#deciding for my muses is Hard

[darabeatha]

/ A reminder to never expect me to be fully updated on lore and know all the minuscule 9487548957894 details of a character's story and their surroundings, I'm empty as men came to this world and can only vouch for my muses through love (also bc I cannot remember things rip)

[bigbrotherlouis]

in a great many senses, being thoroughly and fully embedded in fanfiction for a decade has done wonders for my writing - i think the constant feedback helped me find my voice well, i've learned some of my writing weaknesses and how to mitigate those, i've been able to play with style and form and syntax in a really safe environment. i still can experiment whenever i want, i can mimic my favourite authors in a way that allows me to learn what i like while making it my own, and figure out how to make it work for me, then try something completely different the next piece. it's so valuable and i think underappreciated in the writing/fic writing communities.

however! in dipping my feet back into original fiction (and i mean original. no converting fic or using half-baked fic premises also not for a class) i have had to unlearn some bad habits. namely among them, that i can get things done in one and a half drafts. i've been increasingly frustrated with myself that this original piece does not have the worldbuilding established like it should because i am having to create the world from scratch, without anything to rest it upon. i am having to remember that the first draft is really a discovery. i am learning things about my story as i write, because the only place it exists is in my own head. and that's hard for me! it's also hard having to keep going instead of going back to fix everything, because as i discover, i leave holes where the foundation will go later.

it's a process! a frustrating process! a frustrating process that i have forgotten how to navigate a little bit because i've been happily cutting my teeth on fanfiction. but i'm having fun. ish.

[nagareboshiko]

Being a romantic relationship with Lumine includes a kiss tax: with a minimum of three kisses a day, if that requirement is not fulfilled, then there would be a 10% interest applied for each missed attempt. 20% of interest added on top of that for any request her partner might make to her. And an accumulative percentage of final interest for each day they have been apart. Bills will be sent to their respective address at the end of each month and if failed to pay, the tax lady will come find them.

[hells-greatestdad]

// this is a sentence from a discord RP that I think is important actually

He couldn't not want to protect her dream at this point… he hated the idea of Charlie becoming a jaded and hopeless husk of a person the way he had.

[mad-hunts]

barton being awkward at first or even completely throughout a whole interaction whenever he's trying to comfort people is so in character for him TBH and let me tell y'all why because i think it's important to his character:

he can fake a lot of things. barton can fake being nice to people, he can fake being innocent, and he can even fake having a much stronger sense of morality around people if he wants to — but whenever it comes to empathizing with someone on an emotional level... barton finds himself often struggling with faking it because of the nature of it. and this is due to it being different than whenever he's trying to feign something easily comprehensible like innocence. but empathy is something that's usually viewed as innate in us as humans and has to do with love, which doesn't depend on logic. it's something that comes from within, so it doesn't have clear parameters as to how you should do it, so whenever barton tries to fake it in the event that he's trying to make someone feel better; he'll stumble. and so although barton can cognitively empathize with someone, his efforts to actually put himself in other people's shoes fall flat, as he just can't physically imagine himself being in someone else's position probably more than half the time.

so if your muse were to ever come to him seeming upset, barton would likely not know what to do / how to comfort them, at least for a bit before referencing back on how he's seen other people do it. because i hate to say it (i don't, in reality, but y'all know what i mean LOL) but barton does actively mimic behaviors that he sees people do whenever he feels the absence of a certain emotion. he especially does this whenever he's trying to appear charming to other people, but like i said, he'll also try to use what he's seen his peers do as a guide as for what he should do in regards to empathy. and sometimes he may even seem a bit flustered before he's able to do this because he knows that it is expected of him to be able to empathize with people and can identify it in other people BUT knowing how to approach faking it has always been sort of hard for him even as an adult.

but yeahhh, that's just my own two cents about how barton sometimes break character that he is quote unquote ' normal, ' though he does try to mask this around people who aren't really familiar with him as simply being social awkwardness. however, it is part of a larger thing with him as despite the fact that he can blend in with the population REALLY well and also is pretty good at manipulating others, i suppose you could say that barton is still not an expert at ' constructing empathy ' because whenever someone is visibly hurt in front of him... he is more liable to act like he isn't sure what to do, than to put on an act immediately since he is likely to feel nothing first before anything else. and i realize that that is a rather unsettling thought, but i think that he is a lot more suspectible to doing this with people he doesn't know well / who he isn't particularly close to, as he's got a lot more practice with being falsely empathetic towards friends and/or sometimes even family members.

[selfspinninglies]

guess who failed an eye test for (I think) the third time ✌️

[settinqsuns]

should i post individual starter calls or just a general one all together? i'm thinking about doing starter calls but idk the best way to do it since i have 14 muses. if i do a general one, should i just let people pick their muse or just go random? i'm thinking thoughts.

[mewrising]

hhhh the fathom pose I like best is the hatchling pose but I don't want to have 80 million bajillion hatchlings in my lair ;o;

[secondflame-archive]

OOC: istg i'm gonna half the replies I owe today even if it kills me. i'm sorry for the wait. :<

[domesticated-whores]

anyone with a piss kink wanna hear a story? /hj

[inhogf]

t.o.p / seunghyun and his breeding kink.

contains: he pokes holes in ur condom. smut. a/n: i decided to change up my theme lmk if y'all fw it

seunghyun can't shake the thought of you carrying his child. the image of you, round with his baby, bound to him forever. every time it crosses his thoughts, he finds himself biting the inside of his lip. it gets him sooo fucking hard.

he assures you he stopped by the drug store and grabbed a fresh pack of condoms—which was true. what he doesn’t mention is how he spent a solid ten minutes preparing. opening the box with practiced ease, carefully pressing a safety pin through the center of each rubber, three or four times, just to be sure.

he had to make sure you stayed off your birth control— had to make sure your body would start changing in just a few months. the thought of it consumed him, an obsession he couldn’t shake. he needed this. needed you. needed to know that no matter what, you’d be his forever and ever.

it was an asshole move, really.

seunghyun knew you'd never forget him, no matter how long he was away. he trusted you, loved you in ways he couldn't always put into words. but once the thought was planted, he couldn’t forget it. maybe deep down it was the fear you'd leave or just the desire to know that you were fully his, full with his child. it wasn't just desire— it was necessity. you wouldn't leave, couldn't leave, not when you'd be bound to him in the most permanent way possible. and once it happened? you'd understand. you'd see that this was always meant to be.

“awh, is my pretty baby all out of it?” he muses with a smug look on his face while he's rutting into you. he's got your knees pushed back as far as they'll go, and as that gasp slips out of you, he's right there, giggling in your face thinking of you all filled up with his babies.

it's so much intense than ever when he finally cums in your pulsing cunt, him wriggling your hips, rocking, as if he could get any deeper— but your cunt already latched around him snuggly, his tip bumping, dragging over your spongy spot with slow, languid rolls of hips.

seunghyun is letting himself go, thinking of getting you to swell up and to be tied to him for life. how your hips are gonna widen and make room for his baby. how your tits are gonna be huge and he can't stop thinking about squeezing and groping every pound you gain.

he's losing it. only calming down his breathing when he pulls out and sees the small amount of cum in the condom, knowing the rest of it is making its way into your womb. he stares down at your pussy, mesmerised by the sight of it dripping with his cum. he leans down, his face mere inches from it as his heated breath ghosts your folds. he watches, transfixed, as another thick spurt of his previous load oozes out of you. he's so impatient, he's already thinking of names.

“you're not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. “not after this— fuck—.. you’re not leaving me… you can't—”

cr @inhogf don't steal

[ddejavvu]

Mean!Logan who absolutely will NOT kiss you on the mouth while he’s fucking you. You’re crying and begging and so so desperate for it but he just will not give in, loves to watch you cry and cry even while your whole body shakes and your eyes roll back from how deep he is in you

Logan won't kiss you

send me mean!logan requests!

contents/warnings: mean!logan, teasing, dacryphilia, don't like don't read.

a/n: anon i hope you know this made me moan. shit the first line almost had me creaming my jeans. thank you <33333333333

It's a tease, being given so much and yet nothing at all. Logan's strong hips are steadily thrusting against your own, driving his cock in and out of your cunt that begs for nothing more, but you're being held tantalizingly close to the precipice of your orgasm solely from the denial of a kiss.

Logan's mouth is heaven.

Whether against your own or against another part of you, your sensitive nipples or your throbbing pussy, his mouth has always brought you to completion. You yearn for it now, with sharp aches and pleas from your drooling cunt as he fucks into you, but he refuses to give you what you want- what you need.

"What's'a matter?" He drawls, and by the condescension in his voice, by the sharp, rigid smirk on the mouth of his that you want so bad, you know he knows, "What gives, you don't like me or somethin'?"

"Logan," You whine for mercy, tears beading in your eyes as you grip his biceps and attempt to hoist yourself up to kiss him. He deflects skillfully, pushing you back down to the mattress.

"No, no, don't be greedy. My dick isn't enough? Looks like it is." He muses, eyeing the way your cunt slobbers on his length, coating it generously in your thick, slick arousal.

"Look at you, you're ruined," Logan scoffs, panting through the continuous motions of his hips, "And you still want more."

"I want a kiss," You feel pitiful whining like that, and he laughs like you are.

"Oh, princess wants a kiss, is that it? All this cock and what you really want is my mouth?"

"Yes," You gasp, tears flooding down your cheeks at the contempt in his eyes, even if its staged, "Please Logan, please, I jus- I just want one kiss, please." You try yet again to raise your head, but he won't take the bait- he sneers like you're nothing but an annoyance.

"No." He decides simply, hips only snapping faster and faster, harder and harder into your cunt, "You have enough. Use it."

You do. You clench around his cock, thighs squeezed together so that your entrance is as tight as possible. You feel every inch of his impressive length as it pounds in and out of your pussy, you feel pleasure in every fiber of your being, and yet- it's the visual of Logan's tongue flicking out over his lips after a hefty exhale that finally sends your brain and body into overdrive.

