#this is just going up no categorizing tags

[post-punk-revival]

Part Two: Alterhuman Community Intro…?

This post will continue to be edited as necessary. This post is no longer our active bio and I've removed it from our pinned post because I don't update it anymore; we now have a full page on our blog for it rather than a post

So I just posted my writeblr intro and since I’m definitely more active in the alterhuman community than the writeblr community I thought it might be fun to have a nonhuman/plural intro? Might be fun and it also occurred to me/us that most of our followers really only know me since I’m the only occupant of the body itself, and don’t know anything about the rest of the system. I will probably delete this someday if I decide once again I don’t like having my ‘types public depending on if the brainmates want to keep their own bios up. It will also probably change a lot because we tend to do that.

Context. We are a non-dissociative system, we do not switch, we were dæmonic originally meaning that I am the body and communicate with them through faux-visual projection and mental speech (which is why I talk like we're a total found family when they never seem to even say anything -- trust me they do, they just don't have access to the keyboard). We/they consider them all to have separate external bodies. We are quoigenic, not traumagenic or endogenic or mixed origins, only refer to us as the former.

Swift

He/it (they/them only under certain circumstances), bisexual, binary male* but only humans are ever men. I use quoi- ahead of all labels (both queer and alterhuman) in addition. POSIC, mildly objectum/conceptum. I have special interests in: biology, the arts, and the change of technology/art/language/media over time and throughout history (example: history of computer graphics 1950s-1990s <3). Psychospiritual, philosophical and narrative alterhuman. Species-wise: I am a common raven (Corvus corax ssp. principalis), an osprey (Pandion haliaetus ssp. carolinensis), a red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamiacensis (ssp. fuertesi?)), common spotted cuscus (Spilocuscus maculatus), sea slater (Ligia exotica), mosasaur (Mosasaurus sp.), and lastly, Musteloidea sub-superfamily cladotherian (procyonids, ailurids, and mustelids). I’m a Novakid, a species from the game Starbound, which I consider more of a fictional kintype than a fictotype (I prefer alienkin or just otherkin over fictionkin for this ‘type). I am also a computer, specifically an IBM 7090. I also consider myself a kind of entity or manifestation of autumn, I’d just call it “conceptkin with extra steps,” the extra steps being conceptual embodiment in a sort of cryptidlike sleep paralysis shadow-man monster. I am questioning: a stomiiforme (viperfish, bristlemouth or dragonfish) theriotype, a house centipede theriotype, a Nectocaris pteryx theriotype, and my relationship to solar eclipses (conceptkin, symbolism stemming from interacts between other kintypes, both, or something else?) I was a ghost. Now I’m not. It was not a kintype and I did not “deconfirm” it. This affects some things. I am a flickerer with two fictotypes (Link from The Legend of Zelda, every canon game, and the Knight from Hollow Knight). I have three heartedtypes (domestic cats, cephalopods, and ghost type Pokemon) and two hearthomes (the ocean and O’Neill cylinders). I consider dragons, wolves and foxes to be paratypes. I have a profound quasi-religious connection to stars & the night sky that I consider at least marginally alterhuman in nature. I am an archetrope; wanderer, and secondarily a "shapeshifter" and "generalist" which I need better words for both of -- as they say language is like trying to nail down the ocean, and I guess it would be more accurate but less concise to describe them as "one who changes, embodies or becomes" and "one who adapts, branches out, survives or opportunizes." If I ever explain these somewhere I’ll link to it here. I have a lot of playlists including my main 9,000 song one but this is my “Swift vibes” playlist. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/40rzRF67ocIDF2L7mLzNVC?si=20945cccc57942c0

Tetri

I’m Tetri, Swift’s dæmon. I CIE on November 11th, 2020. Pronouns are he/him. I’m comfortably settled as of February 21st, 2021, as an Asian palm civet. We believe this represents Swift’s personality well, even if it was coincidental and we didn’t consciously choose it. I’m a pretty traditional dæmon but I’m not 100% by-the-books and definitely more autonomous than most, just because of the general plurality. I’m ‘hearted with cats and I love going to coffee shops and library cafés and getting a pastry. I also like transport like trains and ferries. Please feel free to initiate a conversation with me. I like to offer advice even if I don’t know you very well. Here’s my playlist of music I like https://open.spotify.com/playlist/73IEcIlekV70adyrkLjeY4 Check out these MyNoise custom generators. I think they’re rather nice .https://mynoise.net/Community/user.php?submission=691c051129d33047b53b0e3d1664468885 https://mynoise.net/Community/user.php?submission=691c051129d33047b53b0e3d1654028735 CIE Day: November 11 2020

Ziv

I’m Ziv. I’m a wolf. Specifically a Himalayan wolf, as well as a Spanish imperial eagle. An adult, not a juvenile, even though juveniles for some reason are the image of our species. Pronouns -- zhe/hir. I’m agender and aroace. I’m autistic and I like weaponry as a special interest, especially medieval blades from all over the world. Also wilderness survival. Jewish philosophy, art and history interest me. I am not spiritual and do not put stock in spiritual beliefs whatsoever. I like heavy music, metal, metalcore, rock, especially punk, but also some folk. This is my playlist. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4cL88XYitlbWeb7wnvkT9W Swift wrote the descriptions for all of our playlists but I like mine so I’m not changing it. CIE Day: November 14 2020

Lumi

Hi! My name is Lumi. I use any and all pronounce and I’m big xenogender pansexual hours. Get zany with it. I love snails, video games, and Greek mythology. I have a special interest in Nintendo. Surprisingly, my favorite game is actually not Kid Icarus. It’s Pokemon. I would love to chat with anyone!!! Send an ask for me. I’m a shapeshifter otherkin. I have no base form so I like to be a lot of different things. Animals, bugs, birds, crabs, mish-mash monsters, dinosaurs, Pokemon, all kinds of crazy stuff. It’s like choosing a jacket for the day to me. I associate with clown, bard etc. archetypes, but I don’t know if I’m exactly an archetrope. Still working on it. And I’m fictionkin, I’m a) Pit from Kid Icarus b) Sky from Wings of Fire and c) a Jester from Lethal Company! Swift wants us all to share our playlists because it’s obsessed with music. So now you have context for the last three intros. Look at my playlist boy https://open.spotify.com/playlist/01Xgx5BnmzVXxv2sIoTScZ CIE Day: December 26 2020

Maz

Hi, I’m Mazel, Maz for short. Resident human. She/her. I originated as a male, I’m a woman now, not sure if that makes me trans or something else, the question is not worth my time. I’m a lesbian. I like sci fi movies, NASA and performance art. I guess that’s it. Am I allowed to go now Swift {She's having a blast, guys} Playlist https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0acN0u6kJrYFEFWycCM3gm CIE Day: April 22 2021

Axel

I’m Axel! I’m Maz’s dæmon. I’m not settled but I like to appear as a rat or a rattlesnake or a king cheetah. Probably some more forms in the future. He/him. Technically I am just a thoughtform but I’m a thoughtform with big transmasc energy, I like to think. I’m obsessed with kaiju and other big monsters and superheroes as well as alt scenes. So my playlist should be obvious https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7Ma2bNC0FlnTsb6DtDFhXc  CIE Day: June 27 2023

Foxglove

I’m Foxglove, otherwise known as Europa. She/her, if you must refer to me. I am a dragon of silver lineage. I have special interests in psychology, botany and mineralogy. I suppose I am autistic in the context of a physically human brain, but it is difficult to recontextualize that to the culture of a draconic biological worldview. I have a great appreciation for baroque and art nouveau architecture and for the aesthetic of vintage fantasy artwork. I would also say I do not believe in anything spiritual and I do believe that everything can be explained scientifically. If we are sharing playlists, here is mine. It is majority progressive and psychedelic rock. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7vNU0chHir6XWfpt90jjxu CIE Day: September 21 2021

Anser

Swift here again. Anser is a tricky one. She could and probably would write her own intro, but she’s complicated much like V’vohu and I’d rather explain it in my own words, because I’m not sure hers would be… not too vague. Anser is not fae, nor a kitsune, nor a Huli Jing or any other kind of specific fox myth, rather a fae-like fox spirit who seems to embody multiple fox and faerie mythologies. He originated as a spirit. Sort of. When he first appeared, he may well have been a literal spirit visitor, like V’vohu. But he left, possibly of his own accord, possibly something to do with V’vohu. This Anser is a different entity while being the same individual psychologically, fully formed by whatever mental process formed the other headmates excluding V’vohu, but still also fully psychologically a spirit. Literally the exact same individual in every way except not a literal outside spiritual visitor. He still fully believes in magic and is the most spiritual of all of us. It's complicated. Anyways, she usually appears as a red fox with or without various fantastical attributes, and sometimes as a statue. She/her and he/him only, not they/them. I believe she identifies as bigender or genderfluid, not sure which or if gender means the same thing to her at all that it does to earthly people. Here’s her playlist, like V’vohu’s it’s pretty unique. She’s obsessed with different cultures, religions and folklores around the world, so her music taste is mostly comprised of regional folk, devotional and traditional music and nature noises. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4XIssSbiAwI1e1G3AuiqIX CIE Day: June 13 2022

[quadrantadvisor]

I wish that there was a commonly used tag for like, ghost instincts or whatever. I specifically want to read fics with like, ectoplasmic entities being able sense and communicate with eachother, and having haunts that they feel urged to protect, and making aggressive threat displays and being able to feel eachother's intentions and all that kind of stuff. But it doesn't seem like there's anything in the common tag parlance, unfortunately.

[rbtlvr]

we are taking a wildly unprecedented break from our regular loopposting to bring you instead: siffrinposting

specifically thinking about the dialogue w odile in the true end of the prologue when you pick 'i forget things'. the. 'whatever it is, it'll definitely come back to you'. because. no it wont. or maybe some things will, like everyones names did, but other things (like siffrins past, like anything related to the island, like - at this point - most if not everything before the loops entirely) are just gone forever. shes trying to help but honestly it feels more along the lines of her 'of course ive been in love itd be weirder if i hadnt at my age' line where she says something incredibly insensitive without realizing it, completely unintentionally. it hurts :(

[marshmellowtea]

clumsy teenage chris who hit his growth spurt too early and can't handle the length of his limbs now being drawn to ballet as an art form based in elegance and perfect control over your body, yearning to be like the pretty dancers he sees onstage who can do beautiful things with their arms and feet and don't stumble over themselves or run into things like he does, desperately wishing to be able to have that kind of gracefulness and self control so he can stop feeling so so ashamed of his scrawny, gangling limbs and awkward, graceless way of holding himself..........

[cheshitora]

'summer camp summer' is upon us so its almost time to whip out my favorite horror movie.. sleepaway camp

[pikslasrce]

pussy so androgynous it causes a major fandom schism approximately 194 times a month

[milfbrainrot]

i hate astrology stuff too but i think this show sometimes misses that the belief systems of different planets aren't usually the problem. the governments based on belief systems are.

[arctic-hands]

Related to my tags on the Irish American reblog, how long have bastardized "Celtic" crosses been neo-Nazi symbols? I wasn't aware of this stupid use until I was an adult and my father was equally unaware until I learned about it, and in our Celtic (American) Pride we often used Celtic cross imagery in decor and accessories. Granted these usually did resemble actually woven/knotted crosses (which by no means meant they were authentic. At best a few came from local Celtic Pride fests–which as I said in those tags was plagued by Confederate and Nazi imagery), but most of them came from like JoAnn's or Michael's or Walmart whenever Saint Paddy's Day rolled around. That said, the woven pattern of a Celtic cross is a bitch to draw especially when you have yet to nurture or be nurtured in any art skills, so when my borderline-Gothic ass would doodle graveyards in my school notebooks I would often doodle simplified Celtic crosses as grave markers, which unfortunately just meant a simple cross with a simple circle in it, unfortunately reminiscent of the neo-Nazi symbol.

Me and my family were staunchly Indiana liberals (to be fair that wasn't that shocking in our democrat enclave city) and have only become more leftist as time goes on, so those who knew me well would know I didn't mean anything by it, but like I have to wonder/worry that those who didn't know me well (like most of my classmates. I was pretty lonely in high school) or people who would briefly visit my home or come across us while we were wearing Celtic pins that day or something came away with the wrong impression. I'm especially dismayed at the thought that the kids I knew to be actual neo-Nazis might thought I was one of them

For the record I left school in like twenty eleven and had been doodling graveyards for years and wearing Celtic imagery for even longer. I can't really find out when the "Celtic" cross became a dogwhistle

[unproduciblesmackdown]

going like what's the most bloodsong thing to do today (or any given day) like ooh i know letting loose on the kazoo. letting loose on being dead & dying

& like well yes but you know. cmere arm around shoulder i'm gonna just straightforwardly talk about what bloodsong is about. well of course it's about wringing your Truth Self Passion Feelings Whatever essential bloodstyle inspiration motivation into your deal. however you heard the black suits, where wringing yourself out & thus having to have that blood to wring out is perhaps not very sustainable. so great news b/c bloodsong of love is, like the black suits, also about how one sustains & is sustained by others & their deals like wow i'm all about what you're wringing & ppl being all about what you're wringing & just even what goes before & beyond any wringing at all to be, thus, sustaining, but where if you can't get your blood all over & into stuff at all ever then it's like well that's probably a problem. see also the villain isn't presented like oh Not a fellow musician or otherwise emphatically really separated / othered from our heroes & good guys, like well yeah he does just walk a road too, Is also a musician, just that the musician And Everyone is struggling with being vulnerable & in a hostile world & potentially fucked over at any time, & so our villain's quest is the impossible one to never be fucked over & by extension never be vulnerable, which theoretically includes having to bleed for anything figuratively, but of course he Is vulnerable & bleeds & wrings & has had to do so all along b/c he was ofc all along never invulnerable either....but you gotta do your thing, b/c you gotta do your thing, regardless of if you gain whatever success or reach whatever goals Through it & not be fucked over, and you certainly can't Know you will or won't. last on land, bloodfilled heart of the matter, everyone's there, penultimate song on album, transitions into the friendship song, ultimate song in bloodsong, did i mention the black suits where it was never about knowing they'll win, winning, knowing the future will bring any particular thing

[resonabilis-echo]

.

