke. That once again, here he was, Aaron Hotchner choosing the job over what was right in front of him.

The team picked up on it quickly, though they didn’t understand the cause at first.

“Something’s off,” Morgan said one afternoon, leaning against Aaron’s office door.

Aaron didn’t look up from the file in front of him. “What do you mean?”

Morgan shrugged, his casual demeanor belying the concern in his eyes. “You and her,” he said, nodding toward your office. “I don’t know... You two used to be so in sync. Now it’s like there’s this... distance.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “We’re fine. Just busy.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press further. Still, Aaron knew the others had noticed it too. Reid’s hesitant glances during meetings, JJ’s subtle attempts to smooth over the tension, and even Garcia’s uncharacteristic silence when she addressed the two of you.

The pain of working together was a constant, gnawing ache. Every interaction felt like walking a tightrope, balancing professionalism with the unspoken emotions neither of you could completely hide.

During briefings, Aaron found himself hyper-aware of you. The way you avoided sitting too close. The way your voice would falter, just slightly, when addressing him directly. It was subtle, so subtle that no one outside the team would notice. But Aaron noticed.

You rarely joined the team in the field, but you were more present than Strauss’ constant absence due to her dislike of fieldwork when in your role. Even in the field, the strain was palpable. The easy rhythm you had once shared was gone, replaced by clipped exchanges and a formality that felt wrong coming from you.

“You’re clear on the approach?” Aaron asked during one such mission, his voice firm but hollow.

You nodded, your tone equally curt. “I am.”

It was efficient. Professional. Everything it needed to be. But it wasn’t you. At least not the you he knew.

The worst moments came in the quiet, in the spaces between the chaos. Late nights at the BAU, when the rest of the team had gone home and the building was quiet. Sometimes, Aaron would catch a glimpse of you in your office, the light from your desk lamp casting long shadows across your face. He wanted to go to you, to break the silence and bridge the gap, but he never did.

One night, as he packed up to leave, he saw you sitting at your desk, your head in your hands. You didn’t notice him watching, and for a brief moment, he considered walking in, saying something—anything. But then you straightened, brushing a hand through your hair, and the moment passed.

Aaron turned away, the pit in his stomach growing heavier with each step he took toward the exit.

The team never said anything outright, but Aaron could feel their unease. They didn’t know the details—didn’t know that the two of you had once been something more, or how close you had come to risking everything to stay that way. But they felt the shift.

JJ tried to smooth things over with small acts of kindness—bringing coffee, lightening the mood in meetings. Morgan watched both of you with quiet curiosity, his usual teasing replaced by a patience Aaron hadn’t expected. Even Garcia, ever perceptive, gave him a long, searching look one day before sighing and saying, “You know, you can talk to us, right? About anything.”

Aaron had nodded, offering a faint smile he didn’t feel. “Thanks, Garcia.”

Months passed, and the ache dulled, but it never went away. Aaron learned to live with it, to bury it beneath the weight of his responsibilities. He told himself it was the right decision, the only decision, but there were moments—late at night, when the silence was deafening—when he let himself imagine what could have been.

And you—he could see it in your eyes, the way you carried the same weight. You were just as professional, just as efficient, but there was a sadness in you now that hadn’t been there before. It mirrored his own, and that was perhaps the hardest part of all.

You were both doing what you thought was best. And it was killing you.

The bullpen was unusually quiet when Aaron Hotchner stepped out of his office. His team was gathered around JJ’s desk, their conversation hushed but animated. The moment his presence registered, they all straightened slightly, trying to appear busy.

Aaron didn’t buy it for a second.

“Morgan. JJ,” he said, his tone even but curious as he descended the steps. “What’s going on?”

JJ exchanged a quick look with Morgan before speaking. “Oh, uh, nothing, Hotch. Just catching up on some... Quantico gossip.”

Aaron arched an eyebrow. Gossip wasn’t something his team typically indulged in—not during work hours, at least. “What kind of gossip?”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flash of discomfort crossing his face. “The kind that probably shouldn’t leave the locker room, but since it’s about someone we all know... it didn’t sit right with me.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened as he stopped a few feet from the group. “Who?”

Morgan hesitated, glancing at the others. Emily crossed her arms, her expression skeptical but intrigued, while Penelope fidgeted, clearly torn between curiosity and concern.

“Look,” Morgan started, his tone careful, “it’s about…You know—”

Aaron’s stomach sank. He didn’t need Morgan to say your name to know exactly who he meant.

“Go on,” Aaron said, his voice clipped but controlled.

Morgan sighed, leaning against the desk. “JJ and I were at the gym downstairs yesterday. I was in the locker room, and I heard some guy—one of the suits from Finance, I think—talking about her.”

Aaron’s chest tightened as Morgan continued.

“He was bragging about how they’ve been... seeing each other,” Morgan said, his expression darkening. “But the way he was talking—man, it was gross. Like, disrespectful. He was sexualizing her in a way that made my skin crawl.”

JJ chimed in, her voice tinged with frustration. “He called her a ‘great ass with brains’—as if that’s all she is. Then he made some comment about how lucky he was to have caught her attention.”

Aaron’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I told him to knock it off,” Morgan said, his tone sharp. “Told him it wasn’t cool to talk about her like that—especially in a damn locker room, where anyone could hear.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open, her indignation bubbling to the surface. “You’re kidding me. He said that in the locker room? What kind of—ugh! Men are the worst sometimes.”

Emily smirked faintly, her voice dry as she added, “Not all men. Just most.”

Rossi, who had been quiet up until now, leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “So she’s seeing this guy? Or is he just running his mouth?”

Morgan shrugged. “Couldn’t say for sure. But he seemed pretty confident.”

Aaron’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could feel the team’s eyes on him, but he refused to let his expression betray the storm brewing inside.

“Hotch,” JJ said gently, her voice pulling him back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Aaron said curtly. “But I need to remind all of you that gossip—about anyone—isn’t appropriate here. If there’s a problem, it needs to be addressed through the proper channels.”

The team exchanged glances, but no one pushed further.

Aaron returned to his office, closing the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. He sank into his chair, staring at the stack of files on his desk without really seeing them.

The idea of you seeing someone else didn’t sit well with him. Not because you didn’t deserve happiness—you did, more than anyone. But because the thought of you with someone who didn’t appreciate you, who reduced you to nothing more than your appearance or used you as a bragging point, made his blood boil.

He hated the way that man in the locker room had spoken about you. Hated that it had happened at all.

And yet, there was something else eating at him. Something sharper, more selfish.

Jealousy.

The idea that you might have moved on—might have found comfort in someone else’s arms—cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He had no right to feel this way. The two of you had made your decision, painful as it was, and he had to live with it. But knowing you might be with someone else, hearing those crude words about you... it was unbearable.

Aaron rubbed a hand over his face, willing himself to focus. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions cloud his judgment. Not now. Not ever.

But as he sat there, the words from the locker room replaying in his mind, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he had let you go too soon. Too easily.

And it was killing him.

Time had a way of dulling pain, or so Aaron Hotchner told himself. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. The ache of what had been and what could never be dulled into something he carried silently, like an old injury that flared up when the weather changed. But it never went away.

And then he found out for certain.

He hadn’t meant to overhear the conversation—it was the kind of thing he normally tuned out. But as he passed by the kitchen in the Quantico building, he caught the tail end of a conversation between two agents from a different unit, their voices low but not low enough.

“Yeah, they’ve been going out for a while now,” one said, his tone carrying an unmistakable edge of smugness. “I can’t believe he managed to lock her down. She’s way out of his league.”

The other laughed. “I heard she’s really something. Smart, gorgeous, the whole package. Lucky bastard.”

Aaron didn’t need to hear your name to know exactly who they were talking about.

He found himself sitting in his office later that day, staring blankly at the case file in front of him. The words on the page blurred together, his focus shattered.

You were seeing him—the man from Finance. The one Morgan had overheard in the locker room, the one who had spoken about you like you were nothing more than a conquest.