His lips, thin and a shade pinker than his skin, look so enticing, and the way that his tongue laves over them leaving translucent saliva behind sends sparks between your legs like nothing you've ever felt without Logan's mouth. You wish it was yours, you wish his tongue was dipping into your mouth the way it does so often, licking every inch of your skin, tasting every part of you there ever has been.

You cum hard and you cum almost painfully, writhing on the bed covered in tears and sweat. There's surely a pool of slick beneath your ass on the bed from where your cunt has drooled onto the sheets but Logan will clean it up later- if you're lucky, from you with the mouth you're still fantasizing about.

"There, that wasn't hard," Logan hums, crooning tenderly like he's taking care of you as he finally dips down to press a firm kiss against the slack ring of your mouth. It's late, but better than never. You exhale shakily as he kisses you, a balm to soothe the hurt feelings of his denial, and he chuckles as you twitch beneath him. He leaves his cock buried in your warm, twitching cunt- he hasn't finished himself, but he'll feed his cock down your throat later- anytime you cum and he doesn't you offer to help him out. Watching the way that your eyes blink hazily at him post-kiss is certainly helping him along, and he won't take long up against the warm wet seal of your mouth.

"Poor thing is sensitive." He nudges his nose against your own, muscles bulging as he keeps himself hovering over you, "Can't handle being used, hm? Gotta be loved?"

"I love you," You whisper pitifully, chasing his mouth with a desperate, sticky kiss of your own, "Logan, I- I love you, mm-"

"Alright, alright." He mumbles through your sloppy attempts at kissing him, muffled by your lips, "Alright, crybaby, 'love you too."

[woninggg]

girll i crave, I CRAVEEE opposites attract, rival coworkers enemies to lovers typa smut with cheol and i think you are only one who can write this. i love your work and live for your work. thank you sooo muchhh for decide to write here💖

🐇:ahhh ty so much my love this made my day also this was so fun yet so hard to write(since English is not my first language) but I kinda love the result hehe

bite back~ 崔胜澈 Rival!Coworker!Choi Seungcheol × Rival!Coworker!Reader

Warnings: office AU, smut, degradation, dom cheol, desk sex, unprotected sex, minor choking, and mutual obsession disguised as hatred.

ᶻᶻ..more content under the cut┈✦

The worst thing about Choi Seungcheol wasn’t that he was good at his job.

No, that wasn’t it. If anything, you would have respected him for that. You didn’t mind competition—in fact, you thrived on it. But Seungcheol was a different breed of competitor. He wasn’t just good, he was arrogant about it. A smug, self centered, insufferable bastard who made sure you knew exactly where he stood in the company hierarchy.

And unfortunately, that spot was right next to yours.

The rivalry started the moment you joined. He had been the golden boy of the company, the one everyone looked up to, until you showed up. You weren’t intimidated by his reputation, nor were you interested in playing second to anyone. And from the moment you went head-to-head in your first project, you knew neither of you would back down.

It wasn’t just competition. It was war.

You challenged every one of his ideas. He shot down every one of yours. You undercut his suggestions in meetings, he made sure to find flaws in every pitch you presented. He stole deals right out from under you, and you made sure to return the favor.

And somehow, despite your mutual hatred, the company refused to separate you.

“You two work well together” your boss had said once, completely ignoring the way you and Seungcheol were glaring daggers at each other across the conference table.

Work well together. Right. If by “well” he meant in the same way oil and water did, then sure.

And tonight was no different.

You were stuck in the office well past midnight, both of you hunched over your respective desks, working on a last minute client proposal. Management had assigned it to both of you, because of course they had—insisting that your “combined talents” would deliver the best results.

You could barely focus with him in the room. every time he shifted, every time he sighed, every time his damn pen scratched against the paper, it grated on your nerves.

“Can you stop breathing so loud?” you snapped, eyes shooting daggers at him.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize my existence was such a burden on you.” Seungcheol’s voice dripped with sarcasm, not bothering to look up from his own paperwork.

Your eyes narrowed at the sound of his voice, your grip on your pen tightening until you feared it might snap.

“Don’t call me that,” you spat back. The last thing you needed was for him to think he could get under your skin. But it was already too late.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound irritatingly deep. “You’re really in a mood tonight, huh? What’s wrong, project not turning out the way you wanted?”

You gritted your teeth. “My project is fine.”

“Mm. Sure about that?” He finally looked up from his laptop, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk you wanted to slap off his face. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re struggling.”

Your eye twitched. You had never hit a coworker before, but tonight might be the night.

“For fuck’s sake” you muttered, shoving your chair back and standing abruptly. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

He mirrored your movement, standing as well, and you hated that he was taller, and that he could look down at you like he was amused.

“I don’t know” he mused, taking a slow step closer. “Do you ever get tired of trying to prove you’re better than me?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t have to prove anything. I am better than you.”

His smirk widened, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

The way he said 'sweetheart' was like nails on a chalkboard, and it made something snap inside you.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the way the tension between you had been building for so long, thick and suffocating.

Or maybe it was just him.

The unbearable way he looked at you, like he was daring you to break first.

So you did.

You shoved him—both hands pressed against his chest, pushing with all your strength.

He barely stumbled.

Instead, he grabbed your wrists before you could pull away, spinning you around and pressing your back against your desk.

“What the hell are you—”

“You’ve been waiting to do that, haven’t you?” he murmured, voice low.

You refused to back down. Your chin lifted defiantly. “What, shove you? Yeah. Since the day I met you.”

His fingers tightened around your wrists. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

The air grew thick with something you hadn’t noticed before—or maybe you had, but had ignored it because acknowledging it would mean admitting that you felt something other than pure hatred for him.

“You hate me, right?” he murmured, pressing in closer, his thigh sliding between yours. “So tell me to stop.”

Your nails dug into his wrists, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Fuck you.”

His lips curled. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could protest, his mouth was on yours. His hand moved, fingers wrapping around your jaw, grip just tight enough to make you suck in a breath.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent, all teeth and dominance and raw frustration.

His hands slid down, gripping your hips so tight it hurt, lifting you onto the desk as his body slotted between your legs. You yanked at his shirt, pulling him even closer, biting down on his lip just to make him groan.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you panted against his mouth.

He laughed darkly, his fingers already working the buttons of your blouse. “Of course not.”

And yet, the way he dragged his hands down your body like he needed to memorize every inch, told a different story.

Your skirt was shoved up, your underwear pushed aside, and then— a sharp gasp left your lips as his fingers slid inside you, finding you embarrassingly wet.

He groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “Fuck. This whole ? You’ve been this soaked, and you’ve been acting like you hate me?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but he wasn’t having it.

“Tell me,” he murmured, curling his fingers, dragging a moan from you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

You shook your head, breathless, defiant. “You don’t get to win.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I already won the moment you let me touch you.”

Your cheeks burned with fury, and you bucked your hips, trying to dislodge his hand. But it was too late. His thumb found your clit, circling it in a way that made your knees tremble.

You wanted to slap the smug grin off his face, to wipe the victory from his eyes. But as he continued to kiss you, all thought of anything other than the heat between you disappeared. Your hands moved of their own accord, reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. You didn’t want this, you told yourself, but your body had other ideas.

Seungcheol’s other hand reached up his thumb brushing against the swell of your breast, making your breath hitch. The friction of his trousers against your thighs was agonizing, the fabric rough against your sensitive skin. You could feel his erection pressing into your stomach, demanding attention.

“Say you hate me again,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and tickling. “Say it while you’re dripping all over my fingers.”

You bit back a moan, hating how much his words affected you. But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing how much you craved this.

So, you spat out the words with all the venom you had left. “I fucking hate you, Choi Seungcheol.”

His eyes darkened, his smile turning feral. “Keep saying it” he murmured, his thumb moving faster on your clit. “Let’s see if you can convince either of us.”

Your body betrayed you, arching into his touch, a whimper escaping your throat. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

Seungcheol’s eyes burned into yours, he cut you off by sliding another finger inside you, stretching you out, as you felt the beginnings of a climax building.

His pace was brutal, pumping his fingers into you with no hesitation, curling them just right until your legs threatened to give out.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Bet you touch yourself thinking about me.”

You swallowed down the moan rising in your throat, your eyes squeezed shut. You clenched around his fingers, making him chuckle. “That’s what I thought.”

You were so close, so fucking close, but you’d be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“Fucking asshole,” you bit out, even as your body begged for release.

His fingers pulled out of you instantly, leaving you empty, and you were about to curse at him until he grabbed your hips, yanking you back against him roughly.

“You want it rough?” he taunted, the sound of his belt unbuckling making your stomach tighten with anticipation. You didn’t answer, your breathing ragged.

You hated him for making you feel like this, for reducing you to this quivering mess of need. You hated him, hated the way his hands felt on you, hated how badly you wanted more. God, you despised Choi Seungcheol, and yet here you were, letting him do whatever he wanted to your body.

He slammed into you, all at once, stretching you open so suddenly that all you could do was gasp. The words died on your tongue, your nails digging into his arms, and his low groan against your ear sent a shiver down your spine.

“Look at you” he murmured, as he pulled out just enough to thrust back in, the force pushing you further up the desk. “So fucking cocky in the office, but now? You’re letting me fuck you open without a fight?”

You smirked, breathless. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t fight.”

And just to prove your point, you lifted your leg, wrapping it around his waist and rolling your hips deliberately. He cursed, his fingers flexing against your skin before he retaliated, grabbing the back of your knee and pushing your leg higher, forcing you open even more.

“You really wanna test me right now?” he growled, punctuating the words with a brutal thrust that had your head falling back against the desk.

Your moan echoed through the quiet office, and you knew the moment he heard it that you’d lost the upper hand.

"That’s more like it,” he muttered, dragging his lips along your jaw before biting down just enough to leave a mark. “All that attitude, but at the end of the day, this is what you really wanted, isn’t it?”