[littlerequiem]

Hello!! I hope you are having a wonderful day/night! I was just wondering if you have any good Levi fanfic recommendations? Preferably x reader and canon-compliant? Ik this is so random lol I just feel like you would have good recommendations!! And in general even if they aren’t x reader or canon-compliant. Your writing is so good and I just know you would have good taste🥰

Hi, of course, happy to share recs :D Excuse the length of this, but I somehow ended up giving you my 5+ years worth of i-am-once-again-hopelessly-addicted-to-Levi AO3 bookmarks, heh. I tried to categorize them best I can.

These beautiful stories are mostly x Reader, a few x OC. Please heed the tags & if you can, let the authors know that you appreciate their writing (:

LEVI x READER RECS

CANON* LONG-FICS (*some are pre-canon or post-canon)

Dust, Diamond by maotkitty

Death's Door by SongsOfApollo

Veins of the Citadel by cinnamads

Felines and Canidae by veratrance / @veratrance

Through Peril and Refuge by post_academic

To You, 2,000 Feet Above by PrettyxVenom99 / @prettyxvenom99

His Wounded Heart Beats For One by UrbanDeity / @urbandeity

North Star by sixpennydame / @sixpennydame

Silver Soul by oi_levi / @bibblelevi

First Time Anthology by Levmada / @rivangel

Freedom & Death by killerpillar / @killerpillar

silver underground by tothestrongones / @amywritesthings

One Brushstroke At A Time by missEmpress

AU LONG-FICS

Paychecks with a Side of Intimacy (sugar daddy AU) by Milmie / @leyyvi

A Soul Beyond Salvation (western AU) by ananimegirlhasnoname / @ananimegirlhasnoname

Lessons in Patience (college AU) by almondblossoms1000 / @capricornlevi

As the Sparks Die (zombie AU) by wellitcouldbeworse3

Project Arcane (urban fantasy AU) by missEmpress

The Romance of Reimbursements (modern AU) by taomyou / @taomyou

To Sing a Song of Steel (fantasy AU) by CaptainDegenerate

House of Cards (royalty AU) by darlingheichou / @h0neylevi

Percolate (coffee shop AU) by heichoe / @heich0e

Kintsugi (figure skating AU) by @humanitys-strongest-brat

BOUND BY DUTY (royalty AU) by mrsackxrman / @atruewarrior

dark side of the moon (sci-fi/yakuza AU) by sixpennydame / @sixpennydame

To You, 1000 Years From Now (isekai) by darlingheichou / @h0neylevi

Unspoken Words (modern AU) by chaos_on_main / @chaotic-on-main

ONE-SHOTS/TWO-SHOTS (AU and canon)

Melt by chimeragarden / @chimera-garden

Mise En Place by gothgril69 / @gothgril69

[watch me fall apart, watch me fall apart] by djmarinizela

the mortal price of crossing twice by heichoe / @heich0e

we're all alone, ride it by alleviate / @alleviate-ao3

Kiss It Better by oi_levi / @bibblelevi

It's a Wrap! by jayteacups / @jayteacups

Thundershower by Levmada / @rivangel

SHADES OF GRAY by mrsackxrman / @atruewarrior

One Step from Hades by silesy

waking reverie by captain-hawks

All Too Familiar by jayteacups / @jayteacups

Your Safe Space by humanitysstrongestbamf / @humanitys-strongest-bamf

Desperation by veratrance / @veratrance

Under the Mistletoe by youre_ackermine / @youre-ackermine

Welcome Home by FlameTrashira / @flametrashira

Tea and Therapy by misspearlmd

For the Living by BreakingGround / @thechaoticarchivist

Last category is a Levi x Erwin x F!Reader story that I always recommend bc it altered my brain chemistry.

this is a story of the sea by shinzouing / @shinzouing

I didn't go into specifics or share fics from Tumblr bc this post would never end but, if you want, check out my rec tag and go give the fics on here all the love they deserve <3

( also, adding to that: the stories mentioned in this post are simply what I've personally read, it is by no means meant to exclude other fics/writers. Truth is, I have not read everything out there as I am just one person, so if anyone has any recs to add, feel free to add and continue to show support for different creators! )

Happy reading!! Divider by @/enchanthings.

[crdteezv]

His #1 Fan - Haechan

Pairing:  !idol! Haechan x perv loser fangirl! gf! reader

Genre: idol! au, smut

Synopsis: You told him you were just a fan. But behind closed doors? You were obsessed—saving every fancam, moaning his name into your pillow, and running a secret fan account filled with god knows what. Haechan never suspected a thing… until he came home early and found it all. And now that he knows what you really are?

A pervert.

 Warnings: smut. !mean/hard dom! haechan, loser/perv sub!reader, reader has an unhealthy obsession with him and is lowkey creepy at times… mutual masturbation, phone sex?, size kink,  oral (giving), fingering (receiving), sex toy use, pillow humping, HEAVY humiliation and degradation, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 5.4k words

A/N: Fair warning—this fic is pretty disturbing, and if you’re not comfortable with any of the tags above, please refrain from reading. This one’s way more intense than most of what I’ve written before.

Also, sorry for disappearing for months… I had zero motivation to write until now!!

AND I did not forget about the NCT prompt requests!! A bunch of them are still in the works, so keep an eye out

You were a fan first. Always.

You’d been following Haechan for years. Not casually. Not like one of those girls who watches a few stages and thinks she’s obsessed because she knows his birthday and blood type. No. You were deep into it. Sick with it. You're the kind of fan people make callout threads about.

You studied him.

Every stage outfit—categorized by tour, color scheme, and accessory. Every fancam—even the shaky, blurry 360p ones where the mic check overshadowed his voice—downloaded, backed up, renamed, and stored in folders sorted by era, hair color, etc. You had tags for expressions like his smirks or lip bites. Livestreams were recorded the second they went up, even the ones that got deleted halfway through. You had them saved forever.

You had clips titled things like "his moan???" and “rude ass stare.mp4.” You watched them on loop. 

You came to them.

At first, you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. You weren’t trying to date him. You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. You wanted to be fucked. Used.

You wanted to be some stupid little fan he could bend over the edge of a hotel bed and ruin—nothing but a warm hole to fuck until your throat was raw from moaning and your legs were too weak to stand. 

Your private account—@haebrainrot606—was the place where you said all the shit you’d never admit aloud.

he laughs like he knows i’d let him use my throat if he asked

i just know he gives the craziest head i want his face shoved in between my legs

i want to make a mess on his thigh and ride it till i cry

The tweet that went viral wasn’t even your worst one.

i want him to ignore me while he jerks off. just use my mouth. don’t even look at me

15k likes.. People were going crazy in the replies. No one knew who you were. You never posted your face. But your followers? They knew. They understood. They were sick just like you. 

You weren’t a fan.

You were a pervert.

And you were fine with that.

Until it stopped being a fantasy.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were working some nothing backstage job at a music show—wrangling cables, keeping your head down, trying not to get caught staring. You tried not to stare too hard when he walked by. 

But he saw you.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

He asked for your name, then asked if you were free that weekend—and you said yes, way too quickly. You went out that weekend, nervous as hell, trying not to shake through the whole thing. You lied—told him you liked his group, but that you weren’t really into K-pop like that. You tried to act cool, like you weren’t always imagining him bending you over in one of the backstage closets and fucking you raw.

He honestly thought you were cute.

You started dating not long after.

Nobody knew. Not the fans. Not your friends. Not your mutuals on Twitter who’d die if they found out the girl thirst-tweeting about getting face-fucked by Haechan was actually dating him.

He didn’t know either.

Not about the account. Not about the folder on your phone marked simply “H.” Not about the screenshots of his hands or the dozens of clips of his hips during choreography. Not about the draft in your Notes app describing him bending you over his kitchen table and muttering, “Don’t fucking speak unless it’s to beg.”

He didn’t know you got off to them. Regularly.

He had no idea you watched his fancams with a vibrator pressed to your cunt. That sometimes you got so high on him, you ignored his texts just to ride your own hand through another orgasm.

He thought you were shy.

He thought you were sweet. Innocent.

He thought you missed him when he went on tour because you loved him.

You did. That part was true.

But you also missed the weight of his cock on your tongue. The way he grunted when you gagged around him. The way he groaned—low and casual, like he didn’t even realize it.  You missed how sometimes—just sometimes—he’d look at you while you were on your knees like you’d pissed him off, like he was two seconds away from saying ‘shut the fuck up and take it.’

You missed that look.

You loved him so much it made you sick. Loved the way he touched you like you were breakable. Like he was holding back. Loved the weight of his body over yours, slow and deep, fucking the air from your lungs one thrust at a time.

You wanted him to know.

You wanted to show him the account. Scroll through every tweet. Every draft. Every voice note of his moaning that you looped until your thighs were slick and your sheets were ruined.

You wanted him to snap.

You were soaking, just thinking about it.

His hoodie clung to your skin, black and oversized, still heavy with his cologne. You had your vibrator in one hand, your phone in the other. Fancam loaded. Volume low.

You rolled onto your stomach, shoved a pillow under your hips, and tucked the vibe against your clit.

You were already wet. The second it pulsed, your breath stuttered. The buzz vibrated through your spine, soft and relentless. Your hips rolled down into it, desperate for pressure, for anything.

The screen showed him on stage—sweat-soaked, hair messy, jean jacket clinging to his shoulders. He was practically fucking the air, like the audience wasn’t even there—like the lights, the screams, none of it mattered. His eyes stayed locked straight ahead, jaw clenched, hips grinding with that same brutal rhythm, like he was already inside someone. Like he knew you were out there, watching him lose control—and wishing it was you he was doing it to.

And God, his face. That smirk. Those eyes.

You pressed the vibe harder.

Your moan slipped out soft and broken. Your thighs clenched. You moved against it, slow and messy, your slick coating the pillow underneath you. You didn’t care. Your body was already curling, every nerve drawn tight.

“Fuck…”

The moan echoed through your room, quiet but desperate.

Your mind filled with his voice—imaginary, yet it felt so real

“You’re really humping a pillow, baby?”

You gasped. Your hips bucked. Your hands twisted in the sheets.

“You get off to me like this every night, huh?”

You did.

And you were so close.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You came fast and hard—legs twitching, hips jerking, body trembling.

But the shame didn’t stick.

Because you weren’t done.

You didn’t want to be done.

You turned the vibe higher. Pressed it back against your clit.

You were sobbing. Moaning through it. Guttural, aching sounds you couldn’t even bite back.

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

Your phone rang.

Your whole body jerked. The vibrator still buzzed mercilessly against your clit.

Caller ID lit up the screen.

Haechan ♥️

Your heart dropped. Your brain fried.

You stared. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you answered.

“Hi,” you gasped, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

Silence.

A pause.

Then his voice came through the line, low and smug, and knowing.

“You sound fucked out already.”

You choked on air.

“That for me?”

You whimpered. A sound so broken it wasn’t even a word.

He laughed.

And that was when you realized—he knew.

“Jesus, baby,” Haechan said, voice soaked in disbelief. “You miss me that bad?”

You nodded before you remembered he couldn’t see you. Tried to speak, but your throat clenched around the sound. The vibrator was still humming against your swollen clit—slow, cruel pulses dragging you up and down the edge like it had all the time in the world to make you suffer.

“What are you doing right now?” His voice dropped, smoother and a little darker now. “Tell me.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t even breathe, let alone form words. Shame burned through your face, your chest, all the way down to your trembling thighs.

He clicked his tongue—sharp, almost condescending.

“Oh my god. Are you actually touching yourself right now?”

The orgasm that had been teasing at your spine flared hotter.

“I didn’t think you were serious. You really can’t help yourself, huh?” he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bet you’ve been humping that sad little pillow of yours like it’s my thigh.”

You choked on a moan.

He heard it.

“Aw, baby. You’re so fucking gross.”

He wasn’t mad. That was the worst part. He sounded fond and weirdly amused. Like the whole thing was endearing—your soaked sheets, your ruined underwear, your whimpers breaking apart in the back of your throat.

“You got the vibe still on?”

You nodded. “Yes,” you gasped. “Still—still on—”

“How long have you been like this?”

You had to think. Or maybe just lie.

“An h-hour?” It came out small. Shaky. Fragile.

He exhaled through a soft laugh—dark, amused, and just a little breathless.

“Jesus Christ.” A pause. “Did you cum already?”

You hesitated.

“…Twice.”

His groan bled into the speaker. It was quiet, low, and raw. It sounded like it had slipped past his teeth before he could hold it back.

“Fuck. You’re obsessed.”

You whimpered again, full-body tremble, everything clenched and aching and tight.

“Say it,” he said, voice cutting like a blade between your ribs. “Say what you want.”

You wanted to tell him you’d been jerking off to his fancams, but instead, you just said, “I want you to use me,” the words spilling out all at once, your voice cracking. “I want you to know how desperate I am. Please, Haechan, I want to be yours, I want—”

Your breath caught in your throat. The vibrator ground against your clit like it wanted to break you, and your whole body tensed with a cry.

“Keep going,” he breathed. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. It poured out of you—shameless and breathless.

“I think about your dick every night. I dream about your voice, your fingers, the way you fuck—rough, mean, fast—I want you to choke me—”

You screamed as it hit you.

Your orgasm exploded through your spine, brutal and unstoppable. You bit your own arm to keep from sobbing out loud. Your legs locked up, your hips twitched, and your cunt throbbed around nothing, dripping slick down your thighs and into the ruined pillow beneath you.

The vibrator kept buzzing.

Too much.

You clawed at it, yanked it away with shaky fingers, body twitching uncontrollably. You were soaked. The pillow beneath you was drenched. You couldn’t see straight and your vision blurred,

He was still on the line.

You heard him breathing slowly and steadily.

“…Are you okay?” he asked finally, voice wrecked. Like he’d been jerking off the whole time and was pretending not to.

You nodded, then laughed, the sound breaking apart halfway through.

“No,” you exclaimed. “I’m fucking exhausted now.”

He let out a breathy laugh at your response; he found it cute—how easily you fell apart, how quickly you turned into a desperate, needy mess just for him.

“I’m coming home in two days, by the way,” he said, tone soft but heavy, like a warning, like a promise.