Aaron’s jaw tightened, and his chest ached with something that felt dangerously close to regret. He hated the thought of you with someone who didn’t truly see you—who didn’t appreciate the sharpness of your mind, the strength in your character, the way you carried yourself with grace and confidence even under the heaviest burdens.

And yet, what right did he have to feel this way?

You had every right to move on. Every right to find happiness where you could. It wasn’t your fault that he couldn’t shake the lingering shadow of what the two of you had shared—or what might have been if things had been different.

As the weeks dragged on, Aaron tried to bury himself in his work. He tried not to notice the way you laughed at something someone said in the bullpen or the way your eyes lit up during a briefing when an idea struck you. He tried not to think about the nights you spent with someone else, someone who wasn’t him.

And then Beth called.

It had been months since they’d last spoken, her name long buried in the recesses of his mind. But there she was, her voice warm and familiar, asking how he was, how Jack was if he might want to grab coffee sometime.

Aaron hesitated.

He thought of you—of the distance that had grown between you, the way your conversations were now stilted and professional, the warmth that used to linger between you replaced by a polite coolness. He thought of the man from Finance, the way his name had crept into conversations around the office, always tied to you.

Maybe it was time, Aaron thought. If you had moved on, maybe he should too.

He met Beth for coffee and then for dinner. She was as kind and understanding as he remembered, her smile easy, her company pleasant. But something was missing.

With you, there had been a fire—a spark that made every conversation electric, every glance charged with something unspoken. With Beth, it was different. Comfortable but muted.

Still, Aaron told himself it was the right thing to do. Jack liked her, and she was good to him. Maybe this was what he needed—a reminder of what it felt like to let someone in, to have a life outside the walls of the BAU.

But no matter how much he tried, Aaron couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going through the motions. He couldn’t stop himself from comparing every moment with Beth to the moments he’d shared with you.

When Beth laughed, it wasn’t your laugh. When she reached for his hand, it didn’t feel the same as when you had pulled him close in the quiet of your office.

And every time he saw you in the hallways of Quantico or across the table during a case briefing, that ache in his chest flared anew.

Aaron knew he had made his choice. He had chosen to let you go, to protect the work and the team, to do what he thought was right. And now, he was trying to live with that choice, even as it slowly unraveled him from the inside.

But as he sat in his office late one night, the bullpen quiet and empty, Aaron allowed himself a single, fleeting moment of honesty.

He had moved on.

But not really.

Because a part of him—the part he tried to bury beneath duty and responsibility—would always belong to you.

Aaron Hotchner sat at the head of the conference table, scanning the stack of case files in front of him as the team settled into their usual seats. The murmur of conversation drifted around the room—Morgan and Emily debating the odds of another late-night call, Penelope slipping a fresh report to Reid, Rossi sipping a coffee that smelled distinctly stronger than the usual bullpen brew.

You entered last, heels clicking sharply against the tile floor as you carried yourself with the effortless confidence Aaron admired. You placed your tablet on the table and glanced around the room, your polished demeanor demanding attention without a single word.

“Before we get into case updates,” you began, your voice calm but firm, “I wanted to bring something to everyone’s attention.”

Aaron leaned back in his chair, already anticipating the shift in focus. You had a way of setting the room’s tone that even Rossi respected, and your next words proved no different.

“As most of you know,” you continued, your gaze sweeping across the team, “the Bureau’s annual holiday party is coming up. And while I’m well aware that the BAU has a reputation for... skipping it, I feel this year it’s important that we all make an effort to attend.”

That got their attention. Emily’s eyebrows lifted, Morgan tilted his chair back with an incredulous grin, and Penelope froze mid-sip of her elaborately decorated coffee.

“Come on,” Morgan said, his tone half-teasing. “You can’t be serious. You know those parties are all stiff handshakes and bad speeches.”

You smiled faintly, unruffled. “I’m very serious, Morgan. This isn’t about the party itself—it’s about the message it sends.”

Aaron noticed the way you paused, your gaze flickering briefly in his direction before continuing. “After the last few years, it’s important that we show the brass that we’re aligned with their expectations. It demonstrates that we care about appearances and that we’re just as invested in maintaining relationships as they are.”

There it was. A subtle but unmistakable reminder of why things between you and Aaron could never be, woven seamlessly into a broader point that the rest of the team couldn’t grasp fully.

Morgan raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You mean to tell me we’re going to this thing to rub elbows with suits who don’t know what we actually do out here?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” you replied, your tone calm but edged with authority. “Appearances matter. And it’s our job to ensure those appearances align with the professionalism the BAU stands for.”

Aaron watched as the words settled over the team, their expressions shifting from mild amusement to begrudging understanding. You had a way of cutting through their resistance without belittling them—a skill Aaron had always admired.

“Plus,” you added, a faint smile tugging at your lips, “I’ve been assured the band will be better than last year’s.” You paused. “And an open bar.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Penelope, who set her mug down with a small shrug. “Well, if it’s formal attire and a better band, I suppose I could make an appearance.”

“Attire is black-tie,” you confirmed, your gaze sweeping the room. “And yes, plus-ones are welcome. But I expect every one of you to be there. No exceptions.”

Emily leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Guess that means we all have to dust off our evening wear.”

“I have a tux,” Reid offered quietly, drawing a chuckle from Rossi.

Aaron remained quiet, his focus trained on you. He could feel the weight of your words—not just the direct ones, but the subtext you didn’t need to spell out. He knew why you were pushing for this, why it mattered so much to you. And he hated that he understood.

As the meeting wrapped and the team began to filter out, you lingered behind, gathering your tablet and a small stack of papers. Aaron stood as well, pausing briefly near the door.

“Formal wear suits you,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced up, your expression unreadable but your eyes betraying the smallest flicker of something softer. “I expect to see you there, Hotchner. On time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his tone carrying a faint edge of humor.

But as he left the room, his chest tightened with the familiar ache that came every time he was near you. Formal appearances, aligned expectations—he understood all of it.

But that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

The Bureau’s holiday party was exactly what Aaron Hotchner had expected: polished, overly formal, and steeped in thinly veiled networking. The grand ballroom at the hotel downtown was decorated in muted gold and deep red, elegant but impersonal. A string quartet played softly in one corner, their music adding to the ambiance without drowning out the hum of conversation.

Beth stood beside him, dressed in a sleek black gown that flattered her in every way. Her brunette hair was swept into a low chignon, and her smile was warm as she introduced herself to the occasional colleague who passed by. She looked stunning, and Aaron knew that anyone in the room would agree.

But when you walked in, Aaron forgot how to breathe.

You entered the ballroom on the arm of Jeff from Finance, a name that Aaron had come to resent more than he cared to admit. He was wearing a garish plaid tuxedo jacket that screamed “trying too hard,” and his broad grin made Aaron’s jaw tighten. But none of that mattered—because you were radiant.

Your gown was a deep emerald green, the kind of color that made your eyes seem brighter, your skin glow. It hugged your figure perfectly, the fabric shimmering faintly under the chandelier light as you moved. Your hair, styled elegantly but effortlessly, framed your face in a way that made Aaron’s chest ache. You looked... otherworldly.

Aaron had always known you were beautiful. It was an undeniable fact, one that had never gone unnoticed by anyone who crossed your path. But tonight, you were something else entirely. You weren’t just beautiful; you were extraordinary, like a rare phenomenon that people spend their entire lives waiting to glimpse.

When you stepped into the room, it was as though the world tilted slightly, every sound dulling, every light dimming except for the one that seemed to follow you. Aaron’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as a strange, almost childlike awe settled over him. He felt like a boy again, staring up at the stars for the first time and realizing just how vast and infinite the universe could be.

You were that kind of beautiful. The kind that made time seem to pause, as if the room itself was holding its breath just to take you in. You were the kind of beauty that inspired poetry and music—the kind artists yearned to capture and always failed to do justice.

And in that moment, Aaron finally understood why men wrote poetry, painted masterpieces, composed symphonies, and created entire films in honor of women like you. It was all a desperate attempt to grasp something fleeting, something divine, and pin it to the earth long enough to keep.