You refused to give him that satisfaction. “Fuck you.”

“You are.”

Your glare was half-hearted at best, especially when he pulled back just to watch himself sink into you again, a low groan slipping past his lips. “Shit. You’re squeezing me so tight. You sure you hate me?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but the way your body responded to him told the truth.

Seungcheol knew it. And he was eating it up.

“I could make you cum just like this, couldn’t I?” he murmured against your ear, rolling his hips in a way that had you gasping. “Just from my cock stretching you open, fucking you deep, making you feel exactly how you’re supposed to?”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, your pride hanging by a thread. You couldn’t let him win. But then he moved his hand from your thigh to your throat, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

His grip wasn’t tight—just enough pressure to keep you grounded, and make your head spin with something you didn’t want to name.

“Say it.” His voice was a low command, rough and dripping with dominance. “Say you need me to make you cum.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing against his palm. Suddenly his other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease.

Your entire body jolted at the contact, a choked moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. The overstimulation of his cock driving into you, his hand wrapped around your throat, and now his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles—it was too much.

“Seungcheol—”

“Say it.” His lips brushed against your jaw. “Or should I stop?”

You gasped, shaking your head immediately. “Don’t.”

He smirked against your skin, but his movements slowed, teasing. “Then say it.”

Your pride was shattered, as your body trembled with need. You couldn’t hold out anymore, not when the pleasure was coiling so tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

“Fuck—I need you,” you whispered, barely audible.

Seungcheol groaned, his cock twitching inside you, but it wasn’t enough. “Louder.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, your face burning“I need you to make me cum.”

The satisfaction in his chuckle made you want to slap him, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Because the moment the words left your mouth, he was relentless. His thrusts turned brutal, his fingers pressing harder against your clit, his grip on your throat tightening just slightly.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, possessive and smug.

The way he said it sent you spiraling, making the pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your entire body tensed, your walls fluttering around him as your orgasm hit you like a truck. You were barely aware of the sounds you were making—half moan, half desperate cry, until you felt him groan against your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he whined, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you—fuck—so pretty when you cum for me.”

His hips stuttered, his hands gripping you even tighter as he thrust deep one last time, his own release hitting him with a guttural groan. You felt, the warmth, and the way he pulsed inside you—and fuck, you shouldn’t have liked it as much as you did.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you catching your breath, the only sound in the room the ragged inhales and exhales of two people who had just crossed a line they could never uncross.

Then, slowly, Seungcheol leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven.

“Still think you don’t need me?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Your glare was weak, your limbs too spent to push him away. “Shut up.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through your chest, “So, are we going to pretend like this never happened or...?”

his fingers brushed along your thigh almost absentmindedly as he pulled out, leaving you feeling cold and exposed. You reached down to fix your skirt, your cheeks still flushed with the intensity of your orgasm.

And that’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t the end.

This was just the beginning.

more.┈✦

[brunchable]

Are you Jealous? || B.B. [Oneshhot]

Pairings: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Jealousy made Bucky immature. Bickering. Another attempt at being funny. Summary: The guy you were talking to ruined Bucky's morning so he decided to do something about it. A/N: This is a comeback ONESHOT. HELLO, I am alive, how are ya'll? I've intended to come back earlier but health related stuff just kept on slapping me left and right. But I'm fine, this baby in my tummy is fine, everyone is fine! Expect a few sporadic posts from me as I am working on where I've left off ;__;

The morning had started so well.

Bucky took a deep, satisfied breath as he cradled his coffee mug, his soul momentarily at peace on the upper balcony. He had earned a kiss. A cheek kiss, sure, but a kiss was a kiss. And it wasn’t just any kiss—it was your kiss. A reward for heroically delivering your USB to the hospital before your presentation. He’d strutted out of there like a goddamn champion, feeling like he was glowing from the inside out.

And now? Now, he was sipping his coffee, reliving the moment in high definition, when the universe decided to slap him across the face.

Because there you were.

Sitting at the picnic table in the backyard.

With some guy.

Bucky's brows furrowed. He tilted his head. The guy was laughing. You were laughing. You were both laughing.

He squinted harder, trying to decipher what was so damn funny, when he caught the tail end of the conversation.

“So you’re telling me… you kicked him down?” the guy asked, sounding both impressed and too interested for Bucky’s taste.

“That’s right,” You confirmed with a smug grin.

The guy threw his head back, laughing like you had just told the funniest joke in existence. 

“That’s really impressive,” the guy said, his eyes glinting with admiration.

Bucky scowled. 

Then, like a demon summoned from the depths of hell at the worst possible moment, Sam appeared beside him, holding his own coffee and grinning like he had just won the lottery.

“They look close,” Sam mused, eyes twinkling with mischief, making sure to emphasize the word 'close'.

Bucky whipped his head toward him, glaring. “Hm. I don’t think so.”

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “Are you jealous?”

Bucky scoffed so hard he almost choked on his coffee. 

“Tsk. Why would I be jealous?” He pulled a face. “Honestly, if she had a brain, she wouldn’t even like dudes like him.”

"Just ask her out already." Sam sipped his coffee with exaggerated slowness, watching as Bucky’s eyes flicked back to you and your colleague. Sam’s grin widened to criminal levels.

Bucky sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Why do I have to see your face this early?”

Sam didn't respond—he just grinned. Then pointed at Bucky. Then grinned some more.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Bucky demanded, suspicious.

Sam took another sip. “No reason. Just enjoying my morning.”

Bucky rolled his eyes before looking down again. That’s when he noticed something.

The garden hose.

Right there. Within reach. Just waiting to be used.

He grabbed it, tilting his head like a scientist about to conduct a very important experiment.

Sam’s eyes widened.

Bucky turned the nozzle.

“Bucky, don’t—”

Bucky aimed.

“Bucky—”

He fired.

A powerful blast of water shot out like he was operating a high-pressure fire hose, hitting your colleague directly in the chest.

“WHAT THE—?! HEY! THAT’S COLD!” the man screeched, jerking back like he’d been shot, arms flailing wildly.

Bucky adjusted the nozzle slightly—just slightly—to ensure maximum discomfort, the spray now hitting the poor guy directly in the face.

“DUDE, WHAT THE HELL?!” The man spun in place like a malfunctioning windmill, water soaking through his shirt at an alarming rate.

From below, you gasped, hands on your head. “Oh my gosh!”

“DUDE! ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?!” 

Bucky took another slow, calculated sip of his coffee. “I dunno, man,” he called out, voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Looks like it’s raining.”

Sam made a choking sound.

Your colleague staggered back, sputtering. “WHY IS IT ONLY RAINING ON ME?!”

Bucky tilted his head. “Must be one of them localized storms.”

“Bucky, stop it!” You shrieked, but Bucky pretended not to hear you, subtly tilting the hose again so the water jet honed in on the guy’s knees, making him slip slightly.

The guy tried to run.

Bucky tracked him like a sniper, adjusting his aim so the water followed in real time, soaking him from head to toe as he attempted a desperate escape.

“OH, COME ON!” The man shrieked, arms flailing, looking up at the balcony, “YOU’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE!”

Bucky let out a slow, amused exhale. 

“Naaah.” Slight adjustment. Direct hit to the guy’s back.

You were fuming. “Are you ACTUALLY out of your mind?!”

Bucky set his coffee cup down with a deliberate sigh. 

“Ohhh, that was your colleague?” He put a hand on his chest, shaking his head like he was deeply moved. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

Sam collapsed against the railing, crying-laughing.

You turned back to the guy, who was now dripping, shivering, and looking thoroughly traumatized, “I am so sorry, I will grab a towel.”

Bucky twirled the hose nozzle between his fingers like a cowboy reholstering a gun. “Might be best if he, y’know, went home to change.”

The guy glared at him, teeth chattering. “Not cool dude.”

Bucky tilted his head. “That’s fair.”

You looked one second away from climbing the balcony to strangle him. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky took another sip of his coffee. “Plants looking dehydrated, he was in the way.”

The guy finally gave up and trudged off, squelching with every step.

You threw up your hands. “Are you happy now?!”

“Honestly? Yeah.” Bucky leaned lazily against the balcony. 

Sam wheezed, gripping the railing for support. “That was so petty.”

Bucky smirked, absolutely unrepentant.

× × × × 

It wasn’t planned, okay?

You just happened to be standing by the hose, and Bucky just happened to be fixing something in the backyard, wearing a tight-fitting henley that had no business clinging to his stupidly broad back like that. 

And sure, maybe you were a little pissed that your colleague—the one he soaked this morning—had turned out to be your senior doctor. The same senior doctor whose recommendation you desperately needed to become chief resident and finally get your first lead in a surgery.

But this? This was justice.

So you lifted the hose.

And fired.

Bucky jerked, his entire body seizing up as ice-cold water slammed into the middle of his back.

“The hell?!” he barked, spinning around, dripping wet, glaring.

You kept your grip firm, adjusting your stance like a sniper zeroing in on a target.

“Oh, what’s wrong? Afraid of a little cold?” you drawled, watching as rivulets of water slid down his chest, clinging to the fabric of his now very translucent shirt. His dog tags clinked as he moved, the metal gleaming wetly against his skin.

Bucky pushed his soaked hair back, his nostrils flaring. “You’ve got five seconds to put that hose down before I—”

PFFFFFT.

Direct hit to his chest.

“YOU’RE INSANE!” Bucky stumbled back, arms raised like he was taking fire in an action movie. 

“Oh, I’m insane?” you shouted over the sound of the water, increasing the pressure as he tried (and failed) to dodge. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DID TODAY, YOU ABSOLUTE WALNUT?”

Bucky, still getting pummeled by the water, threw his arms out. “I WAS JUST WATERING THE GARDEN—”

“WATERING THE GARDEN?! YOU WATERBOARDED MY BOSS! MY BOSS!”

Bucky froze mid-step. Blinked. “Wait. That guy?”

You turned the nozzle to jet-stream.