You swallowed hard.

“You better be ready.”

You weren’t.

Not even close.

Two days later, he didn’t knock.

No warning. No text. No call.

He just walked in.

You were curled up in his bed, legs folded beneath you, phone glowing in your hand, face buried in his pillow like you were trying to smother yourself with the scent of him.

The same video played on your screen. The one you’d watched too many times. Him in the clear box. Sweating, smirking, thrusting so deep into the air it felt personal. The volume was too high. His voice filled the room—hot and arrogant and cocky—and you were too far gone to notice the door.

But you heard his voice in real time. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly. Almost robotically. Like maybe if you didn’t move too fast, you could lie your way out of it.

He stood in the doorway. Still. Calm.

Too calm.

His eyes tracked everything— your flustered expression, your soaked panties half-pulled down your thighs, the spent vibrator glowing faintly at your side. And your phone. Playing him.

You moved too late.

He was already crossing the room, grabbing the phone out of your hand. You didn’t even have time to blink.

He saw everything.

The tweets. The clips. The saved voice notes. The smut drafts in your Notes app.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His thumb flicked across your screen.

Then he read one out loud.

“‘I want to be manhandled by Haechan so bad.’” His gaze snapped up. “Wow.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

He scrolled again.

“‘I want him to use me so bad I don’t give a fuck anymore.’” His head tilted slightly. He looked almost impressed. 

“Damn, baby.”

You scrambled. “It’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” he cut in, voice sharp now. “Didn’t think I’d find out?”

You fell silent.

He laughed. A single, low sound, cold and amused.

“All this time,” he said, stepping closer, eyes scanning your face like you were something he didn’t quite recognize. “You’ve been getting off to me in secret. Watching me over and over, like my fancams were made to feed your obsession. Lying to my face. Playing innocent.”

He stepped closer, phone still in his hand, and you instinctively backed up against the headboard.

“You’ve been jerking off to me like a fucking pervert. Fucking your pillow like a bitch in heat. Did you even want me, or did you just want to get off?”

You whimpered. Shook your head. But it was useless.

He was already reaching for you, already grabbing your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips parted with a soft gasp.

“You’re fucking lucky I like you.”

Then he climbed onto the bed, knees pinning your thighs down, eyes flashing with something darker than desire.

You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed down, body trembling like it knew what was coming.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely a thread.

“Oh, baby,” he muttered, dark amusement curling through every syllable. “You’re gonna be.”

He dropped your phone onto the bed with a loud, deliberate thud—screen still lit, still open to your account—and you flinched like it’d struck you.

Then his hand was on you.

Fingers curled under your chin, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you couldn’t look anywhere but him. His grip was firm, his eyes burning with something far beyond anger.

“You ever think about telling me?”

All you could do was swallow hard; your throat tightened, and you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.

“You were gonna take that little account to the grave, huh?”

Still nothing.

He scoffed, like he already knew. Like he’d already read every tweet, every caption, every sick little reply.

And then—without warning—he yanked his hoodie off your body. The fabric dragged across your skin as you gasped, arms instinctively crossing over your chest like you could shield yourself from his gaze.

Pointless.

You were bare underneath. Exposed.

He looked at you slowly as if he was analyzing you.

And everything in his face changed.

His anger didn’t even go away. It just shifted into something colder, hungrier. His eyes darkened, dragging slowly and deliberately down the length of your body, lingering at the subtle twitch of your thighs. His gaze caught where your slick had already started to spill, glistening at your swollen cunt—leaking like you were begging without words.

 He looked at you like it was the first time—like he was finally seeing you the way you’ve always seen yourself.

“You were jerking off to me just now, weren’t you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.

Your face burned. “Y-Yes.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re sick.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He stepped closer, closing the space between you in one stride. One hand reached for the back of your neck, gripping tight, fingers splayed wide, ownership in his touch.

“You’ve been jerking off to me every night like some pathetic loser,” he growled, pulling you close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “You moan into your pillows while touching yourself to the thought of me. You even write your dirty little fanfics and tweet things you’d never dare say to my face—still acting like you’re not already mine.”

“But I-”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “I’m not done.”

You shut it.

His eyes dropped again, scanning your trembling thighs, the way your fingers twitched at your sides. The way your body was begging without saying a word.

“You couldn’t wait two days?” he muttered. “Two fucking days without touching yourself like a slut?”

You shook your head, barely breathing.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“No self-control,” he whispered.

His hand drifted from your throat, down over your chest, between the curve of your tits, across your stomach, slow enough to make you tremble.

“You like this,” he said. “Being caught? Being humiliated?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“…Yes,” you whispered, throat tight. “I do.”

His fingers skimmed your thighs, teasing the inside, not touching where you needed him—just grazing, just letting you squirm.

“Now you’re gonna sit here,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re gonna watch me go through that little fan account of yours. Every tweet. Every thread. Every disgusting thought you’ve had about my dick.”

You nodded quickly, breath hitching.

The second he told you to drop—you did. Your knees hit the floor like it was second nature to you.

He didn’t waste time.

Didn’t even look at you for long. Just unzipped his pants, pulled his cock out—hard, angry-looking, flushed to the tip like it took every tweet personally.

“Open,” he ordered.

You opened your mouth, and he shoved his cock past your lips without hesitation. No warm-up, no mercy. Just thick, heavy weight pushing into your throat like you were nothing but a hole to fuck. You choked immediately, lips stretching wide, spit spilling down your chin.

Both hands tangled in your hair as he held your head in place. Then he started to move.

“Let’s see if you suck dick as good as you tweet about it.”

You gagged, eyes watering. You tried to keep up—to breathe through your nose, relax your throat—but he didn’t give you the chance. He used you. Fucked into your mouth like he owned it.

When your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, he chuckled darkly.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he muttered, pulling you back just far enough to watch the spit stretch from your lips to his cock. “You like this. You like being used.”

You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks, spit dripping down to your chest. You were shaking.

“It’s pathetic.”

He shoved your head down again, and you took it. Gagged, swallowed around it. And he still didn’t stop.

He grabbed your phone with one hand and started scrolling again—Like your sobbing throat and strangled gags were nothing more than background noise to him, just his new favorite sound.

Your head already bobbing, spit-slick and twitching from every shove, every taunting roll of his hips like he was trying to bruise your esophagus on purpose. He had one hand tangled in your hair, the other casually lifting your phone, thumb swiping upward as if your tears pooling down his thighs weren’t even worth acknowledgment.

"Oh, what’s this one say?" he mused, even as you spluttered, spit bubbling around his shaft. He tilted the phone slightly, screen lighting his cheek with that faint glow. 

"'If he looked at me like that we’re fucking in that box in front of everyone I don't give af.'"

He barked a laugh and shoved his hips forward—not hard, just deep, intentional, burying himself until your throat was full of him and nothing else. Until your nose was pressed up against his happy trail and your eyes blurred with tears.

"Did you actually tweet this? " he taunted, holding the phone up, showing you the exact fancam—the fancam that you came to so many times.—paused right on that moment. His own eyes staring into the camera, pupils dark, jaw tight, every muscle in his body glistening in that glass box during that impossible performance. He hadn’t broken eye contact once with the lens, and you knew it. You’d watched it a hundred times. You tweeted about it.

He thrust again and your whole body jolted, a garbled whimper dragging out of your chest as he tapped the screen, watching himself lock eyes with the camera. With you. Over and over. That same unrelenting stare.

"Fucking in that box in front of everyone, huh?" he repeated, half-laughing now, breathless from how tight your throat clamped down when he quoted you. “God, you’re such a slut… wanting me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he just rocked into your mouth again, harder this time, making your shoulders hitch and your lungs beg. The phone was still in his hand, still glowing, still showing the loop of him staring into your soul.

“Bet you only said that so everyone would know I belong to you.”

God, he was so right.

You liked the idea of every single one of his fans, your mutuals, your followers, the whole damn world—watching that fancam and reading your tweets and knowing none of them could ever have him. Because he belonged to you. And more than that, you belonged to him.

You were his favorite fangirl.

Your whole body jerked, trembling. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as your throat fought to accommodate all of him and failed, again and again.

You were choking. He was scrolling. Perfect harmony.

His expression twisted, something between disgusted and turned on.

Then he pulled out with a wet pop, shoving your head aside like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

“On the bed.”

You scrambled up, legs barely working, knees weak as you crawled onto the mattress—still damp from earlier, still smelling like your last orgasm. You lay back, legs spread wide, open like muscle memory.

He stared.

Then smacked your clit.

Hard.

You screamed, body arching, hands fisting the sheets.

“You’re soaking just from me being mean to you?” he scoffed. “God, you’re such a fucking loser.”

Then he sank two fingers inside you—deep, rough, fast.

No warning.

They curled immediately, stroking the spot that made you jerk with a cry, your whole body thrumming with need.

You tried to breathe. Tried to stay still. But he was relentless—crooked fingers, wet sounds, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to drive you mad.

He leaned in close, voice pouring into your ear.

“All those dirty little posts?” he whispered. “All those disgusting tweets? You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”

You whimpered.

“You’re a fucking perv.”

He grabbed your phone again, still open on the mattress, still glowing.

“Let’s see what else my number-one fan’s been up to…”

He read aloud, slow and mocking.

“��God, his hands are so pretty I just wish he could shove them deep inside and not stop no matter how many times I tell him to.’”

He looked at you, smirking. “My hands, baby? Out of everything? That’s what gets you off?”

You couldn’t speak. You were too far gone. Too humiliated. 

“You’re such a pervert for me.”

His fingers moved faster. Wet. Unforgiving. Fucking into you with no rhythm, no care—just force and pleasure. Until your legs started shaking and your walls clenched tight and you felt yourself teetering again.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled out.

You sobbed. A broken, desperate sound.

He clicked his tongue. “Oh, princess. You really thought I’d let you cum after all that gross things you wrote about me?”

You shook your head, begged silently, grinding against nothing.

“You don’t deserve shit from me.”

He unzipped his pants again, pulled his cock out, slapped it against your clit once—twice—just to watch your hips jerk. Your back arched. You needed him. Needed it.

“Mmm, baby,” he said, voice honey-thick and mocking. “Look at it. The cock you’ve been tweeting about. The one you came to.”

Then he flipped you onto your stomach, shoved your face into the mattress, and fucked into you in one vicious, brutal thrust.

You screamed.

“You don’t even deserve to be fucked like this,” he snarled, hips already slamming into yours. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You cried out again. Again. Every thrust shoved you further into the bed, stretched you wider, fucked you raw. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned. “You’re dripping down my cock, baby. Fucking soaked. All for me.”

The sheets smelled like him. Like cologne, sweat, and sex. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Your orgasm was building again.

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already,” he said, voice low. “We barely fucking started.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even form a sound. You didn’t even hear him anymore—his constant taunts and teasing were a blur. All you could feel was his cock pounding into you and your orgasm building like a scream in your throat. All that registered now was the relentless rhythm of his cock slamming into you, slick and punishing, hitting that spot again and again with no mercy, no slowing, no breath between thrusts. Your body wasn't keeping up, and your brain had left hours ago.

And then it hit.

The orgasm came without warning—sudden, blinding, violent. Muscles clamped tight around his cock, walls spasming uncontrollably, thighs shaking as the wave surged through your core and stole every breath. Stars bloom into your vision, and you feel yourself getting dizzy. A scream tore from your throat, raw and broken, muffled into the sheets as your entire body trembled and shook. The convulsions came hard, hips jolting, knees knocking into his without rhythm, and still—he didn’t stop.

He grunted. Slowed just enough to mock you.

“God,” he hissed, breathless, looking down at the mess you’d become. “You’re so fucking gross. You really came that fast?”

Just grabbed your aching body and flipped you over like a ragdoll, letting you bounce onto your back, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“Now it’s my turn.”

And you didn’t get to breathe. Not even once.

He shoved into you in a single, brutal thrust, hips slamming against yours with obscene wet heat. You squealed—sharp and involuntary, a high-pitched gasp that twisted into a choked sob. Your legs instinctively locked around him, thighs clenching at his waist, your arms snapping up around his neck as your whole body reacted with desperate need. He filled you, absolutely filled you, cock stretching your sore pussy wide open again with zero warning, and it was too much.

“Fuck—” he groaned, pressing his chest flush to yours, his entire weight pinning you down into the bed. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your head. His cock ground inside you, thick and brutal and unrelenting, while he buried his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your sweat.

“You’re so fucking small under me,” he muttered, voice hoarse with lust, dragging his hips slow now, long, deliberate thrusts that made your back arch off the mattress. His cock slid in deep, too deep, forcing your body to take every inch like it had no choice.

You could barely breathe. He was suffocating you, swallowing your air, pinning your wrists back down with his hands wrapped tight around them like shackles. His broad shoulders caged you in like he wanted to drown you in him. His cock bullied your pussy with every thrust, splitting you open, dragging slick out of you with wet, squelching sounds that made your ears burn.

And you loved it.

You loved being held down. Loved the crushing weight of him on your body, the way his arms flexed over yours, how every part of you was forced to mold to him.

He started fucking harder. Hips snapping forward, slamming into you without rhythm, without restraint—just force. You cried out with each impact, your arms tightening around his neck, trying to anchor yourself to anything as he railed you into the mattress.

Then his mouth found your ear.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice soft and dangerous, like a knife against skin. “You were running a fan account the whole time.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed cheeks, hips slamming forward as he spoke. Each word landed with a violent thrust.

“All those pathetic little things you posted about me—every night—while I was already fucking you like this in my bed.”

You gasped, trying to stammer something, anything, but the air was gone, and so were your thoughts. His fingers gripped your jaw tightly, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were wild. 

Possessive.

He than whispered in your ear “Don’t you think that’s a little fucking selfish?”

“I—I'm sorry—I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did," he cut you off, cock drilling into you harder, his voice thick with betrayal—and something darker. “You wanted both. You wanted to be my girlfriend and my #1 fan all at the same time. You wanted to write all that crazy shit about me and still look me in the eyes like nothing was wrong.”

Your body jolted as his cock slammed deeper, harder, shoving you up the bed until your head smacked into the headboard, breath ripped from your lungs.