It wasn’t just your gown, though the deep emerald green shimmered like it had been made for you, highlighting the curve of your shoulders and the elegance of your frame. It wasn’t just the way your hair fell, soft waves framing your face in a way that seemed almost unfair. It was something deeper, something impossible to put into words.

Aaron felt it in his chest, a deep, aching yearning that he’d never experienced before. It was amazement, pure and unfiltered, like seeing magic for the first time and realizing it wasn’t a trick. It was real. You were real. And yet, you didn’t feel like something he could ever touch.

He couldn’t stop staring, and for a brief, dizzying moment, he didn’t care who saw. The logical part of his mind—the one that always kept him grounded—was overruled by something more primal, more human. How was it possible, he wondered, for someone to look like that? To exist in a way that felt so rare and unattainable and yet so deeply, painfully familiar?

He thought of how easily you commanded the room, not by seeking attention but simply by being. It wasn’t forced, and it wasn’t deliberate. It was just you—this singular, dazzling presence that made everyone around you seem to fade into the background.

Aaron had never felt this way before, not even with Haley. Not even with anyone else he’d allowed into his life. This was something else entirely, something more profound and unsettling. It wasn’t just admiration or attraction. It was belief. Belief in something he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing.

And then he saw Jeff beside you, his tacky plaid suit clashing with the elegance of everything you were. The man who didn’t seem to understand how lucky he was, who treated your presence like a status symbol rather than a gift.

Aaron’s stomach churned, his skin crawling as jealousy flared sharp and unrelenting. He hated it—hated the way it burned, the way it clawed at the edges of his composure.

But what he hated more was the knowledge that he had no right to feel it.

You weren’t his. And yet, watching you from across the room, Aaron couldn’t help but think you never truly belonged to anyone. You were too rare for that. Too extraordinary.

And God, how it ached to know he had let you go.

He forced himself to smile at Beth as she laughed at something Rossi said, but his attention kept drifting back to you. He hated the way Jeff hovered near you, his posture possessive and his grin smug. He hated the way Jeff’s gaudy suit jacket clashed with the elegance of your dress, as though he didn’t understand how lucky he was to be standing beside you.

More than anything, Aaron hated the feeling crawling under his skin—the sharp, searing jealousy that he couldn’t shake. It was worse than anything he had felt before, even when Haley had been unfaithful right in front of his face. This was different.

Haley’s betrayal had stung, yes, but it had been rooted in a relationship that had already begun to fracture. What Aaron felt now was raw and consuming, made worse by the knowledge that he had no claim on you. You weren’t his.

You never would be.

Beth touched his arm gently, drawing his focus back to her. “You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

Aaron nodded quickly, plastering on a polite smile. “Of course. Just thinking about the week ahead.”

Beth gave him a knowing look but didn’t press further. She turned her attention back to Rossi, leaving Aaron with his thoughts.

He glanced toward you again, catching the way you laughed at something Jeff said. It wasn’t the laugh he remembered—the soft, genuine sound that used to fill his office late at night. This one was polite, reserved, a laugh you gave when you were being kind but not necessarily amused.

It was a small comfort but not enough to quiet the jealousy raging in his chest.

When you caught his eye from across the room, Aaron felt his breath hitch. Your gaze lingered for a moment—just long enough for him to see the flicker of something in your expression before you turned away, a polite smile on your lips as you greeted someone else.

He had made his choice. You had made yours. But standing there, watching you with someone like Jeff, Aaron couldn’t help but feel like he had made the wrong one.

And yet, there was nothing he could do but endure it.

So Aaron turned back to Beth, his expression carefully neutral, and let the music and the hum of conversation fade into the background. But the ache in his chest didn’t go away.

It never did.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the bar, waiting for the bartender to return with his order. The room buzzed with conversation and the occasional burst of laughter, the hum of the holiday party continuing around him like static. Beth was across the room, talking animatedly with one of the Bureau’s administrators, her glass of white wine nearly empty.

He had volunteered to get her a refill, partly because he wanted to give her a moment to network uninterrupted, but mostly because he needed a moment to himself. Maybe Beth would sell a painting or two with the amount of stiff suits in the room thought, he thought.

The sight of you with Jeff—laughing politely, your hand resting lightly on his arm—was wearing thin on his composure.

The bartender slid a fresh glass of wine and a scotch across the counter, and just as Aaron reached for them, he heard the unmistakable click of your heels behind him.

You didn’t say anything at first. You simply sidled up beside him, so close that he could feel the faint warmth of your body through the fabric of his suit. The scent of your perfume—something soft and alluring, with notes of jasmine—drifted over him, making his pulse quicken.

Aaron didn’t turn his head, but he felt the air shift between you. His grip on the glass tightened as he fought the urge to look.

Finally, you broke the silence.

“I hate you here with her.”

The words were quiet but sharp, cutting through the hum of the party like a knife. Aaron froze, his breath catching as he turned to look at you.

You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was fixed on the row of liquor bottles behind the bar, your expression calm but your eyes betraying the storm beneath.

He swallowed hard, his voice low and steady. “And you think I like seeing you here with Jeff?”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, finally turning to meet his gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension between you was palpable, crackling like static electricity in the small space that separated you.

Then you leaned in, so close that Aaron could feel the warmth of your breath against his ear.

“Do you know what I do?” you murmured, your voice almost a whisper. “I imagine it’s your hands on me instead of his. It makes it... easier.”

Aaron’s heart slammed against his ribcage, the weight of your words knocking the air out of him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stare at you in stunned silence.

You straightened, your expression unreadable but your lips curling into a faint, almost sad smile. “I thought you should know.”

His throat felt dry, his voice caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came.

Before he could gather his thoughts, you stepped back, your gaze flickering briefly to his hands, still clutching the glasses. “Your drinks,” you said softly, the faintest hint of something unspoken lingering in your tone.

And just like that, you were gone.

Aaron watched as you crossed the room, your hips swaying, your gown flowing gracefully behind you as you returned to Jeff and the group of section chiefs. You slipped back into the conversation effortlessly, smiling and nodding as though nothing had happened.

But Aaron knew better.

He stood there at the bar, the scotch and wine forgotten in his hands, as the weight of your words settled over him. His pulse still raced, his skin prickling with the memory of your closeness, your voice, your confession.

For a man who had always prided himself on control, Aaron felt anything but. You had shattered the careful walls he’d built around himself, leaving him standing in the middle of a crowded room, completely undone.

Aaron Hotchner sat at the table, his back straight, his hands loosely clasped around the tumbler of scotch in front of him. The room was alive with the sound of music, laughter, and the murmur of conversation, but to him, it all blurred into a distant hum.

Beth was seated beside him, engaged in an animated discussion with Penelope. Her warm laugh punctuated the conversation. Aaron nodded occasionally when prompted, but his focus was elsewhere.

Across the room, you swayed to the slow rhythm of the music, your body close to Jeff’s as he held you gently, one hand on your waist, the other resting lightly on your back. Your head tilted slightly, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shoulder. The two of you moved easily, almost effortlessly, to the soft melody of the band.

And then you looked up.

Your eyes found his across the room, and in that instant, the rest of the world fell away.

Aaron froze, his breath catching in his chest as your gaze locked onto his. There was something in the way you looked at him, something unspoken but deeply familiar, that cut through the noise and the lights and the meaningless chatter around him.

It wasn’t just eye contact. It was a connection—a thread pulled taut between you, invisible to everyone else but impossibly strong.

He couldn’t look away.

Your eyes held his, and in them, he saw everything that words couldn’t convey. Longing. Frustration. A quiet, desperate ache that mirrored his own. It was as though every emotion he’d buried, every feeling he’d suppressed, was reflected back at him in your gaze.

And then there was the tension—the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed between you but felt even stronger now. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, the kind of thing that made time seem irrelevant.