Bucky roared, arms flying up to shield himself as you unleashed hell. “Y/N, FOR F—C’MON!”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD I’VE BEEN WORKING TO GET THAT RECOMMENDATION?!” you yelled, stepping closer. The force of the stream pushed him back against the fence. “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ASS KISSING I’VE HAD TO DO?! HE WAS GOING TO GIVE ME MY FIRST LEAD—AND NOW HE HATES ME.”

Bucky, panting, ran a hand down his soaked face, his biceps flexing with every movement. “I mean—”

“NO!” You cut him off, eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to talk.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. And then—so absolutely characteristic of him—he lunged.

You squeaked, but he was too fast.

One second, you were soaking him. The next, the hose was yanked from your hands and tossed somewhere (you didn’t care where, because holy shit).

Bucky’s arms caged you against the fence, droplets of water still trailing down his neck and collecting in the hollow of his throat. His wet shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, the muscles underneath shifting as he braced his hands against the wood beside your head. His breaths were heavy, controlled, his blue eyes searing as they locked onto yours.

A very big mistake on your part was looking down.

Because that’s when you noticed the way his shirt was now practically transparent, highlighting every ridge of his abs. His dog tags rested right at the base of his throat, shiny and wet, and suddenly you forgot every single word in the English language.

Bucky noticed.

His smirk was slow. “Cat’s got your tongue now?”

You swallowed, shifting, only for his arms to press in closer. “I—”

Bucky tilted his head. “You gonna spray me again?”

“… Maybe.”

His smile widened. “God, you’re so damn cute when you’re mad.”

Your pulse jumped, and Bucky—of course—felt it.

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher. “I—” He exhaled, then shook his head slightly. “I was being jealous.”

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched, as if he was warring with himself. But then—slowly, like he was giving himself up—he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. 

“I didn’t like seeing you with him,” he admitted. “I hated it.”

The confession sent electricity through you.

You squinted. “So you, who fought in World War Two, thought the best way to deal with your jealousy was to hosing down a respected medical professional?”

He grinned, dimples peeking through. “I was very efficient.”

You made a noise of pure exasperation. “Oh my god.”

And then—because you were still so infuriatingly, ridiculously mad at him—you grabbed his soaking-wet shirt in both fists and yanked him down.

Bucky crashed into you with a growl, his breath hot against your lips for only half a second before he seized control, kissing you like he was starving for it.

His mouth slanted over yours, rough, greedy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he had something to prove. And maybe he did, because his hands—Christ, his hands—slid down, gripping, claiming, fingers digging into your hips as he yanked you closer.

Your whimper only made him groan deeper, the sound vibrating between your bodies as he pressed you back, caging you against the wooden fence.

His drenched shirt clung to his body, thin and wet, and when his chest pressed flush against yours, you felt everything. The hard ridges of muscle, the heat radiating off him, the faint clink of his dog tags as he moved against you, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you harder or pull back and wreck you with his eyes.

You curled your fingers into the soaked fabric of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, but Bucky—the bastard—just growled again, tearing his mouth away to kiss a path down your jaw, your neck, nipping at the skin like he wanted to mark you.

Your head thunked against the fence, your legs threatening to give out, and Bucky—because he was an asshole—chuckled, his lips ghosting against your throat.

“Easy, doll.” His voice was pure sin, raspy and smug and dripping with heat. “Didn’t realize you wanted me this bad.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Excuse me?”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wrecked, lips kiss-swollen and wet. “You heard me.”

Oh, that was it.

Your hands shot up to his stupidly hot jaw, yanking him back into another kiss, this time making sure he was the one losing balance.

He groaned, low and deep, his grip tightening on your waist like he was debating just hauling you up against the fence and having his way with you right there.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, Bucky was still holding you like he was trying to memorize the way you felt in his arms.

His forehead rested against yours, his fingers flexing against your waist like he was trying to calm himself down before he said something stupid.

You smirked, your lips tingling.

“… You’re so gonna make me come to work and apologize, aren’t you?” His voice was still thick with want, but there was a rough amusement under it.

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

× × × ×

“Come in.” A deep, intimidatingly unimpressed voice called from inside.

Bucky let out one final breath, straightened his spine like a soldier, and walked in with you trailing behind.

Dr. Harrington.

The man was sitting at his desk, reviewing charts, his expression exhausted and vaguely murderous—the exact look of a surgeon who had been woken up in the middle of the night one too many times to deal with absolute nonsense.

Dr. Harrington glanced up. His gaze landed on you first, then flicked to Bucky.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh. It’s you.”

Bucky had never wanted to disintegrate more in his life.

Dr. Harrington slowly closed his folder, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands over his stomach, watching Bucky the way one might watch a particularly stupid animal at the zoo.

Bucky, to his credit, put on what you were sure he thought was a professional smile but actually looked like a man trying very hard not to run.

“Dr. Harrington,” Bucky greeted with a polite nod. “It’s, uh… nice to meet you. Officially.”

The older man stared at him for two full seconds. Then he turned to you, his brow arching. “This your boyfriend?”

Your mouth opened, but—

“Yes,” Bucky immediately said. Too fast. Too eager.

Dr. Harrington exhaled slowly, like he was trying to find inner peace. “You hosed me down like a feral dog.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah, so—about that. Um.”

You nudged him hard in the ribs.

Bucky swallowed his pride. “I’m really sorry about that, sir. It was… a misunderstanding. And also…” He inhaled through his nose, like saying this next part physically hurt him. “It was very immature of me.”

You resisted the urge to clap.

Dr. Harrington drummed his fingers against the desk. “Immature.”

Bucky nodded. “Very.”

The attending hummed. “And the reasoning for this very immature behavior?”

 “...Jealousy.” Bucky shifted, looking off to the side.

You squinted at him. “Speak up.”

His jaw ticked. He straightened his back and begrudgingly admitted, “I was jealous.”

Dr. Harrington blinked slowly, then glanced at you with unmistakable amusement. “Is he always this possessive?”

You opened your mouth.

Bucky, again, too fast, “Nope. Not at all. Super chill. Very normal.”

Dr. Harrington sighed, rubbing his temples. “You ruined my scrubs.”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Bucky said instantly. “Better ones. Custom-tailored. You want your name embroidered? Done. You want gold-threaded seams? Got it. You want a diamond-encrusted scalpel? Say the word, Doc.”

The older man stared. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

Bucky took a moment to process this.

Then, with the utmost confidence, “...Is it working?”

Dr. Harrington let out a long, suffering sigh.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Bucky beamed like a golden retriever. “So… we’re cool?”

Dr. Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky your girlfriend is a damn good doctor.” He turned to you. “Your first lead surgery is still on, but if your. . . guard dog here shows up again with a hose, I will be the one hosing him down in the ER.”

Bucky gasped, clutching his chest. “Violence? In a hospital?”

“We’re leaving.” You grabbed his sleeve.

Bucky threw up a two-finger salute. “Pleasure doing business with you, Doc.”

Dr. Harrington waved a hand. “Get him out of my sight before I retract my decision.”

You dragged Bucky out the door, ignoring his smug grin.

“So,” he said as soon as you were in the hallway. “Am I officially boyfriend of the year for saving your surgical lead?”

You deadpanned, “You literally almost ruined it.”

“But I fixed it.”

You gave him the flattest look you could muster. “You bribed my boss with diamond scalpels.”

Bucky slid an arm around your waist, smirking. “I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

His smirk widened. “And yet…” Bucky leaned in, voice dropping as he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’re still gonna kiss me later,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You rolled your eyes, pushing at his chest, “Go home will you?”

Bucky finally—finally—stepped back, that smug little smirk still plastered on his stupidly handsome face, “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, giving you a one last look before turning on his heel. Then just as he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder, voice softer now, “Oh and, good luck on your first lead.” 

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @veronicapaula

[sunshineangel0]

bang chan + cockwarming/powerplay

a/n- it´s been late. here you go.

“You’re being good,” Chan praises, his voice like velvet, fingers lazily stroking down your spine. “See? I knew you could do it.”

Your legs shake as you try to keep still, thighs burning from the effort of staying seated on his cock without moving. It’s torture—the way he fills you so perfectly yet refuses to let you chase any friction.

“Chan—”

His grip on your hip tightens, stopping you before you can even think about rolling your hips.

“You don’t get to talk, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “You just sit there like a good little thing and keep me warm.”

You whimper, every nerve on fire, but he just chuckles.

“Is it hard?” His fingers trail between your legs, barely brushing over where you need him most. “Want me to touch you?”

You nod frantically, but his smirk tells you he’s already decided the answer.

“That’s too bad,” he muses, resting back against the couch. “Because I like you just like this—helpless.”

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx

(if you want to be added to my taglist, please comment under the post.)

[kiwriteswords]

Because You're Just a Man [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist (updated!!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 10k|| AN: Who's going to explain to my boss that seeing this prompt caused me to get ZERO work done today. I'm getting more comfortable with writing smut again and this was honestly my favorite piece I have ever written so far! Also! Thank you for the encouragement on my original post @honeypiehotchner @ssamorganhotchner and @hoe4hotchner <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, canon typical themes, sexual themes, flirting, hotch and reader pushing each others limits, jealous!Hotch, simp!Hotch, unprotected sex, horny hotch, horny reader, provoking hotch hours. Summary: Based on the prompt from @urfriendlywriter: "You're making it really hard to be a gentleman right now."

The hum of the BAU office felt different at night--quieter, but still charged with the weight of unfinished cases and the scent of stale coffee.

It was late, most of the team had already left, and the bullpen was washed in the dim glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the overhead fluorescents. You sat at your desk, typing halfheartedly on your laptop, stealing occasional glances at the one person still in the office.

Hotch.

He sat in his glass-walled office, posture perfect as ever, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at this for hours. His jaw was tight, his fingers moving steadily across reports, and even from here, you could see the muscle in his cheek flex every time he clenched it.

God, he was impossible.