“You’re mine,” he exclaimed. “You’ve always been mine. And no one gets to know that my biggest fan is a gross, pervy little slut I call my girlfriend.”

And that did it. Again.

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. Your legs shook around him, your voice cracked in a hoarse, broken scream that you buried in his shoulder, teeth scraping skin. You clung to him like a lifeline as he fucked you through it—faster now, chasing his own release with those brutal, punishing thrusts that sent the bedframe banging against the wall.

Then you felt it.

The heat. The flood. His cock twitched hard inside you, buried to the hilt, as thick, his warm cum spilling deep into your cunt. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you like he wanted to drown in you, hips still twitching, grinding in lazy aftershocks as your body milked him for every drop.

You were full. Overstuffed. Sore, soaked, still trembling. His cum leaked out of you in hot, messy spurts, mixing with your slick on the sheets. You could feel the mess under you, the wet sound your bodies made every time he shifted slightly, still inside you, cock still hard.

He didn’t move. Just collapsed on top of you, chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he didn’t care if you suffocated under him.

He stayed there.

You stayed under.

His cock twitched inside your pulsing cunt. Your heartbeat pounded against his ribs. You were nothing but a mess under him, and he loved it.

After a long silence, he reached over, his arm dragging lazily across the mattress, and grabbed your phone from where it had fallen off the bed earlier. He unlocked it without asking.

Scrolled.

Paused.

“I thought about it,” he said suddenly, voice low, husky. “But I don’t want you to delete your account.”

You blinked. Tried to process through the fog.

“…W-wait. What?”

“I said,” he repeated, eyes flicking to yours with that same glint of cruel amusement, “you should keep it.”

Your stomach dropped through the bed. You stared, eyes wide and raw. “No. No, wait—”

He leaned in close, mouth brushing yours with a smirk.

“Don’t get all shy now, baby,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes glinting. “Not after you posted that 43 tweet thread about how you’d let me facefuck you while I played League.”

You wanted to vanish, to die, to claw your way under the bed and disappear forever.

But he just kissed you again. Slow this time. Warm. Sickeningly sweet. Sinister.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips. “Don’t worry.”

He pulled back and winked.

“Post whatever you want. Just know I’ll be watching…”

[koy6na]

conflicted

xavier isn't really your type, so you say. so why does being with him feel so incredibly right? tags: 4.8k words, nsfw, overstimulation, creampie, spit mentioned, mating press, fem reader

a/n: i wanted to write reader as someone who has trouble knowing what she wants and is in denial of her feelings. xavier is very understanding of this. also sorry this got wayyyy too long i went on a weird tangent towards the end oopsie:3

he’s not the type you typically go for. he’s a bit of a basket case and his eyes are unusually assertive. maybe it was the unavoidable fact that he was your co-worker that made him desirable to you that night. maybe it was those annoyingly alluring blue eyes whose gaze you tried your hardest to avoid. either way it wasn’t like the two of you were dating. if you asked him exactly what you were he’d probably categorize you as colleagues.

sure, you had hooked up a handful of times. you’d “mistakenly” stumble upon his doorstep, claiming it was a drunken accident after a clumsy night out. he’d insist on getting you your first sip of water in over four hours and a nice meal to combat the liquor. before bed when you’re washing your face in his bathroom, you tell yourself it that it doesn't quite feel right. he’s too uniform, too clean, and way too normal. you didn’t mean to lead him on. you never thought he'd grow to like you this much. you're not sure how to feel.

your last hookup was with a friend of a friends at a lackluster party, your last relationship ended with a sad last hurrah, and though you don't really want to admit it, you hadn’t really been seeing anyone other than xavier for the past year. it wasn’t like you to be so still, so stagnant with someone who you didn't call a boyfriend. his soap smelled nice and his towels were soft. you swear you’d never seen a cleaner bathroom in your life. today when you show up unannounced at his door he doesn’t question you. he simply stands aside as you saunter into the living room. things were strikingly casual but you liked it that way. it was simpler, easier to digest. no strings or promises to uphold. it was just sex, and anyways there was the matter of workplace etiquette. the two of you could only be considered colleagues after all.

his living room is neat, everything in precise order. his house smells nice, but you can’t quite name the exact scent. when you take a seat on his couch he doesn’t hesitate to take the spot next to you. "did you ever get the lab results from those aether cores we found last week?" you ask as you lean against his side, fidgeting with your phone. you can feel his eyes boring into you. "no not yet. who are you texting?" he asks bluntly. "tara." the conversation lays flat against the two of you. it never goes too low or too high. right in the middle where it's comfortable. you go from laying against his ribcage to having your head in his lap. the movie you'd turned on was beginning to drag, the popcorn he'd made an hour ago was stale. you couldn't help but wonder if maybe the two of you had gotten too casual, but you also don't know why you care so much. you knew what you wanted from him because there was only one thing standing between you.

the first time was a mistake. an honest mistake on a bad night out. you're not sure why he was there or why you even went over to him in the first place. there was a stumble to get into the elevator. you were certain you'd pressed floor 5. or had you even pressed the button at all? a part of you believed that xavier had beaten you to the chase and maybe led you straight to your doom after all. when you both arrived at the sixth floor you couldn't bring yourself to protest xavier's suggestion to come in, just for a bowl of ramen.

upon entering his apartment you can recall the shuffle of feet and the thrashing of tongues. you remember the flush of his face and exactly what his fingers felt like. to your horror you had been able to remember too much of what had occurred the night before.

you were terrified the next morning to discover just how far things had progressed. yet when you saw him, it all became weirdly normal. there was something calm and yet slightly unnerving in the way he looked at you. at first it creeped you out, although discomfort quickly turned to intrigue. it seemed like he actually enjoyed knowing that the two of you had slept together. a strange feeling of lust mixed with something more complex overcomes you with a chill when you remember.

when you sit up slowly, face inches from his, he barely reacts. you see the twinge in the diameter of his pupils but remind yourself that a normal person would've never noticed something so trivial. "what is it?" he asks, his voice is still calm. "i was just thinking that we could be doing something else right now. something fun." you whisper. you're sure he can feel the vibrations in your voice from the forced proximity between you. he swallows thickly, and you feel the motion in your bones. "what are you suggesting?" he asks, the corners of his mouth twinging upwards.

you're both smiling at each other. you waste no time begging or being extra suggestive. you slip your palm over his crotch as your lips meet his. his lips move against yours making you feel the contrast in tempo. xavier's tongue gently melts against your wild, convulsing muscle. it's so like him to be so sensual and particular. it's annoying. a casual hookup isn't supposed to be all lovey-dovey like this. from what you've experienced they're usually clumsy and messy and typically you want them to be over as soon as they start. you always have to push him a little to speed things up.

you can feel how hard he is. the material of his pants is taut against the growing tension. when you start to unbutton him he quickly grabs your wrist. you gasp lightly at how abrupt he is. "someone's feeling bold today." he whispers, the words flutter against your lips. "you don't want to?" you ask, knowingly. he laughs breathlessly. "i didn't say that." he mumbles before dropping your wrist into his lap. your hand instinctively cups his cock. a muffled whimper escapes him. to others he might seem restrictive towards his emotions but his boyish tendencies often showed during moments like these. he was actually quite easy to read. you were sure xavier hoped for something more than a sleazy happening. you were sure from the way that he looked at you that he saw more than a hookup, and much more than a colleague.

the drastic contrast that reverberated in waves between you and xavier was becoming too stark. he was exceedingly successful in his work and he seemed to you like the world’s most reliable guy ever. you were clumsy, disorganized, and hopeless at times. sure you worked harder than ever as part of the hunter's association, but your reasoning dwelled deeper than a good work ethic.

you didn't have time for a relationship, and certainly not a relationship with someone as put together as xavier. although there were times it felt like there was a different side to him, something less proper. something more like you. it flickered in his face like candlelight before blowing away like smoke.

you start to take off your shorts, trying to ignore xavier's searing gaze on you. when he finally lets you unsheathe him, you don't waste any time. his eyes grow in shock when you slide yourself into his lap. your clit bumps against the underside of his shaft as you shamelessly grind against him. you've never done it like this with him. you want to take whatever it is you need from him, unapologetically so he gets the idea. whatever's going on with you two, it was strictly for pleasure. you moan louder than you intend to when you finally slide down on him.

you can't help but be a little embarrassed at how wet you are from just a little bit of kissing but you definitely can feel how much he's twitching inside of you. you grin at the way his hips stutter against the back of your thighs. he's got it worse than you. "i didn't think you liked it this way." xavier's voice is strained as he remarks. "of course i like it this way." you respond unequivocally. you're breathless as you grind up and down onto him. you know he's gonna cum first, you can feel it as you increase the tempo. the stretch is honestly remarkable. he's definitely the biggest you've ever been with but you try not to think about it too much.

for such a docile guy he can be a bit surprising in the bedroom. so when he tightens his grip around you and starts pistoning in and out, you can't stop the hitch in your breath and the pathetic moan that tumbles out of your mouth.

his head is buried in your chest. he's close enough to where you can hear each frenzied pant. you get the sudden urge to tease him, just a little. you can’t help but smile as you loop your hands through his hair, petting the back of his head. he shudders a bit before forcing himself deep into you, your thighs crush against each others with unexpected strength. the angle he's hitting feels nothing short of insane to you. like he's putting every ounce of effort into forcing his cock inside you and pulling an orgasm straight from within.

ugh, he always does this, you think to yourself.

you know he's close and before you know it, he's almost getting you there. the rhythm of his thrusts starts to slow. he loosens his grip against you, snaking a hand between the two of you to thumb against your clit.

he's looking at you now, and you despise how good he looks.

his cheeks are flushed and somehow his eyes look even bluer than usual. his lips are parted and his panting is gradually becoming more like moans. your hips falter as your mouth parts slightly.

his thumb moves in brisk pulses as his hips are shaky and uneven. when he cums, your whole body moves with his. a couple short, hard thrusts into your spasming hole cause your moans to go high pitched and sharp. the staccato of your bodies transposes notes to your voices. you're so close you can practically grab it with your own two hands. he's cumming in you, it's so hot it's nauseating. you can't seem to remember when you starting letting him do it raw.

all that you can recall is that it was definitely his idea.

his thumb hasn't stopped circling that tender spot between your legs. his thrusts have stopped completely and his head rests on the couch now. your hips raise, unintentionally before coming back down. you start to find a pitiful rhythm to fuck yourself on his dick to. he's so overstimulated, one because he just came and you're so tight, and wet, and so so warm,

but also because he almost can't bear to see that unbelievably desperate face you're making.

"fuck, fuck i'm cumming." you whine, tilting your head back as your eyelids shut tightly. when you cum it's like your whole body freezes, you're only able to slide your cunt over his softening cock. you're losing yourself to pleasure and yet you hate that you can't pull yourself together in front of him. you know for a fact that he's got his eyes locked on your expression. so why do you let your mouth fall open? why do you let that desperate, breathy moan slip out for him? when you barely flit your eyes open you catch a glimpse of him.

he looks like he's in pain almost.

he's wincing at the strangulating feeling of you cumming on his flaccid cock. eyebrows scrunched, heaving like he just can't seem to catch his breath.

the aftershock of your orgasm makes your thighs shake like a new born deer. your breathing is uneven as you lift yourself off of him, your own breath hitches when you hear him hiss sharply. you collapse against him on the couch, unable to pry your eyes from the sight of his creamy, softening dick in front of you.

his pants are still halfway on his thighs, yet they're perfectly clean and black. you can feel his cum slipping out of you and you try your best to hold in a moan. when you get the chance to slip away into the bathroom you find yourself in a strange mood. you knew it was time to get cleaned up and head out, but you're fidgeting in the shower, stalling almost.

just a second more to breathe in the misty scent of his shampoo. you hope he doesn't bother to even say goodbye, that he only let you in to have a measly fuck. when you turn the faucet to the right, the sudden absence of the scalding water leaves goosebumps along your skin. you run your hands over your slicked body. you remember his hands around your torso, and his lips against the shell of your ear. you think about the fact that he likes having his hair played with and that face he makes when he puts it in like it's the first time every time. he always lets you cum no matter what and do whatever you want to him. you know exactly how he feels about you, so why are you hesitating?

you know the right thing to do is leave. go back to your apartment and stop playing house with someone who deserves someone other than you. but when you open the door to see him sitting, waiting for you on the other side, you feel sick to your stomach.

his head immediately perks up at the sight of you, wet hair and still dewy from the water. "that was a long shower." he says liltingly. you're speechless for a second before fickly reminding yourself to not let the lines blur too much. "sorry. i think i'm gonna head out soon. got some work to do." your voice is colder than you intended to make it. his eyes lower, as he turns his gaze to the side. you're not sure what to say for the millionth time in this apartment.

you hate how uncomfortable this whole routine is and you can't help but feel sorry for him. for the past few months he's been giving you the same response when you leave. like a child being left with an unwanted babysitter.

like he thinks he'll be fine after you leave and yet for some reason he doesn't want you to go.

he always looks angry at first but you watch in silent regret as it turns to disappointment. you press your lips together in awkward reform. you expect him to give you a lofty goodbye. to walk you out with a chaste kiss. instead he's pulling you in. "we both know you don't need to be doing any more "work" than you've already done." he says sweeping you into his arms. you're frozen as he leans in. "you're always so quick to leave." he whispers as his lids grow heavy. your hand rests on his tricep, you smile at him nervously.

you can't tell if you want to melt into his touch or to run far away. the lovesick look on his face is adding fuel to the fire burning a hole straight through your sternum. "i've just been slacking on paperwork. i guess there's more to being a hunter than just killing wanderers." you reply. you're desperately trying to combat this strange occurrence, but you can feel your voice getting sweeter as you sink into him.

you're think you're actually sinking into the ambience of the room and the idea of how domestic this whole thing is. "but i've got dinner going on the stove, so you can't leave yet." xavier's rocking you back and forth in his lap slightly and you can't help but flush with embarrassment.

since when did you become so sappy?

you don't push him away when he kisses you, once on the cheek and twice on the lips. there's the familiar feeling of being doted on far too much for your sanity. you feel smothered by the sudden desire to lay in his lap and kiss and never be apart. "stay. you should stay the night." he whispers lowly. before you can stop yourself you're nodding at him.

dinner tastes like affliction when you're scarfing it down to avoid saying too much at the table. he won't stop looking at you. even after your useless tirade about different aether cores and whether or not your evol could resonate with people you don't like. he always answers as honestly and as thoroughly as he can.

when he reaches his hand across the table to grab yours, you're tormented by the way his thumb caresses the back of your hand. you smile that same feeble smile you seem to be producing whenever you're shown affection and try to play off the way you awkwardly snatched your hand back. with a nervous laugh and a pang of anxiety rushing through you, you can't really seem to think straight. when you slip under the table, between xavier's knees the look on his face makes the guilty, sunken feeling in your stomach a thousand times worse.

you've done this before, so why is he making that face? like he feels sorry for you. like maybe he thinks this should be the last time you see each other. you're not sure what to do or say to him when he's like this. because this was complicated. this was the exact reason you didn't want to get involved with him in the first place. there was no shame in having sex, however the shame that overcame your senses under xavier's gaze was becoming too much to bear.

the signals in your brain are getting all mixed up, your nerves are reacting in the worst way possible. why is this so diffucult for you to navigate? you want to go home and bury your head into the blankets. instead you're sliding your hand up and down xavier's hardening cock."what's this about?" he asks, dully. you're unable to stop yourself from glancing down in quiet humiliation.