Aaron didn’t notice the way his fingers tightened around the glass in his hand or the way his heart began to pound. All he knew was that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

You swayed gently in Jeff’s arms, your movements fluid and graceful, but your gaze never wavered. The music, the people, even Jeff himself—all of it faded into the background. There was only you and him, locked in this moment, this silent conversation that neither of you could end.

It wasn’t just attraction, though, that was there, simmering beneath the surface. It was something deeper, something raw and unspoken. It was the weight of every choice you’d made, every boundary you’d set, and every word you’d left unsaid.

Aaron felt like he couldn’t breathe like the space between you was both infinite and nonexistent. It was a cruel paradox—feeling as though you were so close he could almost reach out and touch you, yet knowing you were untouchable, unreachable.

The ache in his chest wasn’t just pain; it was a deep, hollow yearning that he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t the sharp sting of a fleeting wound—it was the slow, relentless ache of loss. Of knowing exactly what he was missing and yet being powerless to reclaim it.

He missed you in ways that felt impossible to quantify, in ways that crept into his thoughts when he least expected it. He missed your touch—the way your hand had lingered on his arm during late-night conversations, grounding him in moments when he felt untethered. He missed the warmth of your presence, the quiet reassurance that came with simply having you near.

But it wasn’t just the physical things. It was everything about you, the parts of you that no one else seemed to notice or understand the way he did.

He missed your laugh—the genuine, full-bodied sound that lit up a room and chased away the weight of even the hardest days. It was rare, but when it happened, it was like the world itself paused to listen.

He missed your softness—the way you could be so strong, so unyielding in your convictions, and yet offer a kindness that made even the most jaded person feel seen. You had a way of making people believe they mattered, a way of making him believe he mattered.

And he missed your fierceness—the fire in your eyes when you were fighting for something you believed in, the way you carried yourself with confidence and grace, never backing down from a challenge. You inspired him in ways he didn’t even realize until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

Most of all, he missed your presence. That quiet, steady support that had become such a part of his life he hadn’t realized how much he relied on it until it was gone. You were his equal, his match in every way that mattered. And now, you were just... gone.

The ache in his chest deepened as he sat at the table, staring at the empty doorway where you had disappeared. He didn’t just miss what they had shared—the stolen moments, the quiet confessions. He missed you. The person who had seen him at his worst and still stood by him. The person who had understood him in ways no one else ever could.

And as the weight of that realization settled over him, Aaron knew that no matter how much time passed, no matter what choices either of them made, the space you had left in his life would never be filled.

And then, just as suddenly, you broke the spell.

You blinked, your gaze faltering as you looked away, your expression unreadable. Flustered almost. Aaron watched as you gently stepped back from Jeff, your movements deliberate but hurried.

“Excuse me,” you murmured to him, your voice just audible enough for Aaron to hear over the music.

You crossed the room with purpose, your gown flowing behind you like liquid emerald. Aaron’s eyes followed your every step, his heart sinking as you reached your table and grabbed your clutch.

Jeff, caught off guard, trailed after you, his expression confused but compliant. He said something to you, but you barely acknowledged him, your focus entirely on leaving.

Aaron’s gaze lingered on the empty space you left behind, his chest tightening as he watched the two of you disappear through the ballroom’s double doors.

The world slowly returned—Beth’s voice beside him, the hum of the music, the clinking of glasses—but none of it felt real.

Aaron took a slow sip of his scotch, his gaze fixed on the door as though willing you to return. But he knew you wouldn’t.

Because whatever had just passed between you, whatever that moment had been, was too much for either of you to bear.

The drive to Beth’s apartment had been quiet. Too quiet. She had smiled softly at him when he pulled up in front of her building, the warmth of her expression filled with an affection that he knew he couldn’t return—not the way she deserved.

“Do you want to come up?” she asked, her tone light but hopeful.

Aaron hesitated, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He forced a smile, one that felt more like a grimace. “Not tonight. It’s been a long day.”

Beth studied him for a moment, her disappointment subtle but evident. “Okay,” she said softly, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Drive safe, Aaron.”

He nodded, waiting until she disappeared into the building before exhaling a shaky breath. He should have gone home. He should have driven straight to his house, poured himself another drink, and buried the night in paperwork or sleep.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Aaron found himself driving through the quiet streets, the sound of the city outside his car muffled by the relentless echo of your words in his mind.

Do you know what I do? I imagine it’s your hands on me instead of his. It makes it... easier.

The words played on a loop, relentless and consuming. He could see the way you had looked at him, the softness in your voice, the sadness and longing that mirrored his own. It unraveled him.

He loosened his tie, tugging at the silk knot with a sharp, frustrated motion as if it were choking him. His chest felt tight, his breath shallow, and he couldn’t shake the image of you from his mind—your gown, the way you moved, the way your eyes had locked with his in a silent confession across the room.

He didn’t even notice his speed, the way the city blurred around him as he drove. All he knew was where he needed to go.

When he pulled up in front of your building, he hesitated only briefly. Jeff could be here. That much was obvious. But Aaron didn’t care—not tonight.

He climbed out of the car, his footsteps quick and determined as he approached your door. His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse roaring in his ears, but his mind was clear.

He knocked, his knuckles rapping firmly against the wood.

The seconds stretched endlessly until the door opened, and there you were.

You were wearing a silk robe, its soft fabric clinging to your frame and catching the light. Your hair was loose, framing your face in soft waves, and your expression shifted from surprise to something unreadable when you saw him.

“Aaron,” you said softly, your voice tentative.

“Is he here?” he asked, his voice low and steady, though his chest felt like it might explode.

You blinked, startled by the question, before shaking your head. “No.”

“Good,” he said, stepping forward and into your space.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t hesitant.

Aaron’s lips crashed against yours, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him as he pushed the door closed behind them with his foot. The kiss was fierce, dominating, raw, filled with all the pent-up tension and longing that had been building for months.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as you stumbled slightly, the force of his kiss pushing you backward. He guided you with purpose, his body pressing yours against the wall just inside the entryway.

His hands moved to your face, his fingers threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the connection. It was raw, desperate, and consuming.

You responded in kind, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. The silk of your robe brushed against his suit, the contrast of textures only heightening the sensation.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your chests heaving as you stared at each other.

“Aaron,” you whispered, your voice trembling but laced with something unmistakable—desire, relief, and a trace of vulnerability.

He rested his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face as he closed his eyes. “I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his voice rough and raw.

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you pulled him back into another kiss, and Aaron let himself surrender to the moment, the weight of everything else fading away.

For once, nothing else mattered.

Aaron’s breath was ragged as his lips moved against yours, his hands still cradling your face like he was afraid to let go. Every ounce of restraint he’d held onto for so long had snapped the moment you’d opened the door, and now, the thought of stopping felt impossible.

Your fingers curled into the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his body pressing firmly against yours. The silk of your robe was impossibly soft under his hands as he slid them from your face to your waist, his fingers gripping you like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.

Aaron knew he shouldn’t be here. Knew this was a line he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. But every logical thought dissolved under the weight of your kiss, the way your lips moved against his with a hunger that matched his own.

“God, we shouldn’t—” you murmured against his mouth, your voice breathless but tinged with something desperate.

“I know,” he whispered back, his hands trailing along your sides, feeling the warmth of your body through the thin fabric of your robe. “But I can’t stop.”

Your eyes met his, the intensity of your gaze nearly undoing him. It wasn’t just lust that burned in your expression—it was longing, the same yearning that had been simmering between you for months, the same ache he’d carried every time he saw you.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands roaming up your back as he felt you relax into him. Your hands found the knot of his tie, tugging it loose with a deliberate pull that sent his pulse racing. The silk slipped free, and you tossed it aside, your fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt with a sense of urgency that mirrored his own.

Aaron let out a soft groan as your hands brushed against his chest, your touch igniting a fire in him that he hadn’t felt in years. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck as you tilted your head to give him better access.

“Aaron,” you breathed, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, and the sound of it sent a shiver down his spine.