You’d been seeing him--or at least talking about the possibility of seeing him--for weeks now. There had been stolen moments, almost-confessions, a tension so thick between you that even the team had started noticing. But Hotch, ever the professional, ever the stoic leader, hadn’t given you much to go on. A lingering glance? A stray touch? A sharp inhale when you got too close? Sure. But he never acted. Never said anything.

Nothing concrete, anyways. 

And it was starting to drive you insane.

At first, you thought maybe he was just slow to act. That he wanted to be sure. But the more time passed, the more you started to wonder: Was he even attracted to you?

You knew he cared. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he checked in after cases, always ensuring you were okay. But physically? He was impossible to read. He was so composed, so disciplined, that you couldn’t tell if he was holding himself back or if he simply didn’t feel the way you did.

So you decided to test him.

Nothing outrageous, nothing too obvious--just enough to see if you could shake his composure.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your blouse riding up just a fraction. If he was looking, he didn’t show it.

Fine.

You stood slowly, making a deliberate show of gathering your things. You could feel the soft stretch of your pencil skirt as you shifted, the way your blouse clung just right in the low light. You weren’t normally one to be overly conscious of what you wore to work, but tonight? Tonight, you wanted him to notice.

File in hand, you took your time walking toward his office, letting the faint click of your heels punctuate the silence.

He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he knew you were there.

"Still working?" you asked, voice just a little softer than usual.

Hotch finally glanced up, dark eyes flicking to yours before settling back on the paperwork in front of him. "Looks that way." His voice was smooth, measured. Controlled.

You stepped inside, setting the file down on his desk--closer than necessary. Close enough that you could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, something rich and warm beneath the sharpness of his aftershave.

"You should take a break," you mused, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. "I don’t have time for a break."

"Not even for me?" You rested your hand against the edge of his desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as you leaned in--just enough to make it impossible for him to ignore the proximity.

That did it.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

The slight shift of his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his pen just briefly before setting it down.

A rush of satisfaction curled in your stomach.

So, he does notice.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came. Hotch barely spares you another glance, flipping the page of his report with that same unreadable, impassive expression. If he was affected, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it now.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him.

That’s how you want to play it, Hotchner?

Fine.

You could almost see it--the way his mind worked, the methodical discipline he relied on to keep himself locked up tight. He was compartmentalizing. Shoving down whatever impulse had flickered through him the second he caught your scent, or felt the heat of your body just inches from his desk.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

That realization sent a slow hum of intrigue through you.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought. If you wanted to get a real reaction out of him, you’d have to be smarter about it. Subtler.

You straightened up, deliberately not lingering the way you had been. Let him think you were backing off.

“Don’t work too hard,” you said lightly, turning toward the door.

You swore you felt his eyes on you as you walked away--but when you glanced back, he was already staring at his paperwork again, jaw tight.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Back at your desk, you settled into your chair and let your fingers drift over your keyboard, not really typing, not really thinking about work anymore. Instead, your mind was spinning, plotting.

What else would get to him?

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You had all the time in the world to figure that out.

oxoxoxoxoxoxox

The conference room was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of files rustling, and the distant whir of the coffee machine in the bullpen. The team was gathering for a briefing, and you were one of the last to arrive, slipping in just as Hotch stood at the head of the table, setting down the case file.

You slid into the chair across from him, casually smoothing the hem of your skirt as you crossed your legs, slow and deliberate.

His gaze flicked up--so brief, so controlled, that anyone else would have missed it. But you didn’t.

Your stomach hummed with satisfaction.

His eyes dropped immediately to the folder in front of him, fingers adjusting his watch before flipping open the case file. His movements were precise, methodical. A man rebuilding his walls, brick by brick.

Good. You weren’t done testing their strength yet.

Morgan and JJ were still chatting, waiting for Garcia to finish setting up, so you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching Hotch as if you were actually interested in the file he was reading.

“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” you mused.

Hotch’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I was finishing reports.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Right. That explains why you’re so grumpy today.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he replied, voice smooth, but the way his grip subtly flexed around his pen told you otherwise.

“You kind of are.” You let the amusement curl in your voice. “At least a little.”

His exhale was barely audible, a long, slow breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at you, keeping his attention on the paperwork in front of him, but his fingers tightened around his pen just slightly.

You smiled.

And then, because you wanted to see just how much he was holding back, you stretched--a lazy, innocent stretch, your back arching just enough to accentuate your figure, your blouse shifting ever so slightly.

Hotch froze.

Just for half a second.

But it was there.

The slight pause in the movement of his pen. The subtle way his jaw went even tighter. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward you before snapping back to his papers.

You bit back a smirk.

This was working.

You tapped your fingers against the table, feigning nonchalance. “You know, Hotch, if you ever actually relaxed once in a while, I think the world would keep turning.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond--but at that moment, Garcia’s voice burst through the moment, her usual chipper tone filling the room.

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Hotch’s shoulders as he very purposefully turned his full attention to the case.

He was trying so hard.

And it was only making you more determined.

xoxoxoxoooxox

The night air in Quantico was thick with humidity, the kind that settled into your skin and made the inside of the BAU feel heavier than usual. It made you wonder if this is where they decided to save bureaucratic dollars, by turning the air conditioner off when people worked after office hours.

Most of the team had already left, the bullpen dimly lit except for the faint glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the coffee machine cycling through its last brew of the night.

Hotch was still in his office, as always.

And you were still here.

At first, your little experiments had been entertaining--a game to see if you could shake his impossible composure, test the limits of his discipline. And while you had noticed the cracks--those fleeting glances, the small shifts in body language--he never let them grow into something more.

And it was starting to piss you off.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to shove the desk between you aside and kiss you breathless (though the thought was an incredibly tempting one). But you needed something. A sign. A confirmation that this thing--this slow, unbearable push-and-pull--wasn’t just in your head.

Because if he wasn’t interested, if all of this was just a cruel trick of your own imagination, then what the hell were you doing?

You pushed away from your desk, snatching up the case file you’d been pretending to work on, and made your way up the stairs to his office.

His door was open, but he was in his usual state of intense focus--pen in hand, elbow resting on the desk, brows drawn together. His sleeves were rolled up now, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his tie was loosened just enough to be tempting.

You leaned against the doorway, tilting your head. “You do realize the case is over, right?”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Paperwork isn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “You work too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

There was something infuriating about his ability to stay perfectly neutral. You stepped closer, rounding his desk slightly, just enough to lean against the edge.

Close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“You ever think about taking a break? Doing something fun?”

His eyes flicked up at that--just for a second--but his expression didn’t change. “I have fun.”

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “No, you don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

You took it further. “When was the last time you let yourself actually relax?”

“I don’t have the luxury of--”

“Oh, come on, Hotch,” you interrupted, frustration leaking into your tone now. “You’re always like this. So composed, so in control.” You leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something just a little more pointed. “So unaffected.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A warning. A silent caution that you were pushing too hard.

You ignored it.

You tilted your head, considering him, your frustration bubbling into something sharper.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, because you were tired of second-guessing and waiting for something that might not even be there, you let the words slip:

"You must be the most disciplined man on the planet, Hotchner." You let it sit for a beat before adding, deliberately flippant, "Or maybe I’m just not your type."

That did it.

It was instant.

His pen stilled, fingers tightening around it before setting it down with deliberate care. His jaw tensed, the muscle there flickering under the low light. And then--finally--he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a fleeting acknowledgment.

A look.

Slow. Measured. And dark in a way that made your breath hitch.

For the first time, you felt something shift in the air between you--something crackling, something dangerous.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked onto yours like he was considering his next move. Like he was deciding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “You really think that?”

Your stomach tightened.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse picked up. “Well, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

His exhale was slow, controlled--like he was reining himself in.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were the one poking him--or if you had just walked straight into something you weren’t ready for.

The room felt smaller.

Hotch hadn’t moved--not an inch. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the desk, posture as composed as ever. And yet, something had shifted.

Maybe it was in the air between you, thick with unsaid things.

Maybe it was in his eyes--still dark, still unreadable, but no longer distant.

Or maybe it was in the silence, the heavy pause after your words had landed, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Maybe you were right? Maybe you were wrong? 

"You really think that?"

He repeated. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something new in it. Something deliberate.

You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, determined to keep your ground, even as your heartbeat knocked against your ribs. “Well, again, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied you.

And then--he smirked.

It wasn’t full, wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The barest hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

He tapped his fingers against the desk once--just once--before leaning forward. Not much, but enough that the shift in proximity sent a shiver down your spine.

"You expect me to react on your timeline," he said, voice smooth, steady. "You think if I don’t, it means I don’t feel it." His eyes flickered over your face, slow and deliberate. "That I don’t want to."

Heat licked up your spine.

His words were careful, calculated--but there was something beneath them. A warning.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to let him see it. You lifted your chin slightly. "Am I wrong?"

Hotch exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh under his breath, before shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “But you are underestimating me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You felt the weight of those words, how easily they unraveled the confidence you’d built up.

Underestimating him?

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could speak, he continued, voice dropping just slightly:

“If I wanted to give in, I would have already.”

The sheer certainty in his tone sent a thrill down your spine.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "So why haven’t you?"

He held your gaze steady and unwavering.

"Because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of winning this little game you're playing."

Your breath caught.

So he knew.

He’d known this whole time.

Bastard. 

Every shift in your tone. Every touch that lingered just a little too long. Every glance, every tease, every attempt to get a reaction out of him.

He had seen all of it.

And he had been letting you play.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frustration and thrill curling into one. You had been trying to push him, to get under his skin, but now it was you who felt unsteady, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You think this is a game?" you challenged.

Hotch’s gaze flickered lower--just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch--before snapping back to yours.

“I think you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “And I think you’re getting frustrated because I won’t give you one.”

You sucked in a breath, hands curling at your sides.

“And that’s why you’re underestimating me.”

Your throat tightened.

He’s turning this on you.