"i thought you wanted this." you mumble, barely above your breath. you let go of him and sink back on your knees, your hands resting in your lap. xavier makes a noise, telling you he knows what you're referring to. when he zips his pants, he's looking down at you with an unreadable, yet dormant expression. he scoots his chair back and gently moves the hair from your face. "come here." his voice is still calm, but you can't ignore the sweet, nurturing tone.

when you stand between his legs, still gazing at the floor he laughs lightly. "what's wrong? did something happen to make you act all weird today?" he teases. a million complex questions run rampant in the front of your mind, the simpler ones start forming as solid thoughts. what are we? why didn't you turn me away that night? why do you keep looking at me like that?

instead, "can we go to sleep now?" is the only thing you can manage to say. you can see the confusion behind xavier's eyes but you don't retract the question. "sure. are you tired?" he says while standing up. "no, not really." you respond, turning your back to him.

you're jumping his bones as soon as you enter his room. the way your teeth clash against his hurts, but it doesn't deter you or even slow you down.

you know he won't push you away so you persevere. this is what feels right. no guilt or shame in fucking each others brains out. at least not as much as holding hands at the dinner table(or something). once you're on your back you can sense that alter ego of xavier's lingering on his fingertips as he lifts the hem of your shirt up. he immediately attaches his mouth around your sensitive nipple. you quiver in time with the movements of his tongue, making you whimper.

he's kissing down your stomach, head dipping low. you grab his face with both your hands before he goes lower. the two of you look at each other for a moment, breathing heavy and staring with deep intent. "just put it in, please." you manage to spit out, more sweetly than you intended. he obliges, shedding his shirt onto the floor. you inhale sharply at the sight of his pale skin in the light of the moon. he kisses you, hard and messy. it makes you moan and grasp at the ends of his hair. the sound of his zipper gets you excited. the look in his eyes makes you anxious. "you always want it to go as quick as possible." you're looking straight into his eyes but you know his cock is probably so hard and weepy in his palm.

"you never let me savor it." when he spreads your legs apart you know he's got it out for you.

he slides his dick, clad against your clit. the tip sends shivers through you, and you can feel yourself clench harshly. you're biting your lip as you stare in anticipation at the sight in front of you. back and forth and back and forth. your legs are shaking already and he's not even inside yet. it's like he knows exactly how to get you going. every time he glides over your clit it brings you a step closer to an orgasm. you can see precum pooling on his tip as he grinds against you.

you’re embarrassed that you’re already so close. you feel pathetic when you cum as he replaces his dick with his nimble fingers. when they rub at your clit with precision, you feel a gush of arousal coat his fingers. your eyes are closed shut as a throaty moan exits your opened mouth. your head drops back into the bed as you fail to compose yourself. when you try to close your shaky legs, he slides a hand against the back of your thigh, cupping the underside of your knee.

he gently keeps you from shutting him out. "see, i know you like it better this way. why do you always deny it?" he says, matter-of-factly. you're at a loss for words, mind still overblown with leaky pleasure. when you can't muster a response to him he smiles, lovingly. "ok, i'm sorry.” his hand rubs circles over your outer thigh as his free hand palms his cock. “i'm putting it in now."

you can feel the heaviness of his cock resting against you when he says that.

the initial push is slow and brutal. the tip spreads you open so nicely. as he gets deeper and deeper your face contorts in pleasure. when his hips finally bottom out you can see the way his self restraint starts to diminish as you clench around him.

"you act like you want to run away from this, but your body never wants to let go of me."

when you open your eyes slightly you notice that his are laser focused on where your sex meets. he moves at first in shallow thrusts. this way you can really feel it when he hits that one overly sensitive place. he notices it right away from the way your body tenses up. you hate how observant he is because now he's guiding his cock with his hand to really grind into your g-spot.

you swallow thickly at the feeling. when he starts rubbing your clit you curse yourself for letting him unravel you this easily. when he sees how much of a mess you are underneath him xavier dips his head into the crook of your neck.

"i know you're indifferent, but you always let me do whatever i want to you without complaints. i like that about you, among everything else."

he whispers lasciviously into your ear, igniting a spark in deep in your shivering core. you make a poignant face at him when he lifts his head before kissing him. it's sweet and needy. it's exactly the kind of kiss you hate to initiate. it makes you look weak, but you suppose that xavier's not the only one with a secret, contrasting side to them.

he pulls back to cup your face, still thrusting in and out of you with precise vigor. you lean to the side to kiss the palm of his hand, earning a soft groan from xavier's swollen lips. he pulls his hand away, cautiously as if nearing the jaws of a carnal predator.

you follow his movements and your eyes light up when he places two fingers on your tongue. you quickly envelope them with your wanting mouth. bobbing your head and sucking at them as if they were his cock. you watch in delight as his lips curve into a circle as he drinks it all in. "you're not playing fair." he says breathlessly. he quickly yanks his hand back, sticking his own fingers in his mouth. you watch entranced as his cheeks hollow out as he sucks your spit from his fingers. "you're sick." you say, a genuine smile creeping onto your lips.

xavier scowls in obvious embarrassment. he firmly plants his hands under your knees, spreading you wider as he leans in close. "it's your fault." he says lowly. at this new angle you can really feel the fullness of his cock plunging in and out of you. the wet,clicky sound of xavier fucking you fills your ears along with his frequent, airy moans. "does it feel good?" he asks, his voice is shaky and lighter than usual. it makes your face hot and tingly. it makes your head hazy and unnavigable.

your lack of a quick response only annoys xavier. he wants to hear it from you just how worked up he's got you. you gasp sharply when he mounts you fully. the girth of his cock stretches you out and though it burns you find yourself moaning louder. it's music to his ears. each moan includes a frantic babble of his name and a broken sound which he can tell is signaling your release.

the soft sound of skin on skin is somehow egging you on. you can't help but want to be fuller, more cognizant of his dick. to feel him everywhere across your skin in burning hotspots, forming mountains, geysers, earthquakes all like across your trembling body. you think about the food still on the dinner table and your wet footprints on his bathroom floor. there's probably strands of your hair entwined together on the walls of the shower and your fingerprints cover every surface of the apartment. was that the totality you craved? you weren't sure.

the only thing you were really sure about was that xavier was hitting all the right spots at all the right angles and you were falling apart in his hands. the worst part was that he knew it too. the way you felt around him. you didn't need to say anything. not a word. without even really thinking about it xavier finds his fingers on your clit again, coaxing you through it. "-m, i'm cu-" you start to babble, "i know. go ahead. for me." he can barely get out that last part. you're gushing around him keeping your eyes barely open just enough to gaze at him. he can't help but smile at you.

he can't look away from you. he just knows that this is how it's supposed to be. you, in his bed, cumming your brains out all over his cock. that's normal to him. or at least he's working on feeling normal about you.

"fuck, xavier. you feel so good." you whimper as you come down from your orgasm thoughts are pooling in your head. you start to put it together just how good he is. you're intimidated by the fact that he's amazing in every aspect of his life. you're drawn by how magnificent he appears to be compared to the masses. you're watching his expression as he cums. you memorize his eyes, his flushed cheeks, and the ever-changing shape of his mouth as he releases more cum inside you.

you can feel his cock flutter and twitch. you're shocked and enamored at how hard he's cumming. he can't speak or even form a coherent thought. he can only muster out a symphony of pathetic moans before he practically collapses on top of you. his head falls next to yours. the weight of him is soothing you as you keen in on his breaths, matching your own pattern to his.

"can i stay the night?" you whisper breathlessly, the growing smile on your face translating to your words. xavier says nothing, his face still adjacent to the satin sheets. he simply buries his head into your neck, slithering his arms underneath you. he holds you tightly, paralyzing you in his grasp, before he puts the blanket of the two of you.

[sailorsoons]

Hush (c.sc)

PAIRING: Incubus!Choi Seungcheol x afab reader

SUMMARY: You can’t seem to sleep, but the strange man in the bar that you can’t seem to stop visiting promises he can help. 

WC: 6,239

AU: Supernatural

GENRE: Smut, PWP

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Mentions of insomnia including side effects like exhaustion, dysfunction, derealization, feeling out of it/in weird headspaces, time is not supposed to feel linear in this and it’s supposed to feel kind of liminal-space in places, reader is often confused/thoughts are a little scattered and feels out of it because of proximity to an entity, there are creepy vibes in this, Seungcheol doesn’t always appear the same/mentions of feeling like in danger or on edge around him instinctually, explicit language, sexually explicit content including unprotected vaginal sex, fingering, a lot of spit and cum, nipple play, reference to subspace or an adjacent, choking, oral (f. and m. receiving) multiple orgasms, biting and scratching, I wouldn’t categorize this as explicit dom/sub dynamics but there are power dynamics in some places, mean Seungcheol in spots, like very light humiliation if you squint in one section, overall just…. Weird ass vibes and recurring scenes/reader not remembering things. 

A/N: This was originally requested for my Haliween writing event by @daechwitatamic on my old blog. Hopefully you all enjoy sleep demon Seungcheol just as much the second time!

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NOTHING FEELS REAL. Your eyes burn as you stare at the computer screen, the letters and the buttons on your email becoming blurry as they swim out of focus. The dull sounds of your office feel as though they’re several rooms over, faint hums heard through walls of plaster. 

Pushing away from the desk, you head to the break room, in desperate need of coffee. You know drinking caffeine this late in the afternoon will only further exacerbate your insomnia, and yet you need it if you’re going to get through the next three hours at work.

You’ve hit the point in your endless nights of no sleep where everything feels off, like you’re experiencing things in the third person. You’re there but you don’t feel like it, navigating your day knowing that it’s you doing and saying things at work without really registering that you’re doing or saying those things. 

Coffee hisses from the machine into your cup. You stare at it, vision going unfocused again as the smell wafts up to you. Time passes. You stand and stare. 

Someone walks into the room, bringing you back to reality as you look over your shoulder and see your coworker come in to fill up their water bottle. They raise their brows at you as though to ask if you’re okay, and you grin, gesturing to the coffee like that’s some sort of answer.

Really, you’re not okay. You have ventured past the threshold of tired into something else entirely. Something that is lesser than, something base and nearly inhuman. 

Derealization. It’s a word your doctor had used when you described what it was like for you after so many nights without sleep, the disconnected feeling to the world around you. Even as you walk to your desk, it doesn’t feel real. You logically know that it is, that you exist in a specific time and space.

And yet… you remain buoyed in that space, totally untethered from everything around you. Floating. Lost. 

Back at your desk, the words on the computer screen blur again. Come into focus. You type and email. The keyboard makes sounds, but you don’t really register them. 

At some point, the day ends. 

A bright neon sign burns against the darkness of the alleyway. You blink rapidly, holding your hand in front of your eyes to block out some of the light. Looking around, you don’t see anyone else. The sound of the city is muted and far away, but you smell the burning of fuel and the smell of stagnant water under a dripping window air conditioning unit. 

You don’t remember walking here. You lower your hand as your eyes adjust to the burning pink above the door. Looking down at your clothes, you’re at least relieved to discover you put on jeans and a t-shirt before going out on an adventure out on the town.

Police sirens wail in the distance. You pull your phone out of your back pocket, thankful you brought it. 

“Fuck,” you swear, flashing the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning and you know immediately you’ve sleepwalked your way to this strange, unfamiliar alleyway. 

It’s a vicious circle: go days without sleep feeling like you’re a step away from death, or take just enough sleep medication to knock you out but make you sleepwalk. 

Shoving your phone in your pocket, you look back up at the neon sign, reading it for the first time. Hush. A shiver goes down your spine at the name, eyes flicking to the blue crescent moon attached to the pink cursive. 

There’s a magnetism about the sign. Your eyes dropdown to the door under it, a nondescript metal entrance to what you think is a bar. There’s nothing to indicate that it is a bar, just a gut feeling. Your gut feeling is also whispering at you to go inside, to open the door and step into the cool space of Hush. 

Licking your lips, you take one hesitant step forward. The tingling in your spine increases and you feel static in the air. Heart racing, you take another step. Then another. Before you realize it, you’re at the door with your hand on the knob, cool to the touch.

With a deep breath, you pull the door open and step inside. 

It’s even darker inside than the alleyway. Gentle piano music plays somewhere in the room and you swivel left and right, trying to gain your bearings as your eyes adjust. When they do, you see a very small room with a single piano in the corner, two booths, a bar at the back, and three stools pulled up to its counter.

A single person sits at the bar. You hesitate in the entrance, drinking in the stranger. It appears to be a man in a dark purple suit, his broad shoulders hunched over where he leans against the wooden bar top. You can’t make out much else beyond the wide shape of his shoulders and narrow taper of his waist, but you can see the crimson hair that glows like flame underneath the dull, flickering light above his head.

“You gonna stand there all night?” His voice is soft, a gentle pur. He turns his head to the side, his profile shadowed. “I don’t bite.” You hear the smirk in his voice when he tacks on, “Not often, anyway.” 