His hands found the sash of your robe, his fingers hesitating briefly as he looked at you, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation. But there was none—only want, only need.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rough but tender, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

Your answer was clear in the way you pulled him closer, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, “I’m sure.”

The robe slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and Aaron’s breath hitched at the sight of you, so beautiful and bare before him. His hands traced the curve of your waist, his touch reverent but firm, as though he was committing every detail to memory.

He kissed you again, deeper and slower this time, savoring the taste of you, the softness of your lips, the way your hands tangled in his hair. The tension between you crackled like electricity, the air heavy with the weight of everything unspoken but understood.

Every touch, every kiss, felt forbidden, a line crossed and recrossed with every passing second. But neither of you pulled away. You couldn’t.

Aaron guided you gently toward the couch, his lips never leaving yours as you moved together. You sank down onto the cushions, pulling him with you, and he let himself get lost in you—the way you smelled, the way your skin felt against his, the way you whispered his name like it was the only thing that mattered.

As his hands roamed over you, exploring, memorizing, Aaron felt a pang of guilt buried beneath the passion. He knew this was dangerous, that there would be consequences. But for now, in this moment, he didn’t care.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, you were his.

And he wasn’t ready to let that go.

Aaron’s mind was a storm as he pressed you against the cushions of the couch, his lips moving with a ferocity he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long. The weight of his body pressed into yours, grounding him in a way that made everything else—Beth, Jeff, the consequences of this moment—fade into the background.

Your hands slid under his shirt, your fingers grazing his skin with a touch that sent shivers through him. He growled low in his throat, pulling back just enough to shrug out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. His shirt followed, buttons undone hastily by your hands, and he barely registered the faint sound of fabric hitting the hardwood before his mouth was back on yours.

This was wrong. He knew it with every rational part of himself. But it didn’t stop the way he kissed you, dominating, claiming like he was trying to erase the memory of anyone else who had touched you. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your back—pulling you closer, needing to feel every inch of you against him.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, almost a growl. His fingers found your bare skin so inviting. “I’ve wanted this… you… for so long.”

You arched into him, your breath hitching as his lips trailed from your mouth to your collarbone, leaving a scorching path in their wake. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and Aaron felt like he might lose his mind at the way you responded to him.

“Do you know how hard it’s been?” he asked, his voice strained as he paused, his forehead pressed against yours. His fingers grazed your bare shoulder, his touch featherlight but filled with intent. “Watching you, wanting you, knowing I couldn’t have you?”

Your eyes locked with his, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The intensity in your gaze was enough to undo him, filled with the same longing, the same desperation he’d been carrying for months.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’ve felt it too.”

That was all it took for Aaron to give in completely. His lips crashed against yours again, his kiss deep and consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts. He shifted, lifting you slightly as he moved you further onto the couch, his hands gripping your hips with a possessiveness he couldn’t hold back.

You were his. At least in this moment, you were his.

His hands roamed over you with purpose, memorizing every curve, every inch of skin he could reach. His lips continued their relentless exploration of your body. He kissed you like he was starving like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

And maybe you were.

The air between you was thick with tension; each movement laced with the weight of everything unspoken. Aaron’s hands framed your face as he paused to look at you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft but intense. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, your fingers brushing over his jaw as you pulled him back to you. “Stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling but firm. “Don’t say that. Not now.”

Aaron didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The way you looked at him—like he was the only thing in the world that mattered—was enough to silence any doubts. He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second, every touch, every sigh that escaped your lips.

It was forbidden. It was reckless. But in that moment, it was everything.

Aaron’s control, the control he prided himself on in every aspect of his life, was slipping through his fingers. His hands gripped your waist as he pulled you impossibly closer, his lips moving against yours with a hunger he hadn’t felt in years—if ever. The feel of your body beneath his was intoxicating, and for once, he allowed himself to surrender to the moment.

But you weren’t passive. No, that wasn’t who you were.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, your nails raking down his back as you shifted beneath him, a movement so deliberate it nearly undid him. You pressed up against him, your strength and confidence matching his in a way that sent his pulse racing.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his breath heavy as his eyes roamed over you. The sight of you—flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, eyes dark with desire—was enough to make his chest tighten.

“You’re not getting away from me this time,” he said, his voice low and commanding, his hands sliding up your thighs as he leaned in close.

You smirked, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tugged him toward you. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you murmured, your voice teasing but filled with intent.

Aaron’s response was immediate. His lips found your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. He wanted to mark you, to leave a reminder of this moment, of him, as if to stake a claim neither of you would ever admit aloud.

Your hands moved to his belt, the boldness of your actions sending a jolt through him. He let out a low growl, gripping your wrists gently but firmly to still you.

“Not yet,” he said, his tone a mix of command and amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, your expression challenging. “Afraid you can’t keep up, Hotchner?”

That did it.

Aaron’s lips crashed against yours again, his hands sliding up to cup your face as he deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of frustration, desire, and possessiveness into it. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, drawing a soft moan from you that went straight to his core.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his voice rough as he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.

You smiled, your fingers trailing down his chest with deliberate slowness. “I think I have some idea,” you replied, your voice low and filled with heat.

The push and pull between you was electric, a constant dance of dominance and surrender that neither of you fully gave into. When you shifted, pushing him back with a surprising strength that only made him want you more, he couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” he asked, his hands gripping your hips as you straddled him, your robe slipping fully off your shoulders, completely bare to him.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “You don’t mind a challenge, do you?”

Aaron’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you down against him, his voice a growl. “Not at all.”

The heat between you was overwhelming, the air thick with tension and desire as your lips met his again, both of you fighting for control even as you gave into the pull of each other. It was raw, intense, and unrelenting, a collision of two forces that had been held back for far too long.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement spoke volumes, the unspoken words of longing and frustration spilling out in the way you claimed each other, over and over again.

Aaron had always been a man of control, a man who measured his steps and chose his words with precision. But here, with you, that control was unraveling, slipping away with every kiss, every touch. The months of tension, the stolen glances, the unspoken words between you had built to this moment, and now, neither of you seemed capable of holding back.

Your nails dragged along his chest, leaving faint, red lines in their wake as you leaned into him. He hissed at the sensation, his hands gripping your hips with enough force to anchor himself. Aaron couldn’t stop his hands from exploring, feeling the heat of your skin under his touch.

“You drive me insane,” he growled, his voice rough and strained as he tilted his head to capture your lips again. The kiss was fierce, almost punishing, a testament to the months of restraint that had finally snapped.

You didn’t shy away. You met his intensity with your own, your lips moving against his with a hunger that left no doubt about how much you wanted this—wanted him.

“Good,” you murmured against his mouth, your voice breathless but laced with defiance. “Because you’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Aaron chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, earning a gasp from you that sent a surge of possessiveness through him. His hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifted you from the couch effortlessly. The action earned a surprised laugh from you, but it was cut short when he pressed you against the wall, his body pinning yours in place.

“This is mine,” he said, his voice low and commanding as his hands roamed your body. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, trailing kisses down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re mine.”

Your head tilted back against the wall, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. “Then take me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of challenge and desire. “If you want me so badly, Aaron, prove it.”

Something snapped in him at your words. His hands tightened on your thighs as his lips found yours again, the kiss rough and consuming, leaving no room for doubt about who you belonged to in this moment. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave faint impressions, a silent mark of his claim on you.

Every movement was deliberate, every touch a blend of dominance and reverence. Aaron’s hands slid beneath the loosened fabric of your robe, his fingers exploring every curve, every inch of skin he could reach.

Your body arched against his, your hands gripping his shoulders as you met him with equal fervor. There was nothing soft or gentle about the way you moved together; it was raw, fierce, a collision of passion and pent-up frustration that neither of you could contain.

“Aaron,” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a plea, and it undid him. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes, his grip on you firm and steady.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice a growl as he tightened his hold on you.

Your eyes locked with his, dark with desire and unspoken emotion. “Aaron,” you repeated, your voice softer this time but no less commanding.