You had walked into this office thinking you were the one in control, that you were the one poking at his restraint.

But now, sitting there, completely composed, unshaken, he was making it clear:

He had never been the one losing control, but you did have an effect on him.

He was letting you think you were winning--letting you push, letting you test, letting you play.

But the second he wanted to break the tension, he would.

And not a moment sooner.

Silence stretched between you, and you realized that if you said anything now, you’d only be proving him right.

So you did the only thing you could.

You stepped back.

Not much. Just enough to put a few inches of space between you. Just enough to breathe.

Hotch’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he knew he had won this round.

"Goodnight," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Your nails pressed into your palm, heat still simmering low in your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay composed as you turned.

And as you walked out of his office, one thought burned in your mind.

You had severely underestimated Aaron Hotchner.

And now, you were more determined than ever to make him break.

xxoxoxoxoxo

The local precinct smelled like stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of place that saw too many long nights and not enough successful arrests. The team had been working with the local PD all morning, briefing the officers, pouring over evidence, and establishing a strategy for catching the unsub. The air was thick with tension--case tension, but also something else.

Hotch tension.

You had been careful, playing it safe the last couple of days after your last conversation with him. He had successfully flipped your game back on you, made you second-guess your own approach, and that had annoyed you. But more than that--it had intrigued you.

You had underestimated him.

But that only made you want to try harder.

So now, standing in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by officers, detectives, and your team, you found your next move.

It happened when one of the younger officers--a rookie, maybe mid-twenties--sidled up beside you while you were scanning over a map of the unsub’s hunting ground. He was cocky, too casual for a case like this, but harmless enough.

“You guys always get put on the bad ones, huh?” he asked, shaking his head.

You hummed, glancing at him briefly. “Something like that.”

He smelled like cheap cologne and bad news. 

His eyes flicked over you--not in a way that was offensive, but in a way that was obvious. “So, what’s it like working for him?” His gaze drifted past you, and you knew exactly who he was referring to.

You glanced toward the other side of the room, where Hotch was standing with Rossi and Morgan, discussing logistics with the local captain. He was doing what he always did--keeping his tone measured, his posture unwavering, his presence demanding attention even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

The rookie smirked. “I mean, he’s kind of intense, right? Seems like the type of guy who doesn’t let his team breathe.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, he lets us breathe. Just not when we’re wasting time.”

The officer chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “And what about after hours? He loosen up at all then?”

It was an innocent enough comment. It wasn’t inappropriate, wasn’t particularly suggestive, but it was loaded--an implication lingering beneath the surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t obvious. No one else in the room would have noticed. But you did.

His energy--you could feel it surrounding you without him even making as much as a subtle eye movement. He was all around you. All at once. Just not physically. 

The way Hotch’s posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

The way his conversation faltered for just a fraction of a second before continuing.

The way his fingers twitched, like he had the urge to look over but refused to.

You had just done something dangerous.

And you liked it.

A slow, wicked idea unfurled in your mind.

You didn’t even have to flirt with the rookie. You just had to let him think he had a shot. Let Hotch think that someone else might be in your orbit.

So you smiled--just a small, amused smile--as you said, “Why? You looking for some FBI mentorship?”

The officer grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And then, because you could, because you were feeling reckless, you let your fingers lightly trail over his forearm. A barely there touch. A casual, fleeting thing.

But it wasn’t casual at all.

You felt the shift further before you even looked up.

And when you finally glanced toward Hotch--when you saw the way his gaze was locked onto you now, the sharp, barely restrained tension in his features--you almost lost your own composure.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

A rush of heat surged through your body.

Oh.

You had found something.

But before you could process it, Hotch’s voice cut through the air--calm, too calm.

“Agent,” he said sharply. “A word.”

Your stomach dropped.

And not in the way that made you nervous.

In the way that made your pulse spike.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, as Hotch gestured for you to follow him.

He didn’t wait for you--just walked toward one of the quieter hallways of the precinct, expecting you to keep up.

You did.

His legs were so long--such long strides. 

Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if he was mad or if this was something else--if you had finally managed to push too far.

When he finally stopped, he turned abruptly, standing so close that you almost collided into him.

His jaw was tight. His breathing controlled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, playing the part of the innocent. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “The officer.”

Your heart thumped. You knew what this was now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something else entirely.

A slow, knowing smirk curved your lips. “Oh,” you said, tilting your head. “You were paying attention.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice even lower now.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat. “Am I?”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, something sharp, something restrained--but this time, barely.

For the first time, you knew you had him.

And now?

Now you were dying to see what happened when Aaron Hotchner stopped holding back.

The hallway was too quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every single breath, every shift in the air between you and Hotch. The precinct buzzed faintly in the distance, but here, in this small, dimly lit corridor, it felt like another world entirely.

Hotch hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

The space between you was barely a few inches, and yet, the tension crackled like a live wire, sparking in the narrow gap separating you.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. His hands twitched--just slightly, like he was debating what to do with them.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but there was something off about it--something that told you it wasn’t just an exhale. It was restraint.

Tightly coiled, barely-leashed restraint.

You had never seen him like this.

He was always so careful. So composed. So in control.

But right now? Right now, there was something just beneath the surface, something barely held together by the thread of his discipline.

And it was because of you.

You could feel your pulse hammering against your ribs, heat rising up your spine, but you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

“I didn’t realize talking to an officer was against BAU protocol,” you mused, letting the words hang in the air between you, testing, pushing.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Your lips curled slightly, your confidence returning in full force. “No?”

His breath hitched--just a fraction, just enough.

Then, before you could blink, he took a step closer.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

You were trained to decipher human behavior, after all. This man--he was one of the hardest shells to crack, but something told you how to put the pieces together now. 

Your spine straightened instinctively, the sudden nearness setting off a slow burn low in your stomach.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one testing you.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver trailed down your spine.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the heat between you thickened. “And what am I doing, Hotch?”

His jaw ticked. “You want a reaction.”

You tilted your head slightly, barely suppressing a smirk. “Do I?”

His exhale was sharp this time, less measured, less composed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was physically keeping himself from moving.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he leaned in--just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, warm, sharp.

“You really want to test me?” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but nothing came out.

Hotch let the moment hang, suspended, the air thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then--just as quickly as he had closed the space--he pulled back, his expression unreadable once more.

His discipline snapped back into place like a steel trap, as if he had never let it slip at all.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And as he straightened, adjusting his tie, clearing his throat, you knew.

He wasn’t unaffected.

Not even close.

“Get back to work,” he said finally, voice smooth, controlled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

And that?

That told you everything you needed to know.

You thought you had won.

You felt the tension, saw the moment Hotch nearly cracked, heard the shift in his breath. You knew now--knew for certain--that you affected him. That you weren’t imagining things.

That Aaron Hotchner wanted you.

And yet, as you walked back into the main room of the precinct, trying to steady your own breathing, trying to refocus on the case, something gnawed at you.

Because when he had pulled back, when he had gathered himself, when he had smoothed his tie and sent you back to work like nothing had happened--there had been something in his expression.

Not regret. Not hesitation.

Something else.

And you realized it too late.

You had just handed him the upper hand.

oxoxoxoxoxxoox

It started small.

You were seated at the long table in the precinct’s war room, reviewing files, mapping out patterns on a whiteboard with Morgan and Prentiss, when you felt it.

A gaze.

Hotch was across the room, engaged in a discussion with Rossi and the lead detective, his voice even, steady. Composed.

But he was watching you.

Not directly. Not obviously.

But you could feel it.

The way his eyes flicked toward you between sentences, the way his attention lingered just a second too long before returning to the conversation at hand.

It shouldn’t have rattled you.

But it did.

Because you had spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t ignoring you. He wasn’t brushing it off.

He was watching you back.

And worse?

He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t used to.

You forced yourself to refocus, flipping through the files in front of you, but it was impossible to concentrate, not when you could still feel his eyes on you, his presence like a gravitational pull you couldn’t ignore.

And then--he upped the ante.

It was in the small things.

Like the next time you spoke to him--when you handed him a report, expecting him to simply take it like he always did, business as usual.

But instead, his fingers brushed yours as he took the file, slow, deliberate.

The touch was barely there, but it sent an electric jolt up your arm.

You glanced up at him, startled, only to find his gaze already on yours. Steady. Controlled.

Like he knew exactly what he had done.

Your lips parted, but he simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

And then he walked away.

Your breath stuck in your throat.

Oh, he’s good.

It only got worse from there.

During the next strategy meeting, you found yourself seated beside him--not an unusual occurrence, but this time, you felt it.

The space between you was almost nonexistent.

His arm rested along the table, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your notepad, each accidental touch sending a slow hum through your body.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

Was when you went to reach for your coffee mug at the same time he reached for his.

Your fingers brushed again, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

Instead, his thumb lingered against your skin for a half-second too long.

And when you looked up at him, startled, he just--

Smirked.

It was small. Subtle. So quick that if you hadn’t been looking, you might’ve missed it.

But it was there.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee mug like it was your lifeline, because suddenly, the temperature in the room felt ten degrees hotter.

And he just continued on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just turned the game back on you.

You barely heard a word Morgan was saying, barely processed anything but the way Hotch’s arm remained just close enough that if you moved, even slightly, you would touch again.

He was toying with you now.

Testing you.

And suddenly, you understood.

He had been waiting for this.

Letting you push him. Letting you get bold.

Because he had known the whole time that the moment he pushed back, you wouldn’t be ready for it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to refocus, forcing yourself to push through the way your stomach twisted, the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Fine.

If he wanted to play, you could play.

But you were starting to realize something you hadn’t expected.

Aaron Hotchner was a much more dangerous opponent than you had ever given him credit for.

And now, you weren’t sure if you were winning--or if you were about to completely lose yourself in him.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place the team liked to celebrate in after a case closed--a quiet enough spot to talk, but loud enough that no one paid much attention to a group of FBI agents drinking in the corner.