Carefully, you approach the bar. There doesn’t appear to be a bartender of any sort or anyone else in the bar, for that matter. You realize that there’s piano music but no pianist, but decide not to focus on it as you enter the man’s line of focus. 

When he looks at you, the world stops. It’s like stepping into a bubble, everything else ceasing to exist. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel your pulse hammer in your throat as you stare at him, unable to take your eyes off him.

He’s beautiful but it’s not that. His eyes are dark, but there is something more there. Something swimming in the depth of the darkness that you cannot place, something ancient and curious and awake. You feel pinned under his gaze, eyes darting to drink in the rest of his features: soft, pouty lips the color of berries, sharp jawline, thick, angular brows. 

Stunning. Dangerous. Alluring. 

“Hi,” he says, mouth stretching into a grin. His teeth aren’t sharp, but you have the distinct feeling that they should be. “You’re a pretty thing.” 

“Um, hi.”

“Can’t sleep?” 

“How can you tell?”

His grin spreads, wicked and cutting. “I have a feeling about those things.” His dark eyes drop to the seat next to him. “Have a seat. Maybe I can help.”

Tentatively, you sit down next to him. “You can help me sleep?” 

“What if I said I can?” 

Sitting next to him is oppressive. His presence weighs down on you, a physical entity that you can’t see. Static buzzes in your mind and your thoughts feel a little sticky, like just being close to him disrupts your frequency. 

He smells like jasmine, immediately soothing. You feel your eyes grow heavy as you blink a few times, settling on the stool as you angle yourself toward him. 

You’d misjudged his size when you walked in. He’d seemed broad when you first walked in, but you don’t think you fully understood the width of him. The weight of him. Or maybe it just feels that way when you look at him, your perception of him flickering like a bad TV signal. 

“Tell me about your sleep problems.”

You shrug. “They’re like any other sleep problems.”

“Not all sleep problems are the same, Pretty.” 

“I suppose that’s true. I don’t really know what causes them. I just… can’t fall asleep and then I start getting worried I won’t sleep, so it makes it worse. I want to sleep so bad but it’s like… wanting to sleep only makes it avoid me more.”

“Mmm. Sleep is a fickle thing, isn’t it?” 

“My doctors give me meds but the normal dose doesn’t work and the stronger dose… makes me walk around.” 

He pouts. “You poor, sweet thing.” 

Something about his sympathy makes you flush. You sulk, looking down at the countertop as you pick absently at the peeling varnish on the wood. “I know,” you murmur. “I just want to be normal.” 

“I can help. If you want it.” 

You glance at him. His eyes are dancing dangerously. Half of you screams yes while the other screams run. You’re only vaguely aware that you’re in a bar alone with a strange man who knows you’re sleep deprived. No one would help you if you screamed. You don’t know where you would run.

His dark eyes seem to read your thoughts and he laughs, shaking his head as he turns to pick up his drink from the bar. “I’m not that sort of creature.”

“How would you help me sleep?”

“Are you accepting my help?”

His question hangs in the air between the two of you. The piano music has stopped, but you don’t remember when it did. Overhead, the light still flickers. On. Off. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff-

“You’re under no obligation to accept.” His voice is kind. Warm. Soft like your blankets, cozy like your bed. “You’re always free to make your own decision.” 

“I want help,” you agree slowly. “I really do.”

His red mouth curves into a smile and again, you’re struck by the thought that his teeth should be sharp. “Good. I’ll help you, Pretty.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Seungcheol.” You give him your name and he tilts his head, drinking you in. “I know.” 

“How are you going to help me sleep?”

Seungcheol finishes his drink. You watch him swallow thickly, suddenly fascinated with the way his throat bobs as he does. The smell of jasmine is overwhelming as he leans in, stopping an inch away from you.

The static increases. You feel your blood buzz pleasantly. 

“Close your eyes for me,” Seungcheol murmurs, looking at you through silky lashes. “I promise everything will be okay.” 

For a moment, you stare at him, the air charged. He doesn’t hurry you along, content to study your face with that same uncanny darkness swimming in his eyes. 

Taking a deep breath, you do what Seungcheol says, and you close your eyes. 

Sunlight wakes you up. You roll over in your bed, squinting up at the window. Your blackout curtains are open, letting the morning beam in on where you’re tangled in your comforter and sheets. 

Sighing heavily, you close your eyes again, content to lay in the warm sun. Just as you start to drift to sleep again, you recall a pair of dark eyes and fiery hair. You jolt upright, heart hammering as you remember the exchange. 

Snatching your phone from your nightstand, you open your walking app to look at where the hell you went last night, but there’s nothing there. Frowning, you pull the sheets off your body. You’re in pajamas and fuzzy socks that you don’t remember putting on. 

Hauling yourself out of bed, you lean halfway into the laundry basket to claw through your clothing. None of the things you wore last night are there, so you go to your closet to wrench the doors open and search. 

The shirt from last night and the exact pair of jeans are hanging, completely unworn. Your frown deepens as your confusion rises. Turning away from the closet, you open your phone again and try to get any sort of sense of where you went last night, but there’s no text threads. No signs you used public transportation. Nothing in any of your tracking apps that indicate you left at all. 

“Was it a fucking dream?” you mutter to yourself, perplexed. 

Sitting down on your bed, you try to look up Hush on the internet. You can find nothing in your city that indicates a bar or establishment like the one you discovered Seungcheol in. You even try social media to look him up - Reddit, neighborhood pages, anything to try and find the stranger from last night.

It seems Hush and Seungcheol don’t exist.

And yet… you don’t remember going to sleep last night after he agreed to help you. And you feel rested today. 

Puzzled and a little freaked out, you give up your search. A dream is a dream, and you’re content that you finally feel a little less exhausted and a little more awake. You’ll take the win, getting up to start your day with a little bit of pep in your step. 

By midday, you’ve mostly forgotten about the bar and the man in it, only remembering those dark eyes and that red hair. 

Heat creeps up your spine. You nuzzle against the warmth behind you, the smell of jasmine coaxing you deeper into the embrace. You feel the vibration of laughter against your back, your nerves tingling as you feel feather-light fingers brush up your thighs. 

“Tired?” 

Immediately you know it’s Seungcheol’s deep voice, that same velvet purr whispered right in your ear. You shake your head no, suddenly not wanting to sleep at all. You press into him further, feeling the way his arms tighten around you as he chuckles, mouth pressing chastely against the spot under your ear. 

“Liar,” he teases. 

You pout. It might be true, but he could have the decency to pretend it’s not. You open your eyes and look up at him. His hair is like spilled blood in the dark of your room. The curtains are closed, blocking out all light from the moon and street, but your salt lamp still burns in the corner. 

Seungcheol looks like the devil in the low, orange light. He’s in a black t-shirt, which is somehow more deadly than the fine cut suit. Your stomach flutters and you squeeze your thighs shut when you realize his hands are brushing up and down your thighs, touch slow. 

“Thought you were a dream,” you mumble, words a little thick. “Thought you weren’t real.”

“Dreams can’t be real?” That makes you frown and he laughs, jostling you against his chest. His hands squeeze your thighs and you let out a breathy sound as he nudges you with his nose. “You don’t know anything about dreams, Pretty. Can I show you?” 

More than anything you want him to show you. Suddenly your desire for him outweighs any sort of sleepiness, your nerves sparking and coming to life as you nod helplessly against his chest, trying to lean as close as possible. 

“Needy,” he chides. He presses a wet kiss to your jawline and you preen, your head falling back against his shoulder. “I’ll go easy so you remember this time, alright?” 

“Cheol.” 

The nickname sounds familiar. Intimate. Like you’ve said it before - something tells you that you have said it before. You don’t remember where or when, but it’s with familiarity that you moan the nickname again as he nips at your neck, one hand drifting between your legs to pry them open. 

He murmurs praise against your ear when your legs drift apart, spreading to accommodate his seeking touch. You’re wearing shorts but it feels entirely too hot under the blankets pooled around your waist. You kick at them and whine, managing to get them down to your knees before he huffs and presses forward, temporarily bending you in half to toss them. 

When he settles back against your headboard, you follow him, turning your head to press your mouth to the corner of his. His lips twitch in a smirk, shifting to catch your mouth fully with his. 

Seungcheol kisses you like he knows how you like to be kissed - devouring, consuming, hungry. His tongue brushes against yours as he drinks you in as his hand presses between your leagues, applying pressure to your clothed cunt.

You whine into the kiss and he grins against your mouth. A line of spit connects your lips when you pull away panting, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. His fingers circle your clit gently and your hips buck in his hold against the stimulation. 

“Not enough,” you whisper. You grip his wrist with one hand, the other gripping the sheets to bunch them in your fist. “Cheol, please.”

“Hush,” he scolds, biting your jaw. His free hand comes up to your neck, gripping you under your jaw to angle your mouth back to his. “Kiss me.” 

You melt in Seungcheol’s grip. His tongue tastes sweet, his grip on you making you dizzy. Your thighs squeeze around his wrist as he works you up, his touch teasing and not enough through layers of fabric. 

He knows it’s not enough, content to string you along until you’re writhing against him, back shifting against his chest as you squirm. His kisses drift from your mouth to your jaw, open-mouthed and spit-slicked as his tongue darts out to taste your skin while he goes. 

Seungheol’s grip on your chin slides down toward the base of your neck, his fingers pressed tight against your pulse. You can feel your heartbeat slamming in his grasp as he bends your head away from him, lips attaching to the softness of your throat. 

His name escapes your lips in a whisper. He hums a pleased sound, tongue dragging up your neck to your ear where he nibbles. “So good for me,” he whispers. “I’ll reward you.” 

You follow with an urgent nod, pleased when his hand slides down the waistband of your shorts and underwear. When his fingers brush against the flushed, sticky folds of your cunt, you keen loudly, unable to keep it together.

“So needy.” You can’t tell if it’s an insult or not the way he growls the word against your ear, grip on your throat tightening. “Need my help that bad, huh?” 

“Yes, god.”

“I am not god,” he grinds out, voice dark. For a second, the illusion shatters and you glance up at him. His eyes are endless, an ancient thing looking back at you. You freeze in his hold, a prey caught in a trap. Then he softens, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Tell me what you need, Pretty.” 

“Hands. Need your hands.” 

A bolt of pleasure goes through you when Seungcheol’s middle finger circles your clit. Your nails dig into his wrist, leaving little crescent moons behind. His ministrations are leisurely, giving you what you want but not as fast as you want it. 

That’s Seungcheol’s game. He’ll give you what you want, only when he feels like it. You feel a sense of deja vu, realizing that you’ve been here before. Snatches of memories flash through your mind. They pass through your grip like sand, none of them firm enough to grab onto. 

“Missed you,” you mumble. “Can’t sleep without you.”

“Ah, there it is.” 

Seungcheol is pleased with your recollection. You can tell when he relents his teasing touches, fingers drifting down to press a single digit into your heat. Your stomach flips when he does, relief sweeping through you as he shallowly fucks you with a single finger.

It’s not enough but it’s better. You shiver in his hold, going a little slack in his arms, hips twitching. He’s content to have you like this, working your cunt slowly, watching your reactions as your breathing catches and restarts. 

“Feel good?” 

“So good.” You can barely get the reply out, words faint. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Pretty.” 

His kiss is soft against your cheekbone, at odds with the grip he still has on your throat. You feel his hand like a comforting weight, loving the feel of it resting against your pulse. He doesn’t squeeze or choke you, content just to hold you against him. 

Seungcheol pulls his fingers out, the wet squelch obscene. “Take this shit off for me,” he tells you, pulling at your shorts. 

His heavy hand rests on your collarbone as your hands shoot to your shorts. Hooking your thumbs in them, you shimmy down, lifting your hips with his help to kick them down your thighs and legs to the floor. 

Cool air hits your heat as you settle against his chest again. He nestles against your neck, fingers resuming the task of peeling you apart as he sinks his pointer and ring finger into you. You clench around him, loving the stretch and the feeling of his fingers pressing against your g-spot as he slowly strokes you, breath hot against your ear. 

Being unable to remember your previous encounter with him feels cruel. Seungcheol knows exactly how to work you toward your high. The slick sound of his fingers between your legs accompanied with his lips pressed against your neck drives you insane. 

Unable to keep still, your hips come up off the bed to meet his hand. The hand not fucking you to insanity slides under your shirt. Heat trails his touch. He traces the curve of your breast and your breath stutters, catching in your throat. His nails scrape against sensitive skin, moving higher until he drags his touch over your nipple. 

The heel of Seungcheol’s hand presses firmly into your clit. You mewl, thrashing against him, closer and closer to your peak. His strokes turn harsh, finger-fucking you at a brutal pace while his other hand tweaks your nipple, the pleasure-sting making you quake. 

“Come on,” he urges, voice deep. Sharp teeth scrape against your throat. “Come for me, Pretty.” 

Everything turns to static as you clench around his fingers. You squeeze so tight he can barely continue stroking you through your peak. There’s a high-pitched ring in your ears as you pant through it, vaguely aware that Seungcheol is muttering something against your ear that you don’t understand. 

As your orgasm fades, so do you. The world becomes soft at the edges. You feel Seungcheol’s heartbeat against your back and smell jasmine, but you slowly drift away from him, barely able to catch his growl of remember me next time before you’re gone. 

Cold granite countertop digs into your knees. You barely register the pain, one hand pressed flat to the counter, the other reaching behind you to tangle in Seungcheol’s hair. Your hot breath skates across the surface, the cool stone not enough to combat the heat of your skin. 

Seungcheol’s face is pressed as far as he can go into your cunt, the flat of his tongue dragging from top to bottom. You’re nearly catatonic, eyes rolling behind your eyelids as he fucks you with his tongue. 

He grunts when your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him close as he sucks harshly at you. He’s loud as he eats you out, his hunger something more demonic and fiendish than you’re used to. You don’t care, pressing back into him as he mouths at you. 

His hands firmly pry you open, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. You can feel the bruising way he holds you, uncaring as he works you toward another high, so desperate for it that you’re begging. 