His lips crashed against yours again, his hands roaming freely, claiming you in every way he could. There was no hesitation, no room for second thoughts—only the overwhelming need to have you, to show you exactly what you meant to him, even if he couldn’t say the words aloud.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. What he saw there—desire, longing, and something deeper, more vulnerable—unraveled him completely.

“I need you,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, filled with the weight of months of suppressed emotions. “Tell me you want this.”

Your hands cupped his face, your thumbs brushing lightly over his jawline as you looked at him with a gaze that left him breathless. “I’ve always wanted this,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

That was all he needed.

Aaron’s lips crashed against yours, the kiss hungry and all-consuming as his hands slid up your thighs, securing your legs around his waist. He pressed you harder against the wall, the roughness of the plaster against your back contrasting with the heat of his body against yours.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement was filled with urgency, a desperate need to make up for all the time you’d spent denying yourselves this moment. His hands roamed your body, possessive and reverent as if trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

Your hands tugged at the rest of his clothes, pushing them further off him as your lips moved from his mouth to his jawline, trailing kisses down his neck. The soft, breathy sound you made against his skin sent a jolt of electricity through him, his control slipping further.

“Aaron,” you gasped, your voice breaking as his hands moved to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

He groaned in response, his name on your lips undoing him in a way he hadn’t expected. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and raw as his lips found yours again. “No one else’s.”

Your response was immediate, your arms tightening around his neck as you kissed him back with equal fervor. The way you moved against him, the way you whispered his name between gasps, left no room for doubt—you were his, and he was yours.

The tension between you reached its breaking point, the air heavy with the weight of everything unspoken but understood. Aaron’s movements became more deliberate, his hands gripping you firmly as he gave in completely to the moment.

It was raw, intense, and unrelenting, a culmination of months of longing and frustration. Every touch, every kiss, every movement was filled with a passion that left you both breathless, the line between control and surrender blurring as you claimed each other fully.

When he reached between you, he found you wet and wanting. Bucking your hips against his hand. He circled his fingers, warming you up--not that you needed it. Savoring the little responses he got from you. His other hand reached for your breast, caressing and cupping it with achingly slow motions.

“Aaron!” It was almost a demand, telling him you needed him now. He understood as you pushed yourself up, wrapping one leg around his waist. His pants and belt pooled at his ankles--it wasn’t the most practical scene, but was anything about this situation?

He entered you swiftly, an open-mouthed kiss with a shared groan between the two of you. Your hands found his hair, tugging on it as your eyes rolled back. His mouth moved to the hollow of your neck, his hands exploring you all at once, but still not enough.

He imagined the angle was physically more demanding for you as he lifted you, holding you up against the wall, bringing him impossibly deeper now. He rocked into you with a rhythm that was unmatched. The sound of his metal belt buckle shifting on the floor with every swift slap of his hips against yours filled the room.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your peak, basically melting in his arms. It was like a domino effect, taking him down with you. He released deep inside of you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he groaned your name.

Something deep was released inside in this moment, too, more emotionally than any sexual release. He knew in this moment he couldn’t not have you again.

You unwrapped your legs from his hips, the two of you slowly separating with a whimper.

Aaron held you against him, his forehead resting against yours as both of you tried to catch your breath. His hands remained on your waist, his grip firm but gentle, as if he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of what you’d just done hung in the air, but so did the undeniable connection that had brought you to this point.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough as his fingers brushed lightly against your side.

You nodded, your lips curving into a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

Aaron exhaled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he closed his eyes. For now, in this moment, everything else could wait. For now, there was only you.

The intensity between you had cooled slightly, replaced now by a quiet tenderness that neither of you knew how to navigate. Reaching down, he pulled his boxers, pants and belt back up, leaving them still undone.

The silence was thick, and as Aaron stepped back, his gaze flicked to the disheveled state of both of you. He ran a hand through his hair, his breathing still uneven as the realization hit him like a jolt.

“We didn’t...” he started, his voice low and gravelly. “We didn’t use protection.”

Your lips parted, and for a moment, you didn’t respond. Then, with a softness that caught him off guard, you said, “I know.”

Aaron frowned, confusion furrowing his brow. “And you’re... with Jeff.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced them out, needing to understand. He watched as you turned away.

“We haven’t had sex,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aaron froze, the weight of your words sinking in slowly. “What?”

You turned to face him, your expression vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. “I couldn’t,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I couldn’t bring myself to... be with him. He’s—” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “He’s been an accessory. Something to keep people from asking questions.”

Aaron stared at you, his mind racing. Jeff’s smug comments in the locker room, the way he’d hovered near you at the party—it had all been an act, a performance. You hadn’t been with him. You’d been pulling him along to keep up appearances, just like you’d said.

“I thought...” he began, but his words faltered. He took a breath, running a hand down his face. “You’re with him, and I’m with Beth. Or at least I thought I was.”

You studied him, your eyes searching his face. “Have you?” you asked, the question hesitant but pointed.

Aaron shook his head, his voice quieter now. “No. I haven’t been able to.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he met your gaze. “She’s not... she’s not you.”

For a moment, the weight of that truth hung between you, unspoken but undeniable. Neither of you moved, the air between you thick with something that felt too fragile to name.

Eventually, Aaron stepped forward, his hand brushing against yours before gently taking it in his. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You followed him without a word, the quiet between you more comfortable now, though still heavy with everything unsaid. In the dim light of the small bathroom, Aaron found a clean towel, dampening it with warm water before turning back to you.

He worked in silence, his movements careful and deliberate as he wiped away the remnants of your shared passion. His touch was tender, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

When it was your turn, you took another face cloth, your hands steady but your expression unreadable. You dabbed at his face, his neck, his chest, your fingers lingering just a little too long as if memorizing the feel of him.

Neither of you spoke, the quiet filled only with the soft sound of water and the unspoken tension that neither of you knew how to address. Aaron watched you, his chest tightening as he saw the flicker of vulnerability in your eyes, the way your lips pressed into a thin line as you concentrated on your task.

He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. So he let the moment stretch, allowing the silence to say what neither of you could.

When you were finished, you folded the towel and set it aside, your hands brushing his one last time before you stepped back. Aaron caught your wrist gently, his touch lingering just long enough for you to meet his gaze.

But still, neither of you spoke.

Instead, you turned away, pulling your robe tighter around you as Aaron let his hand fall to his side. The weight of everything you’d shared pressed heavily on both of you and for now, neither of you had the courage to face what came next.

Aaron stood in the quiet of your bedroom, his hands resting on his hips as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. The events of the night weighed heavily on him—what they meant, what they would lead to—but before he could sink too deeply into his own mind, you reappeared.

Your silk robe was gone, replaced by his button-up shirt, which hung loosely on your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. You looked both effortless and intimate, like you belonged in it.

“I missed this,” you said softly, your voice breaking through his thoughts. You smoothed your hands over the fabric, as though savoring the feel of it. “I missed the smell of you. I missed you. Everything about you.”

The words hit Aaron like a punch to the chest, and he exhaled slowly, his throat tightening. He knew the feeling all too well. He had missed you, too—more than he could admit, more than he had allowed himself to feel until now.

You took his hand, your fingers curling around his as you gently tugged him toward the bed. Aaron followed, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding him even as his heart raced. Removing his dresspants, folding them, and placing them on a chair nearby.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his body taut with hesitation, but you didn’t let him linger there. You climbed onto the mattress, settling in on your side and motioning for him to join you.

Aaron hesitated for a moment, then slid under the covers, lying on his side to face you. The moonlight spilled through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, silver glow. It cast delicate shadows across your face, highlighting the vulnerability in your expression as you looked at him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched between you, filled with the weight of everything unspoken. Aaron’s gaze traced the lines of your face, committing every detail to memory—the curve of your cheek, the softness of your lips, the way your eyes held his with an intensity that made his chest ache.

“Love me,” you whispered suddenly, your voice trembling but insistent. Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, your touch hesitant but desperate. “Please, Aaron. Love me.”