The case had been a difficult one, drawn out and exhausting, but the unsub was in custody, the victims’ families had answers, and--for tonight at least--you could all breathe a little easier.

You nursed your drink, watching as Morgan and Prentiss laughed at something Garcia said, Rossi swirling his whiskey in his glass as he smirked at whatever banter they were trading.

And then there was Hotch.

Sitting beside you, as always.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still distant in that way only he could manage--always composed, always aware of himself, of his surroundings.

Always in control.

You had spent the entire night testing that control.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering touch when you handed him his drink, a fleeting brush of your fingers against his wrist when you leaned in to speak over the noise of the bar.

Then, bolder.

A teasing remark, the way you laughed just a little softer when he said something dry and sarcastic, the way your hand rested lightly against his thigh just as you shifted in your seat.

You had expected a reaction.

You wanted one.

But instead of pulling away, instead of scolding you, instead of doing what he always did--remaining unaffected, unshaken--Hotch did something worse.

He played along.

He didn’t move your hand. He didn’t shift away.

He let it happen.

And the worst part?

He let you sit with it.

Let you feel the weight of your own actions, the way the tension between you thickened, the way your pulse picked up when his dark eyes flicked toward yours, unreadable but aware.

He was so much better at this game than you were.

And you were losing.

You needed to tip the scales back in your favor.

So you made a choice.

You reached for your drink, fingers brushing the rim, and took a slow sip--letting your lips close around the edge of the glass, letting your tongue flicker just slightly against the rim as you pulled back.

It was innocent enough.

But the moment you placed your glass back down, you shifted in your seat--legs crossing deliberately, brushing against his knee as you tilted your head, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

And then you said it.

Low. Soft. Just for him.

"You know, Hotch…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered before."

It was a direct challenge.

A blatant, deliberate provocation.

And this time?

He reacted.

The shift was instantaneous.

His fingers tightened hard around his glass, his jaw clenching as his breath hitched--so subtly that no one else would have noticed, but you did.

His lips parted slightly, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he was considering his next move.

Then, finally--finally--he turned to look at you fully.

And the intensity in his gaze?

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with something you had never heard from him before.

"You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman right now."

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table, and you swallowed, suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath the weight of his attention.

You had wanted this.

You had asked for this.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were ready for what happened next.

Because the way Hotch was looking at you?

Like he had been holding back for so long--so painfully long--and was finally, finally reaching the edge of his control?

It sent a shiver down your spine.

And suddenly, for the first time since this little game started…

You realized you might have just gotten in over your head.

Your stomach clenched, heat flooding through your body in waves, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his fingers flexed against his glass, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could almost hear the strain in it.

Not when you realized--really realized--that you had finally done it.

You had finally pushed him to his limit.

And now, for the first time, you were the one feeling unsteady.

A slow smirk threatened at the corner of his lips, barely there, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass before he finally--finally--pulled his gaze away from yours.

But not before he leaned in, just a fraction closer.

Just enough for you to feel his warmth.

Just enough for his breath to ghost against your skin when he murmured, “Finish your drink.”

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping the glass as your pulse pounded in your ears, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hadn’t given you an order before.

Not like that.

Not in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table.

You took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down your throat, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making your head spin.

It was him.

You were utterly and completely drunk on him. 

Hotch leaned back in his chair, as if regaining some of his composure, but you could see it now.

The way his fingers still flexed against the glass.

The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual.

The way his entire body was coiled tight, like he was waiting.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You had no idea what he was waiting for.

A few minutes passed, conversation continuing around you, but it felt like background noise now--like nothing else in the room mattered except the heavy weight of whatever this was sitting between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hotch glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair.

The shift sent a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He leaned down slightly, voice low in your ear.

"Let’s go."

Your stomach flipped.

You set your glass down, fingers slightly shaky as you grabbed your coat, barely managing a quick glance at the team.

Morgan smirked. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Prentiss definitely noticed something.

But you didn’t have time to care.

Because the moment you stepped outside into the cool night air, the second the door shut behind you, you barely had time to turn before Hotch’s voice--low, measured, dangerous--cut through the silence.

"Tell me something."

You looked up, breath catching. “What?”

His gaze burned into yours, dark and unwavering.

"Was this just a game to you?"

Your throat tightened.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “All of it,” he murmured. “The teasing. The touches. The way you looked at me back there.” His eyes flickered to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. “Was it just a game?”

The air between you was electric.

Your stomach churned, your pulse hammering in your chest, because this was it.

This was him--finally, finally dropping the act.

And the rawness in his voice?

The realness in it?

It made you realize exactly what you wanted.

Your lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping before you whispered, “No.”

Hotch’s entire body reacted to that word.

A sharp inhale. His fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

And then--finally--he stopped holding back.

His hand lifted--slow, deliberate--fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your chin up.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Just assessing.

Just waiting.

Like he needed you to give him permission.

Like he needed to know you wanted this as much as he did.

And God, did you want this.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you leaned into his touch, exhaling softly as your fingers curled against the lapels of his jacket.

That was all it took.

Hotch moved.

His lips were on yours, firm but controlled--measured, like he was still trying to hold back, still trying not to lose himself completely.

But you wanted him to lose it.

So you made a sound--soft, desperate--pressing yourself closer, and that was it.

His restraint snapped.

A sharp inhale against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His body was warm, solid, hot, and suddenly you were gripping him, fingers twisting into his shirt as his lips parted, deepening the kiss, letting out a low, gravelly noise that sent a shockwave down your spine.

The street was too open.

The world was too present.

But Hotch--Aaron--was kissing you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

And the second his hands tightened around you, the second his teeth grazed your lower lip, you knew.

You had both lost this game.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The kiss was heated, sharp, and all consuming, a slow unraveling of every ounce of tension you had been building for weeks.

Hotch’s hands were firm against your waist, fingers flexing like he was still battling the instinct to pull you closer, like he was still trying to cling to the last fragments of control that were slipping through his fingers.

You weren’t making it easy for him.

Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, pressing yourself into the solid warmth of his chest, needing more--needing all of him.

And God, the way he reacted--

The sharp inhale against your lips, the way his fingers dug into your waist, the soft, barely-contained groan that rumbled deep in his chest--

It was like nothing you had imagined.

He wasn’t careful.

He wasn’t measured.

He was starved.

Hotch tore his lips from yours, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your hips as if he was physically keeping himself from devouring you completely.

Your own breath was uneven, your hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly against his shirt.

“Aaron--”

His groan was immediate, like hearing his name like that sent a direct current through his body.

Then his hands moved.

He skimmed them up your sides, tracing the curves he had so painstakingly ignored for weeks, months, forever--his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your blouse before one of them slid into your hair, tilting your chin just so before he kissed you again.

Harder.

Rougher.

No restraint now.

It sent a shockwave through your body, heat pooling low in your stomach as his teeth scraped your lower lip, his other hand gripping your waist like he needed you, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

And God, you didn’t want him to stop.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that you were still outside the bar, still in public, still far too exposed for what was rapidly spiraling into something uncontainable.

Hotch must have realized it at the same time because he broke away, breathless, dark eyes burning into yours.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ride to his place was a blur.

You barely remembered getting into the car.

Barely remembered the way his hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw ticked as you sat beside him, thighs pressing together, anticipating.

The air in the car was thick, electric with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

And the second the door to his apartment closed behind you--

It snapped.

Hotch was on you before you could take another breath.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your hips, backing you against the wall like he needed to feel you, like he was making up for every second he had spent denying this.

Your breath hitched, your arms looping around his neck, nails dragging along the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you kissed him back, tilting your head to let him deepen it, let him take what he wanted.

And God, did he want.

His hands wandered, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers teasing the hem of your blouse before slipping beneath it, palms searing against your skin.

He let out a low groan, his mouth moving to your jaw, down to your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, sending a pulse straight to your core.

“Aaron--”

Another groan.

His fingers tightened on your hips, his breath warm against your skin.

“You--” He exhaled sharply, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You shivered, gripping his shoulders. “Then show me.”

Something snapped in him at that.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs, and before you could react, he was lifting you, guiding your legs around his waist, pressing you firmly against the wall, his body pressing flush against yours.

Heat flared through you at the sheer strength of him, the way he held you so effortlessly, the way his lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, owning the kiss in a way that made you dizzy.

He walked you to the bedroom like that, lips never leaving yours, never giving you a moment to breathe.

And when he laid you down, settling between your legs, hands braced beside your head, his breath coming out ragged--

You realized you had been so, so wrong.

You had thought you were in control.

Had thought you were winning this game.

But the way Aaron Hotchner was looking at you now?

Like he owned you?

Like he was done holding back?

You knew.

You had never stood a chance.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow from the city lights spilling through the window. The air was thick--heavy--with heat and want and weeks of barely restrained tension finally snapping apart at the seams.

Hotch hovered above you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tracing along your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, teasing.

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising beneath him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. You had never seen him like this--eyes dark, his breath uneven, his entire body wound so tight, like he was fighting every urge to just take you right then and there.

He was still holding back.

You weren’t having that.

Your fingers tugged at his collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed against yours again, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues meeting, consuming.

A low sound rumbled in his chest--a groan, gravelly and wrecked--as his weight settled between your legs, pressing firm against you, and God, you could feel everything.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, your nails dragging down his back, and that was it.

He broke.

Hotch's mouth moved--leaving your lips, tracing a path down your jaw, to the curve of your throat. He sucked, bit--just enough to make you gasp, his tongue sweeping over the sting.

"Aaron," you breathed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging hard.

His reaction was immediate--a deep groan against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist, his hips pressing flush against yours in a slow, torturous roll.

You gasped, arching up against him, heat flooding through your body as his hands wandered, sliding beneath your blouse, fingers tracing over your stomach, exploring.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips dragging down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You and your games.”

You smirked, gasping as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “I think you liked them.”

Hotch exhaled a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, laughing, but it was low, dark--not amusement, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers tilting your chin just so until your eyes met his.