Begging for what, you don’t know. None of the words that fall from your mouth really make sense. You’re a rambling disaster under the mastery of his mouth, and as you tiptoe the line of your high, it feels like you’ll never unscramble your thoughts again.

You come again, feeling the way you flood his mouth. He doesn’t care, growling low in his throat as his mouth becomes more insistent, fingers pressing into you even harder. Something takes over him in that moment, his grip on you so fierce that you think you might break.

But you don’t. You never do. 

“Pretty,” Seungcheol murmurs, cocking his head to the side. Your mouth aches where it’s stretched harshly around his cock, spit leaking from the side of your lips. His thumb brushes across the spilled fluid, grinning as he leisurely pops it into his mouth and sucks. “Such a pretty thing, mouth full of cock.”

You hum around him eagerly, shifting back and forth on your knees. He’s got you on the floor of your bedroom in front of your bed, hands linked obediently behind your back while he stands in front of you. His stomach ripples as he flexes his hips forward, driving himself deeper into your mouth.

Your throat seizes around him again and you feel yourself gag. He pouts and pulls back, letting you gasp for breath. Your mouth is a mess of saliva and cum, wet and sore and battered. You don’t care, looking up at him with watery eyes and sticky lips.

“So important to me,” he whispers, nodding as though to assure you. Your stomach flips and you shuffle toward him eagerly, mouth open. “So perfect for me.” 

Instead of using words, you stick your tongue out, eager. Seungcheol grins and the room darkens. There is a buzz in the back of your mind that you can’t place, ignoring the feeling in favor of watching him slowly slide back in, letting your tongue scrape the bottom of his shaft.

Seungcheol sighs, tilting his head back as he sets a slow pace, using your mouth as he pleases. He’s beautiful like this, all tan skin, heaving chest, sweat sliding down his neck, red hair damp. His eyes are closed but his mouth is open, cherry lips parted sweetly to show his sharp little fangs as he pants. 

So pretty, you think. Even with teeth sharper than they should be.  

You’re standing in front of a bar named Hush. The pink neon burns bright against the gritty night, hurting your eyes. Turning around in a circle, you notice there’s no one else in the alleyway. There’s a certain charge to the air, a hum that you can’t place, but grows stronger when you turn to face the bar again. 

A single door sits under the sign, closed and waiting to be opened. Chewing your bottom lip, you stride toward the door, unsure what’s waiting for you on the other side. 

With a hard yank, you pull the door open and step into the darkness of the room beyond. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the single, flickering light over the bar, but once they do, you see it’s a tiny room. A single piano sits in the corner near two booths, and there’s only one bar top in the back, a few stools in front of it. 

A single man sits at the bar but he’s facing you, leaning back on his elbows as he drinks you in. He’s in a purple suit that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and his red hair is bright enough to light the night like a flame. 

He cocks his head to the side, a wicked smirk on his lips. “Hi,” he greets. “Can’t sleep?”

“How can you tell?” 

“I’m familiar with these things.” 

He looks like a devil. You can’t place your finger on what exactly about his face makes you think so. His eyes are dark as the depths of the ocean and when he smiles, you swear his teeth are sharp. “Need some help?” 

You do need help sleeping. The doctors can’t help you. Therapy doesn’t help you. Something tells you maybe this stranger can help you. 

“Please.”

“It would be my pleasure, Pretty.” 

“Seungcheol,” you gasp, hand flying to his wrist to grip him. “Fuck, holy shit.” 

Fuck is absolutely right. His hand tightens around your throat, placed just right to make it harder for you to breathe. Your thoughts swim as he fucks into you, his sweaty chest sliding against your back as his strokes grow harsher. 

Your knees slide on the bed under the strength of his thrusts. He growls at you to keep up and you whimper, flexing your thighs to remain upright as he drives his cock into you at a pace that sends you hurtling toward your peak. 

“So fucking difficult,” he grunts in your ear. His teeth nip your ear lobe and you whine, intoxicated by the smell of jasmine and the tightening knot in your stomach. “You’re always so difficult.” 

You don’t know what he means by that, but you don’t think it’s the first time you’ve heard something like that from him. Your thoughts turn to liquid you come around him though, feeling the way you grip his cock like a vice, seizing in his hold.

Everything turns to nothing. You can’t hear, see or feel anything but static. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

And then you're gasping for air, lungs burning as you gulp it down. Falling forward, you crash into the sheets and into complete darkness. 

“Why do you come and go so often?” 

Seungcheol lifts his head from the bed to turn and look at you. He’s still naked and covered in a sheen of sweat, crimson hair clinging to his forehead. He’s on his stomach laying opposite of you, his head by your feet. 

Something sparks in his eyes at your question, his heavy brows pulling together, cherry lips downturning. “I only come as often as you let me.” 

“What do you mean?”

His face twitches in what you think might be annoyance. “You have a complicated relationship with me.” 

“We have a relationship?” 

He snorts and turns away from you, resting his chin on his arms as he settles back down, closing his eyes. He reminds you of a cat - a particularly dangerous cat, you think. “I suppose. Most people couldn’t say they have a relationship with me, and yet I keep letting you invite me back.”

“Invite you?” 

“Hush. Stop asking questions.” 

“But I don’t… understand.” 

“Good,” he quips. “Because every time you do, you send me away only to invite me back in.” 

“Come on,” Seungcheol teases. “You wanted it, so do the work.” 

Your thighs ache. A pitiful sound leaves you as you nod, putting your hands on Seungcheol’s shoulders as you lift your hips, legs shaking. You’re exhausted and burned out, but the ache you need filled as you slowly slide up his cock drives you to keep going. 

Dropping back down in his lap, you feel sparks. Your movements are slow. Seungcheol’s hands are tucked behind his head where he leans back on your pillows, fathomless eyes watching you as you ride him, a little uncoordinated and weak from the exertion he’s put you through all evening.

“Cheol, my thighs,” you protest, instead trying to grind into him. He raises a brow and you pout. “Please.”

“No. Come on, Pretty, you can do it. You can fuck yourself on my cock and make yourself come. Come on.” 

“Cheol.”

“No. Do it yourself.” 

Gritting your teeth, you let your annoyance fuel you. Anger burns right alongside pleasure as you find the strength to do exactly as he tells you. Leveraging your hold on his shoulders, you continue to spear yourself on him at a steady pace and slowly, your anger is replaced with bliss.

Seungcheol feels incredible. He’s hard to take, stretching you to the max and at this position, he’s so deep that you swear you can feel him in your stomach. You keep going, nails biting into his skin and drawing blood but you don’t care. 

Fire burns in his eyes as he watches you. You stare right back, seething at the way he’s making you do it yourself, a little bit of humiliation stinging the edges of your pride. You can tell he thrives on this, satisfied that what you want outweighs any sort of desire to be stubborn.

Somehow, he always wins like this. Always manages to get you to do what he wants. He’s sneaky like that, knowing just what button to press to get you where he wants you. 

Sometimes you feel like you’re a puppet whose strings are connected to his fingertips. 

Either way, you manage to drive yourself to an orgasm, shuddering around him as you seat yourself fully in his lap, throbbing around him. He lets out a long groan, eyes fluttering shut as he struggles to keep his composure.

Leaning back against his knees, you catch your breath. He’s still painfully hard inside of you, and when his eyes open, you see his hunger isn’t sated. Your heart lips when he surges forward, fast as an adder. His mouth crashes into yours hungrily and you let him have you, eager at the flutter in your stomach as he shifts, altering the angle. 

“I’m not done,” he mutters, kisses turning into sharp bites. “So hush while I take what’s mine.” 

Something wakes you up from sleep. It’s too dark in your room to see, but your heart is hammering and your hands are quivering. Leaning toward your nightstand, you search for your phone. All you feel is cool wood, no device anywhere.

The dark is oppressive. You don’t remember your room being this dark, the blackout curtains serving as a good device to keep out the city and streetlights, but never so much that you feel swallowed whole. Lost. Devoured.

A tingle buzzes at the back of your neck. You freeze in bed, looking into the never ending darkness. Silence roars in your ears, the outside world completely removed. You can’t even hear your own pulse or breath, the quiet so heavy that panic starts to rise in your throat.

You can’t see but you know you’re not alone - can feel the solid press of something else in the room. 

Too afraid to make noise, you resume the search for your phone, fingers moving slowly across the top of your night stand. You can’t find it. 

Something presses into the mattress at the end of your bed. You feel the dip under its weight but can’t hear the creek of springs. You give up the search for your phone, snatching your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

It’s a dream, you tell yourself. It’s a dream it’s a dream it’s a dream it’s- 

The thing in your room moves closer. A scream works its way up your throat where it gets stuck, lodged and unmoving. You squeeze your eyes shut harder, fireworks of color exploding behind your eyelids as you do. 

“I know you’re awake, Pretty.” The voice is so low you can barely make out the words. They scrape against you like claws. “You can’t keep doing this,” it says, almost a sigh in its voice. “You know what this is. What I am.” 

“Go away,” you whisper, voice weak. “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t do this again.” 

“Go away, Seungcheol.” 

There’s a low growl that you can feel as it vibrates the air. “As you wish.”

The neon sign above the door says Hush. It burns bright and pink against the night sky. You look around, unsure how you got here. Sighing, you pull out your phone to check the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning, which means you’re probably a victim of your sleep walking again. 

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you look up at the sign again. There’s a little blue moon to accompany the pink cursive neon, and though you don’t think you’ve ever seen this bar before, there's a magnetism about it that draws you in. 

Curious, you walk up to the door and go in. The lights are dim and you have trouble seeing at first, but you can make out that there’s a piano in the corner, two booths and a small bar with some stools. A man sits at the bar, his back turned to you. 

“We’re closed,” he grumbles without turning to look at you. You frown, cocking your head as you drink him in. 

The purple suit he wears is an odd choice. His hair is the color of blood, slicked back and a surprisingly nice contrast to the bright color of his suit. A single light flickers above him, painting him in a gold hue.

“What is this place?” you ask, ignoring the fact that it’s closed. 

He doesn’t answer for a second. You think he’s going to ignore you, but finally he says, “Do you have trouble sleeping?” 

You’re surprised by the question. “Yes, actually.” 

“I can help.” 

“Really?” You step further into the bar, watching as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. He is painfully pretty, the kind of beauty that reminds you of old paintings of Lucifer. “How?” 

“Are you accepting my help?” 

Without hesitation you answer, “Yes.” 

His cherry red lips twitch and he shakes his head. Picking up his drink, he polishes it off before standing to turn you fully. The weight of his presence presses down on you like an invisible blanket, weighing you down.

“Of course you do.” He strides toward you and though your instincts tell you to run, something else tells you to stay. He looks down at you with a pair of eyes that threaten to swallow you whole if you let them. His lashes are silky and long, a delicate balance to his heavy gaze. “You always need me, right, Pretty?” 

You nod, a word - a name - buzzing on your tongue as he looms over you. “Please,” you whisper, thoughts a little cottony, a little dizzy. “Seungcheol.”

He grins, revealing sharp teeth. “Hush,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.” 

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[kiwriteswords]

Blushing [Aaron Hotchner x Shy!Reader]*

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 7k|| AN: Here is the full version of this story I have been working on...since December? Smut is just so not something I feel confident with in my writing, but I did add a bit at the end here, so hopefully, my fellow smut-lovers will enjoy it! Also, this is likely filled with errors since I have come back to and abandoned this like 30 times. Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, smut, sexual tension, established relationship, hotch is a flirt, shy!reader, kinda fade to black smut, alcohol tw, reader is shy but like...only to an extent? idk she might not even be categorized as shy but that was the intent lol Summary: Hotch likes making you blush.

You thought Aaron Hotchner was supposed to be the serious one--the unreadable, stoic, always-in-control one. That's what you had signed up for when the teasing turned tangible, when subtle glances turned into late nights and when the soft-spoken tension finally broke, leaving you tangled in his sheets.

Tonight, you were at his apartment. It wasn’t unusual--things had been happening between you and Hotch for a while, nights spent together whenever cases allowed, secret moments exchanged between cases and jet rides.

But tonight was different. Not because of where you were, but because of how he was looking at you.

You stood in his kitchen, clad in one of his dress shirts draped loosely over your pajama shorts, the soft fabric brushing against your thighs with each movement. You scrolled through takeout options on your phone, the bright screen casting a glow against the dark granite countertop. The air was filled with the subtle scent of coffee left over from the morning, mingling with the faint, lingering spice of his cologne.

You felt him before you saw him--his presence warm behind you, his body just close enough to make your stomach flutter.

"What do you feel like eating?" you asked, your voice casual, scrolling through the options.

There was a beat of silence. Maybe he hadn’t heard you? 

Then--

"You."

Your fingers fumble, nearly dropping the phone, your pulse spiking like a live wire.

You turned sharply, eyes wide, because no way did you just hear that right--

Only to find Hotch, completely calm, watching you like he hadn’t just shattered your ability to function.

"Excuse me?" you finally managed.

His lips curved slightly, his voice smooth, measured, just the slightest bit flirtatious--

"You asked what I wanted."

You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting, because Hotch--the man known for his restraint, his control--had just completely unraveled you in two words.

And he knew it.

Oh, he absolutely knew it.

His gaze didn’t waver; just watched you as you scrambled for a response, his lips twitching in the smallest smirk when you failed spectacularly.

"I meant for dinner."

"So did I."

Your breath caught.

Because fuck, that was not fair.

That was not the way this was supposed to go.

You were supposed to be the one making him blush, the one teasing him until he snapped.

Not the other way around.

And then--to make it worse--he stepped closer, his hand coming up to trace the hem of the shirt you were wearing, his touch barely there yet sending electric shivers down your spine. His voice was low, smooth, devastating. "You look good in my clothes."

Your stomach flipped.

Your throat went dry.

Because fuck, this wasn’t fair.

Aaron Hotchner was not supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be composed. Reserved. Contained. 

Not this.

Not smooth and utterly wrecking you with a few choice words.

And yet, here he was--watching you squirm, his touch slow, deliberate, entirely in control while you were the one standing there blushing like a damn rookie.

Sure, you would have never considered yourself the type of person who took on the contained, reserved, mysterious persona--but you were unraveling right before his eyes.  

And that?