The vulnerability in your voice, the way you said the words like they were both a demand and a plea, sent a wave of emotion crashing over him. This was almost uncharacteristic for you. Your presence never demanded attention, yet here you were, asking him to love you. Aaron’s heart twisted painfully, and he reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“You don’t have to ask me to do that,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I already do.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes searching his as if trying to find the truth in his words. But there was no doubt, no hesitation in his gaze. He loved you—he always had, even when he couldn’t say it, even when it felt impossible.

“But we can’t,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “You know that. If we do this, we risk everything—our jobs, the team, the work we’ve both sacrificed so much for.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your voice firm despite the tears shining in your eyes. “I don’t care about any of that, Aaron. I just care about you.”

Aaron closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he struggled to reconcile the conflicting emotions tearing through him. He hated how complicated this was, how the world seemed determined to keep the two of you apart.

“I hate it, too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hate how complicated this is, how much we have to give up just to be together. But I can’t lose you. I can’t risk losing everything that makes you... you.”

Your hand cupped his face, your thumb brushing lightly over his cheek as you leaned closer. “Then don’t,” you said, your voice soft but resolute. “Don’t lose me. We’ll figure it out. We have to.”

Aaron exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as his eyes closed. The thought of giving you up, of walking away from this, was unbearable. And yet, the thought of losing everything you had worked so hard for was just as devastating.

“I’d give it all up,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “The job, the team—all of it. I’d give it up to have you.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of his words settling over you. He had reached a point where he couldn’t even get to with Haley--ready to put the job and whatever else behind him. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his in a kiss so soft it felt like a promise.

Aaron kissed you back, his hands cradling your face as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the connection. And as the two of you lay there in the quiet, the moonlight casting its gentle glow over the room, Aaron realized that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid of what came next.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room as Aaron woke to the warmth of your body next to his. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of forgetting everything outside this space. But the weight of reality settled quickly, and he knew there were choices to be made—choices that couldn’t wait.

You stirred beside him, your head turning slightly on the pillow as your eyes fluttered open. When you looked at him, there was a quiet understanding in your gaze, as though you’d already been thinking about what needed to happen next.

The day was spent in quiet, focused conversation. You sat together at the kitchen table, steaming cups of coffee in front of you, as you laid out the possibilities. Aaron admired your methodical approach, the way you analyzed every angle every consequence, even as he felt the heaviness of the discussion pressing down on him.

“What if we went to the team first?” you suggested your voice steady but laced with uncertainty. “If they’re on our side—if they don’t have any reservations—it might give us the leverage we need when we talk to the Director again.”

Aaron considered your words carefully, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “It’s risky,” he admitted, his gaze meeting yours. “But it might be the only way to prove that this won’t affect the team’s dynamic. If they can support us, it could make a difference.”

You nodded, your hands wrapped around your mug as you leaned back in your chair. “And if the Director still refuses?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with determination. “Then we don’t give him a choice. We go in together and tell him it’s either this—or we both walk.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was a shared understanding of the enormity of what you were discussing. Neither of you had ever walked away from anything lightly, but the thought of giving each other up again was unbearable.

Later, as the day stretched on, the two of you made the decisions you’d been avoiding for weeks. Beth deserved the truth, as did Jeff, no matter how difficult those conversations would be.

Aaron made the visit to Beth first. She was tinged with confusion at his sudden need to talk. He kept his words measured and respectful, explaining that he couldn’t give her what she deserved—that his heart had always belonged to someone else. Beth was hurt but graceful, her acceptance tinged with sadness.

When he returned to the your house later on after also attending to fatherly duties with Jack, you were finishing your call with Jeff. Your expression was unreadable, but the way you let out a soft sigh as you set your phone down spoke volumes. “He didn’t take it well,” you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing the edge of your mug. “But I couldn’t keep leading him on. It wasn’t fair.”

Aaron placed a hand over yours, his touch grounding and steady. “We did what we had to,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “Now we move forward.”

That evening, as you sat together in the quiet, the weight of the day’s decisions settled over you both. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with potential challenges and risks, but for the first time, there was a glimmer of hope.

The two of you had a plan—a united front—and whatever came next, you knew you’d face it.

The BAU conference room felt smaller than usual as Aaron Hotchner stood to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You were seated at the head of the table, your posture poised but your hands clasped tightly together—a rare sign of nervousness that only someone who knew you well, like Aaron, would notice.

The team filtered in one by one, their expressions curious but light. Emily had a cup of coffee in hand, Derek was chatting with JJ about some recent Quantico gossip, and Penelope trailed behind with a bright, questioning look. Reid sat toward the middle, already flipping through a notepad, and Rossi took his usual spot near the back, his eyes sharp as they scanned the room.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Derek asked, his grin playful as he pulled out a chair and settled in. “This doesn’t feel like our usual meeting vibe.”

You took a steadying breath, your gaze sweeping across the table before landing briefly on Aaron. He gave you a small nod, his expression calm but supportive.

“Thank you all for coming,” you began, your voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension in the room. “I know this isn’t our usual meeting. Aaron and I asked you here because we need to discuss something important—something personal that affects the team.”

The lighthearted chatter died down instantly, replaced by a palpable curiosity and concern.

You continued, your hands tightening slightly around each other as you spoke. “Over the past few months, Aaron and I have realized that we want to pursue a personal relationship. I know this might come as a surprise—or even a concern—to some of you, given our roles and the nature of our work.”

Aaron watched as the team processed your words, their expressions a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and, in some cases, quiet understanding.

You straightened, your tone firm but earnest. “We’ve thought this through carefully. We understand the gravity of this decision, not just for ourselves but for all of you. This team is a family. It’s been my honor to work with each of you, and I don’t take lightly the idea of doing anything that could disrupt that dynamic.”

Aaron stepped forward then, his voice calm and measured as he added, “That’s why we wanted to be upfront with all of you. We respect your opinions, and we’re here to listen if any of you have reservations or concerns.”

There was a beat of silence before Emily leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a thoughtful look. “So let me get this straight,” she said, her voice tinged with dry amusement. “The two of you want to be together, but the higher-ups don’t approve?”

You nodded, your gaze steady. “Correct. The Director has made it clear that our relationship is considered inappropriate given our positions. He gave us two options: end it or find roles outside the team.”

JJ frowned, her concern evident. “And what are you planning to do?”

Aaron glanced at you, and you gave a slight nod before he spoke. “We’ve decided to pursue the relationship despite those orders. But we’re not going into this without a plan. We believe the best course of action is to go to the Director with the support of this team. If we can demonstrate that our relationship won’t compromise our work or the dynamic here, it may give us the leverage we need.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Reid asked quietly, his brow furrowed in thought.

You hesitated, and Aaron stepped in. “If the Director won’t budge, we’re prepared to leave. Together.”

That admission hung heavy in the air, and Aaron could feel the weight of the team’s reactions pressing down on him.

Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he let out a low whistle. “Man, that’s a big gamble. But you’ve always been a risk-taker, Hotch.”

Emily smirked faintly, her tone more teasing than judgmental. “Never would’ve pegged you for a rule-breaker, though.”

Penelope, wide-eyed and fidgeting with her bracelets, finally spoke up. “So… does this mean we’re, like, the deciding vote? Because, no pressure, but this feels like a really big deal!”

You smiled faintly, the tension in your posture easing slightly. “It is a big deal, Penelope. But we trust you. All of you. That’s why we wanted to have this conversation first.”

Rossi, who had been quietly observing, finally leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “I’ve seen a lot of things in this job. Relationships, breakups, people falling apart under pressure. But I’ve never doubted the professionalism or dedication of either of you. And I don’t see that changing now.”

Aaron felt a flicker of gratitude as Rossi’s words hung in the air, setting the tone for the rest of the discussion.

One by one, the team voiced their thoughts. JJ expressed some concern about how this might look to the brass but ultimately supported you both, trusting your judgment. Reid, after asking a few logistical questions, nodded thoughtfully and said he believed the two of you could handle it. Penelope gave an impassioned speech about love conquering all, which drew chuckles around the table, and Emily and Derek exchanged a look before both offering their backing with only a bit of playful ribbing.