“I let you play, sweetheart.” His voice was silk and steel, deep and gravelly, thick with desire. “But now?”

He smirked--smirked--and leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss.

“Now it’s my turn.”

A shiver ran through you, your pulse pounding, your entire body on fire.

Then, in one swift motion, he sat up, pulling you with him, his fingers tugging at the hem of your blouse. His eyes met yours, giving you one last out.

But there was no hesitation.

Not from you.

Not from him.

Your hands covered his, pushing the fabric up, and then it was gone--tossed aside, forgotten.

His eyes--God, the way he looked at you.

Dark. Devouring. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, rough.

Then his hands were on you again--roaming, claiming--his lips pressing, trailing, worshiping.

Your head tipped back, another breathless gasp escaping as his hands found the clasp of your bra, his fingers making quick work of it before sliding the straps down your shoulders, his lips following their path, tongue flicking, teasing.

You arched into him, needing more, your own hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to even the playing field.

Hotch chuckled--deep, dark--before obliging, sitting back just enough to yank the offending fabric over his head.

Your breath hitched.

You had seen him in varying states of undress before--worn-down hotel rooms, bulletproof vests over tight shirts, dress shirts rolled up to his forearms.

But this?

Seeing him like this--the broad lines of his shoulders, the toned muscle of his chest, the faint scar near his ribs--

Your fingers traced over it instinctively, your touch featherlight.

Hotch inhaled sharply.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, a teasing edge beneath the gravel.

You barely had time to process before he was kissing you again--deep and desperate, his hands sliding down, over the curve of your hips, fingers gripping, pulling you closer.

You gasped, hands curling around his biceps, feeling the tension in them, the way he was still holding himself back, still reining himself in.

So you tested him again.

Rolling your hips just so against his.

Hotch groaned, a sharp, wrecked sound against your lips. His fingers dug into your thighs, his control finally fraying--

“Fuck,” he exhaled, forehead pressing to yours.

You smirked, barely able to breathe.

“That’s all it took?” you teased. “I thought you had more self-control than that, Hotchner.”

His breath hitched.

Then--

You barely had a second to react before he had you pinned, his body flush against yours, his lips ghosting over your ear.

His voice was low, dangerous, devastatingly wrecked.

"You're going to regret saying that."

Your breath caught.

Then his hands moved--and you shattered.

Your pulse pounded, every inch of your body burning under Hotch’s touch, under the way he was looking at you now--like he had waited for this, ached for this, and was finally letting himself have it.

You swallowed, fingers tightening against his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he was still holding himself back--even now.

"Then make me," you whispered.

Hotch moved.

His lips crashed against yours, harder this time, rougher, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to touch you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him as his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, exploring, learning you.

You were already dizzy, already losing yourself in him, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t want careful.

You wanted him.

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, but Hotch caught your wrist, breath ragged, his forehead pressing to yours.

His eyes--dark and burning--searched yours, his fingers tightening around your wrist like he was waiting for something.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained, but still careful.

Your heart ached at the question, at the way he was still thinking about you, still making sure this was something you wanted.

You lifted your other hand, tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," you whispered.

Something in him snapped.

His lips were on yours again, his hands sliding lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you, guiding your legs around his waist before pressing you firmly against the mattress.

His body was solid, strong, his weight pressing into you in a way that had your breath catching, heat spreading low in your stomach as his mouth wandered--down your jaw, your throat, lips and tongue claiming you inch by inch.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his hands explored, learning the shape of you, teasing, tormenting--

"Aaron--"

The groan that ripped from his throat was wrecked, his fingers digging into your skin as his hips pressed flush against yours.

"You love saying my name like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but you could hear the strain in it.

You smirked, tilting your head back, offering him more as his lips traced a path down your collarbone. "I like what it does to you."

His breath hitched.

Then his teeth scraped, just enough to make you gasp, his hands finally making quick work of the last barriers between you.

Fabric was pulled away, discarded, forgotten.

And when his gaze lowered--when his hands finally moved where you needed them most--

You shattered.

Hotch devoured every reaction, every gasp, every moan, learning you, memorizing you, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him.

And when he finally, finally pressed into you--

It was slow. Deliberate.

Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

Like he wanted to ruin you.

Your fingers clawed at his back, legs wrapping tighter around him as he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck.

"You feel so--" His voice broke, his breath ragged, his lips pressing against your shoulder as he rolled his hips--

You gasped, arching into him, pleasure crashing through your veins.

Hotch cursed, a low, deep sound against your skin, his movements slow, controlled, but hard, perfect.

He was relentless.

He set the pace, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it, torturing you with the way he pulled back just enough before thrusting deep, the friction sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans were breathless, your nails scraping down his back, but it only spurred him on.

"You wanted this," he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All those games--"

You gasped as his hips snapped harder, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"You wanted to see if you could break me."

He rolled his hips again, making your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach.

"Do you feel broken now?"

You let out a sound that wasn’t even words, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your entire body on fire.

Hotch smirked against your skin, but his composure was fraying now--his thrusts turning more erratic, his breath coming faster, his muscles tensing beneath your hands.

He was losing it too.

And God, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His head dipped, lips crashing into yours in a deep, desperate kiss as the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body trembling as his name tore from your lips.

Hotch groaned, his movements turning sloppy, frantic, chasing the edge--

And then he fell, his body shuddering against yours, his lips parting in a low, wrecked moan as he collapsed, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs entwined, your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, finally, Hotch exhaled--a slow, deep breath--before lifting his head to look at you.

His gaze was soft now, but sated, his thumb brushing lazily over your cheek, tender.

"You really are trouble," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but teasing.

You smirked, tracing your fingers down his chest, lingering. "And yet, here we are."

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. "You love it."

His smirk widened slightly.

"Maybe."

Then he kissed you again--slower this time, softer.

Like he was memorizing the taste of you.

Like he already knew this wasn’t the last time.

And God, neither of you wanted it to be.

You blinked, the haze of exhaustion settling in as reality began to sink in.

You had slept with Aaron Hotchner.

And it hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been measured.

It had been raw. Consuming.

Desperate.

You swallowed, turning slightly in the bed, suddenly hyperaware that he was rolling off of you.

For a moment, your stomach twisted--should you leave? Would this change things between you? Was he already regretting it?

But before you could spiral, before you could even begin to untangle your thoughts, you heard it--

The quiet sound of running water.

You furrowed your brows, shifting up slightly onto your elbows, and then you saw him.

Hotch was standing near the bathroom sink, his back to you, shirtless, his lean muscles flexing as he ran a washcloth under warm water.

Your breath caught.

And more than that--he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t rushing.

He was taking care of you.

Your throat tightened.

He turned a moment later, towel in hand, his dark eyes immediately finding yours.

“You should lie back,” he murmured, voice softer now, the roughness of the night before smoothed into something gentle.

You blinked at him, lips parting, but you didn’t argue. You simply did as he asked, sinking back against the pillows, watching as he approached the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his warm hand skimming lightly over your thigh before he pressed the warm cloth against your skin.

The sensation made you exhale, your body still aching in the best way, but his touch was tender, careful.

"You don't have to--"

Hotch gave you a look.

You stopped.

Because you realized--he wanted to.

He continued in silence, wiping away the remnants of the night before, his touch slow, thoughtful. His fingers brushed against you so gently that your chest tightened.

The air between you was different now.

The tension of the past weeks, the game you had been playing--it was gone.

All that was left was this.

Him.

You.

The weight of what you had just done, settling between you like something neither of you could take back.

When he was finished, he set the towel aside, fingers tracing over your hip absentmindedly before finally speaking.

"Are you okay?"

You blinked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you weren’t--God, you were--but because you hadn’t expected him to ask.

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. I am."

His lips pressed together slightly, his fingers brushing against your skin again, almost like he needed to feel you still there.

Your stomach twisted--not in doubt, but in something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

So you asked.

"What about you?"

Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself, and then--finally--he met your gaze.

And you knew.

Whatever restraint he had left--whatever pieces of the mask he had been holding onto--it was gone.

"I'm not sure I know how to stop wanting you now," he admitted, voice low, raw.

Your breath hitched.

Because that?

That was the first real truth he had given you.

Your fingers curled against the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest. "Then don't," you whispered.

Hotch exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tightening just slightly against your hip.

"You don’t understand," he murmured. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth, but he continued before you could speak.

"I tried--" He exhaled again, rough, like he was frustrated with himself. "I tried to ignore it. To pretend it was nothing. That it was just...passing attraction."

You swallowed. "Was it?"

Hotch let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he admitted. "It never was."

Your breath caught, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter, because this--this--was more than you had ever expected him to admit.

"You drove me insane," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. The way you challenged me. The way you--" He exhaled, shaking his head. "The way you said my name."

Your heart stuttered.

"You noticed that?"

Hotch huffed a soft laugh, his fingers trailing up your arm, his touch leaving a burning path in its wake.

"I noticed everything," he murmured. "The way you crossed your legs during briefings. The way you stretched when you were tired, your shirt lifting just enough to make me lose my train of thought. The way you knew exactly what you were doing--"

You let out a breathless laugh. "I didn’t always know."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into something dangerous.

"No?"

Your stomach flipped. "No."

His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing over your lower lip.

"You really think you weren’t getting to me?" His voice was low, rough, something dark beneath it.

Your breath hitched.

"You were always getting to me," he admitted. "And you loved it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling very small beneath the weight of his gaze.

Because God--he was right.

You had.

You had loved it.

But what you hadn’t realized was that he had loved it, too.

"I--"

Hotch moved before you could speak, pressing you back into the mattress, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

His weight was warm, solid, comforting.

And for the first time, there was no hesitation.

No restraint.

Only truth.

"I’m done holding back," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"Good," you whispered.

And when his lips met yours again, soft and slow, hands sliding under the sheets this time--

You knew.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was real.

And neither of you were walking away from it.

Not now.

Not ever.

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