By the end of the discussion, Aaron felt a weight lift from his chest. The team’s support wasn’t just a relief—it was a validation of the respect and trust you had built with each of them over the years.

You stood, your hands resting lightly on the table as you addressed them one last time. “Thank you. Truly. This means everything to us. And I promise, no matter what happens, the integrity of this team will always come first.”

Aaron stepped beside you, his gaze sweeping over the team with quiet gratitude. “We’ll take this to the Director together. And whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

As the team began to disperse, Derek clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Never thought I’d see the day, Hotch. You breaking rules for love? Guess there’s hope for all of us.”

Aaron chuckled softly, but as he turned to look at you, his expression softened. This wasn’t just about breaking rules—it was about finally choosing the person who made it all worthwhile.

Aaron Hotchner stood in the hallway outside the Director’s office, his hands in his pockets and his gaze steady. The weight of what they were about to do hung heavily between you, but he felt none of the apprehension he might have expected. Instead, he felt a strange calm bolstered by the resolve that radiated from you as you stood beside him.

You turned to him, your expression set but your eyes soft. You had dressed sharply for the meeting, your tailored suit immaculate, projecting the authority you carried so effortlessly. Still, there was something in the way your fingers brushed against his as you reached for him that made his chest tighten.

“You ready for this?” you asked, your voice low but steady.

Aaron looked at you, taking in the determined set of your jaw and the quiet strength in your posture. “With you? Always.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, and for a moment, the tension between you softened. You stepped closer, your hand resting lightly on his chest as you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was both grounding and electrifying.

“Let’s do this,” you murmured against his mouth, and he nodded, his hands lingering briefly on your waist before you pulled away.

When you entered the Director’s office together, the atmosphere shifted. The room was large and imposing, the walls lined with awards and photos that told the story of the Bureau’s successes. The Director sat behind his desk, his expression unreadable as he gestured for you to sit.

Aaron stayed standing beside you as you took the lead, your voice calm and authoritative as you began. “Thank you for meeting with us, sir. We wanted to address the situation between Agent Hotchner and myself directly.”

The Director leaned back in his chair, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I’m listening.”

Aaron watched as you laid out your case with precision and confidence, detailing how the two of you had handled your relationship with professionalism, how you had sought the team’s support, and how they had expressed their trust in your ability to maintain the integrity of the BAU.

“We understand your concerns, and we don’t take this lightly,” you said, your gaze steady on the Director. “But we also know the value we bring to the Bureau, both individually and as a team. We’re here to ask for your trust, just as we’ve earned the trust of the people we lead.”

Aaron stepped in then, his voice steady but firm. “We’ve always put the mission of the BAU first, and that won’t change. But if this is a line you believe we’ve crossed, we’re prepared to accept the consequences. Both of us.”

The Director’s gaze sharpened at that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you both. “You’re telling me you’re willing to walk away? Both of you?”

“Yes,” you said simply, your tone leaving no room for doubt. “We believe in what we’ve built here, but we won’t compromise our integrity—or the team’s—by pretending this relationship doesn’t exist.”

The room was silent for a long moment, the weight of your words settling heavily in the air. Aaron could feel the tension coiled in his chest, but he didn’t waver. He stood beside you, unflinching, as the Director considered their ultimatum.

Finally, the Director let out a slow breath; his fingers steepled under his chin. “This is highly irregular. You both know that. The Bureau doesn’t operate on personal exceptions.”

You nodded, your posture unyielding. “We understand that, sir. But losing both of us would be a significant blow to the BAU, especially given our track record and the current demands on the unit.”

The Director’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re asking for a lot.”

Aaron stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. “And we’re offering a solution. Put us on a review period. Watch us closely. If there are any issues—any compromises to the integrity of the BAU—you’ll have our resignations. No questions asked.”

The Director’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his expression inscrutable. After what felt like an eternity, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply. “Fine. A review period. But understand this: you’ll both be under intense scrutiny. Any sign that this relationship is affecting the team or your work, and it ends. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you said immediately, your voice steady.

Aaron nodded. “Crystal.”

When the two of you left the office, the tension in the hallway was palpable, but it quickly gave way to a quiet sense of victory. You turned to him, your eyes meeting his, and for the first time that day, you allowed yourself a small, relieved smile.

“That went better than expected,” you said, your voice light with a mix of relief and determination.

Aaron chuckled softly, his hand brushing against yours as you walked. “I’d say we make a pretty good team.”

You stopped then, turning to face him fully. The moonlight streaming through the hallway windows cast a soft glow over your face, and Aaron felt his chest tighten at the sight of you—strong, confident, and absolutely unshakable.

“With you?” you said, echoing his earlier words. “We can do anything.”

Aaron smiled, his hand finding yours and giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. And as the two of you walked away from the Director’s office, united in purpose and resolve, he knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

Days later, the grand estate was already alive with warmth and light as Aaron Hotchner guided you up the stone steps to Rossi’s front door. The crisp New Year’s Eve air bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth he felt when he glanced at you, wrapped in a deep burgundy coat that highlighted the glow in your cheeks.

“Rossi doesn’t do anything halfway,” Aaron remarked quietly, his lips curving into a faint smile as you reached the top step.

“You say that like you’re surprised,” you teased, your eyes sparkling as you met his gaze.

Aaron chuckled softly, his hand finding the small of your back as the door swung open, revealing Rossi himself. Dressed in a sharp suit, his expression was one of genuine delight as he welcomed you both with open arms.

“Ah, my two favorite rule-breakers,” Rossi said with a grin, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in, come in. There’s champagne waiting, and plenty of people to charm.”

The party was every bit as grand as Aaron had expected. Rossi’s expansive living room was filled with colleagues, friends, and family, all dressed in their finest. A jazz quartet played softly in the corner, their music weaving seamlessly through the low hum of conversation.

Aaron scanned the room instinctively, cataloging familiar faces—Emily and JJ chatting near the bar, Penelope gesturing animatedly to Reid, and Derek leaning against a nearby column, his easy grin drawing a small crowd of admirers.

But his focus always returned to you.

You were by his side, your coat now replaced by an elegant black dress that hugged your figure perfectly, the neckline just daring enough to make his chest tighten. You smiled at someone who greeted you, your laugh soft but genuine, and Aaron couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly you commanded the room.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him as you handed him a glass of champagne.

He took it with a small smile, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “I’d say that depends entirely on you.”

Your lips quirked into a faint smirk, and for a moment, the noise of the room faded, leaving only the quiet connection between the two of you.

As the evening wore on, Aaron found himself drawn to you again and again, his gaze seeking you out even when you were across the room. You had a way of grounding him, even in the chaos of a room full of people, and he felt a quiet thrill every time your eyes met his, a silent understanding passing between you.

When the two of you found yourselves alone on Rossi’s terrace, the night sky stretched out above you, Aaron couldn’t help but steal a moment. The cold air bit at his skin, but the warmth of your presence was enough to chase it away.

“You look stunning tonight,” he said softly, his voice low as he leaned on the railing beside you.

You glanced at him, your smile softening into something more intimate. “You’re not so bad yourself, Agent Hotchner.”

The teasing tone in your voice made him chuckle, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity that made his chest ache in the best way.

The sound of the party spilling onto the terrace broke the moment, and the two of you turned to see Rossi stepping out, his hands raised theatrically.

“Two minutes to midnight, folks!” he called, his grin as wide as ever. “Let’s make it count!”

Aaron glanced at you, his heart pounding as he saw the faint blush on your cheeks. Without a word, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently closer.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm as the first sounds of the countdown began to echo from inside.

“Happy New Year,” you whispered back, your lips curling into a small, private smile as the world around you blurred.

And as the clock struck midnight and the room erupted in cheers, Aaron kissed you, his hand cradling your face as the noise and the cold and everything else faded away. It was just you and him, standing together at the start of something new, something strong.

Together, you could conquer anything.