That was the moment you realized--

You had never been in control of this game.

Aaron Hotchner had been playing you the entire time. And he had tricks up his sleeves. 

xoxoxo

The first few times Aaron Hotchner caught you off guard, you convinced yourself it was a one-time thing.

A fluke. A slip of restraint.

A rare moment where he let himself say what he was thinking instead of keeping it locked behind the walls he’d built for years.

But now?

Now, sitting in the BAU bullpen, surrounded by agents, the hum of paperwork being shuffled and keyboards clicking filling the air--

You realized you had been very, very wrong.

The office was alive with the usual post-case exhaustion, a strange mix of relief and tension still lingering in the air.

The team had only gotten back this morning--after a case that ran for days, a case that left you exhausted but wired, adrenaline still flickering beneath your skin.

Most of the team was wrapping up reports, lingering in the bullpen with coffee cups and sighs of relief that they finally had a few days to breathe.

And you?

You were sitting at your desk, typing up the final notes, trying to focus but finding it impossible.

Because you could feel him. It was this magnetic pull. This energy shift. 

Hotch was in his office, his blinds half-drawn, his body partially turned toward the window.

And he was watching you.

You knew, because every time you glanced up, you found him already looking.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

Not in a way that said, “hey, something’s happening here!” 

But in a way that sent a warm, twisting pulse through your stomach, in a way that made your fingers hover just slightly over your keyboard, in a way that made you forget what you were even supposed to be typing in the first place.

Damn it.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus, fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, the words forming on the screen feeling far less important than the heat creeping up your neck.

And then--

"Agent, a word?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain must have shut off and lost track of time or the atmosphere because, for one moment, he was up at his desk looking at you with those eyes--now? Now, he was standing at his door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your scrambled, less than work-appropriate thoughts. 

Because fuck, that voice.

That low, even tone--just professional enough that no one else would think twice about it, but you?

You felt the weight of it.

You exhaled carefully, schooling your features before standing, aware of Morgan’s knowing smirk as you passed his desk.

"Getting called to the principal’s office?" he teased.

You shot him a pointed look, but it lacked any real bite, because truth be told, your brain was already spiraling.

Because Aaron Hotchner wanted to see you in his office.

That should not have been a big deal.

But God, it was.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the usual scent of coffee and paper filling the space.

Hotch was behind his desk, one hand resting on a case file, the other rolling a pen slowly between his fingers. The faint sound of the air conditioning hummed in the background, a stark contrast to the palpable silence that fell between you.

"Close the blinds."

You blinked, confusion mingling with the sudden spike in your pulse. The blinds filtered the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across his stoic face, giving him an almost ethereal glow that didn't suit the gravity of the moment.

"What?" you managed to stutter out, your hands unconsciously tightening at your sides.

Hotch lifted his gaze slowly, and fuck, the weight of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

"The blinds," he repeated, calmly, smoothly, like he wasn’t already unraveling you from across the room. "You don’t want an audience, do you?"

Your pulse spiked.

Because Jesus Christ.

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline coursing through you as if you were on the edge of a precipice. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls inching closer, filled with the scent of leather from his chair and the faintest hint of his cologne--a sharp, clean smell that was all too familiar.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly against your side, your throat suddenly dry, because this was not the Hotch you were used to.

This wasn’t the man who delivered briefings with an unreadable expression.

This wasn’t the Unit Chief who kept his emotions locked down so tight that you sometimes wondered if he ever let himself feel anything at all.

This was someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And fuck, you weren’t ready.

"I--" You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat spreading through you, the fact that your hands were trembling slightly as you reached for the cord and tilted the blinds shut.

When you turned back, Hotch was still watching you.

But this time?

This time, his head was tilted slightly, his gaze slow, assessing, his fingers tapping against his desk in an almost lazy rhythm.

"You’re blushing." It was less of an observation and more of a fact. 

Your breath hitched.

"I am not." You moved to go sit at the chair in front of his desk, but your legs felt wobbly. Your palms sweaty. 

Hotch hummed--low, thoughtful, like he knew you were lying, like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don’t know," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping slower against the wood. "I think you are."

Your stomach twisted.

Because what the hell was happening right now?

"Did you need something?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady, but fuck, it was so much more complicated than it should have been.

Hotch just watched you for a second longer, his expression unreadable--except, this time?

This time, you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"Yes." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like this was some mild inconvenience to him, and God, that only made it worse.

Then--

"Come here," he instructed, his voice not commanding but inviting, which was somehow more unnerving.

You blinked, startled, your fingers pausing against the back of the chair you had barely pulled out.

"What?"

Hotch didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

He just sat there, calmly watching you, like he had all the time in the world, like this was nothing unusual at all.

And fuck, something about that made your pulse kick up.

"Aaron--"

"Come here," he repeated, smoother this time, his tone velvet over steel. Your stomach flipped, heat curling low in your spine at the way he said it--smooth, even, just a little too controlled.

Like he already knew you were going to listen.

You exhaled, cautious, unsure, but you stepped forward anyway, the room suddenly too quiet as you stopped just in front of his desk.

Hotch didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, assessing, his gaze dragging over you, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And then--

He reached out.

His fingers hooked into your belt loop, pulling you forward, slow, unhurried, until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. The touch was light, but it might as well have been a chain for all the escape it afforded you.

Your breath hitched.

"Aaron."

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you all morning." 

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him, pulse hammering in your throat, because Jesus Christ, what?

"You--" You swallowed, brain short-circuiting, your fingers gripping the desk for support. "We’re at work."

Hotch hummed, unbothered, his thumb skimming lightly over your waistband, just the slightest touch, but God, it burned. "And?"

"And--" You exhaled shakily, completely thrown, because what the hell was happening right now? "And the door isn’t locked," you finally managed.

Hotch’s lips curved, his gaze flicking up to yours, something dark and knowing glinting behind his eyes. "Would you like me to lock it?"

Your stomach dropped.

Your breath came uneven, your fingers gripping the desk tighter, because fuck, you were losing this so fast.

"Aaron," you hissed, voice quieter now, because you could feel your face burning, and God, you could not afford to be flustered right now.

Hotch just watched you, so damn pleased with himself, his fingers still resting against your hip, his throat bobbing slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. "See, you are blushing." 

Your heart nearly stopped. "I am not."

"You are." His voice dipped, smooth and devastatingly confident. "And it’s because you like it."

You gaped at him.

Because holy shit, when did he start talking to you like this?

When did he become so damn sure of himself, so deliberate, so utterly` unbothered by the fact that you were two seconds away from completely losing it in his office?

"You’re impossible," you muttered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened slightly, keeping you right there, pressed against his desk.

"You love it." Your entire body locked up. Your breath caught.

And before you could even process that, before you could think of something--anything--to say back, there was a knock at the door.

Your stomach plummeted.

The moment snapped like a rubber band, Hotch’s hand releasing you instantly, his expression falling back into something neutral, completely composed, like nothing had just happened. As if he was able to use some sort of remote and hit the pause button on whatever version of himself he became around you these days. 

Like he hadn’t just spent the last minute ruining your ability to function.

You took a step back just as he called--

"Come in."

The door opened, Morgan stepping in with a file, his brows raising slightly at the sight of you still standing in front of Hotch’s desk. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," you rushed, your voice a little too high, stepping away before Morgan could get any funny ideas.

And Hotch?

Hotch just hummed, flipping open a case file, unbothered, completely unaffected, like he hadn’t just wrecked you. "We were just finishing up."

Morgan shot you a look, but you ignored it, too focused on trying to steady your breathing, on forcing the heat in your cheeks to fade.

And the last thing you saw before stepping out--

Was Hotch’s smirk, just barely hidden behind his coffee cup.

And fuck, you were so, so screwed.

xoxoxo

You’d kissed him before.

You’d slept with him before.

You’d spent nights wrapped up in him, tangled in sheets, learning the feel of his hands, the weight of his body, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath in the dark.

But this?

This was something else.

This was Aaron Hotchner in daylight, in his office, in the middle of a workday--fully dressed, fully composed, and still completely ruining you.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

He liked it.

And now, it seemed, he had absolutely no plans to stop.

After leaving his office, you spent the next few hours actively avoiding him.

Not obviously--you weren’t that obvious--but strategically.

You kept busy, buried yourself in reports, made coffee runs just to stay occupied.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Hotch wasn’t doing anything.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t following you around, wasn’t pushing further, wasn’t going out of his way to tease you again.

No, he was just existing.

Existing in the same space as you, taking up too much room in your mind, leaving you hypersensitive to every moment he was near.

Like now.

Now, standing in the elevator, the doors about to close, your mind was blissfully Hotch-free--

Until, at the last second, he stepped in. The doors slid shut with a soft whoosh, sealing you inside the small, confined space. The air shifted, becoming charged as he pressed the button for his floor. The soft glow of the elevator buttons cast a dim, amber light across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. He slid a glance toward you--subtle, casual, nothing outright provocative--but your body reacted anyway.

He exhaled, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh that you felt more than heard, and shook his head slightly. “I’m surprised you’re not avoiding me anymore.”

Your stomach flipped, pulse quickening, because so he noticed. You kept your expression neutral. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Hotch made a low hum, unconvinced. “You were.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’d say you lasted a solid three hours.”

Your throat went dry. Because Jesus Christ, was he keeping track?

Your fingers curled into your palms, but before you could fire back, the elevator jolted to a stop. Hotch barely reacted, shifting his weight slightly, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other pressing against the wall behind you.

You tried to focus on anything but the fact that he was close. Too close. His body just inches from yours, the weight of his presence too heavy to ignore. The faint smell of his aftershave mixed with the sterile scent of the elevator, enveloping you in a cocoon of unwelcome intimacy.

You swallowed. “You like this.”

He tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in a way that was almost amused. “Like what?”

You huffed, your arms crossing. “Making me flustered.”

The moment stretched, his gaze flickering over your face, assessing, calculating, like he was debating whether or not to humor you. And then, slowly--

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, his voice low, quiet, meant just for you. “I like watching you realize you’re not as in control of this as you thought.”

Your stomach twisted, heat licking up your spine, your breath hitching before you could stop it. And fuck, he heard it.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his fingers brushed your hip, just the slightest touch--barely anything at all--but God, it was enough. Enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your body sway slightly toward him, enough to make you forget how to breathe for a full second.

And then--

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. Hotch straightened, unbothered, stepping out like nothing had happened at all. Like he hadn’t just left you wrecked against the back wall of an elevator.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tightening into fists, because Jesus Christ, this was your life now. Hotch, already walking down the hall, turned back just briefly, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips before he disappeared into the bullpen.

And you? You were so damn screwed.

xoxoxo

You were still recovering from the elevator incident when it happened again.

It was later that evening, most of the team having already packed up for the night, the bullpen quieter than usual.

You had planned to finish one last report before heading home, but apparently, Hotch had other plans.

Because he showed up at your desk, leaned down, and murmured--

“Come over.”

You blinked, your pen pausing mid-word, your brain completely blanking for a full second.

You turned, staring at him, because surely he wasn’t just asking you to come over like it was nothing.

“I--” You swallowed. “Tonight?”

His lips twitched. “Unless you had other plans.”

Your pulse skipped.

Because technically, no.

You didn’t have other plans.

But fuck, this was still new.

Navigating this whole blending your lives thing, figuring out what it meant to go from stolen nights to actually knowing each other on a different level.

Still, even though your brain was short-circuiting, your body was already answering for you.

You nodded, clearing your throat. “Okay.”

Hotch hummed, satisfied. “Good.”

Then, just because he could, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“You might want to finish that report before you get to my place.”

Your stomach flipped.

Your breath caught.

Because Goddamn him, he was doing it again.

And before you could even process what he meant, he was already walking away, leaving you to sit there, completely undone, pulse racing, trying to figure out what the hell you had just agreed to.

xoxox

By the time you showed up at his apartment, you had spent far too much time overthinking everything.

But as soon as he opened the door--standing there casual but effortless, his tie long discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his expression unreadable--

You knew.

You were in trouble.

So before he could get ahead of you, before he could smirk and tease and say something that left you breathless--

You stepped forward, pushing your palm against his chest, making him back up just slightly, your voice quiet but firm. “You like this.”

Hotch arched a brow. “We’ve already established that.”

You shook your head. “No.” Your fingers tightened slightly against his shirt, your breath uneven, because God, you weren’t used to feeling this way.

You had thought he would be the restrained one.

The one holding back.

But he was not holding back at all.

You exhaled. “You like seeing what you do to me.”

The moment stretched too long.

Too thick.

Then--

Hotch’s lips curved, his hands settling firmly on your waist, his touch warm and steady. “Of course I do.” His hands holding you like they were meant to. 

Your breath faltered.

And when he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and so damn sure of himself, he sealed your fate entirely. “I love watching you fall apart for me.”

And God help you, you knew then...

Aaron Hotchner was going to be the death of you.

xoxox

The team had known for a few weeks now.

After the initial teasing, the sideways glances. 

The endless smirks from Morgan. The numerous questions from Spencer. The poking for details from Penelope and JJ. The knowing eyebrow raises from Rossi. Emily was honestly the only one who remained… reasonably quiet. 

Things had finally settled into a new normal.

No one made a big deal about it anymore.

No awkward comments. No pointed jokes. No Hey, you two gonna behave? remarks at briefings.

It was just a fact now.

You and Aaron were together.

So, really, tonight should have been easy.

A casual night out after wrapping a case, a chance to unwind, a chance to drink, laugh, and just exist outside of work.

And it was easy. For about ten minutes.

The local bar was a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the undercurrent of music that was just loud enough to make you lean in to hear the person next to you. The dim lighting cast everyone in a soft glow, the neon signs flashing intermittently, reflecting off the polished surfaces.

You were seated in a large booth, a round of drinks on the table, the air filled with the residual adrenaline of the case just closed. Hotch was beside you, his presence both a comfort and a source of tension. His arm was casually draped over the back of the booth, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

And it was nothing.

It should have been nothing.

But you knew better now.

You knew what he was doing.

And when you glanced at him, eyes narrowed slightly, he didn’t even look at you.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge what he was doing at all.

Which, of course, made it so much worse.

You were mid-conversation with JJ when you felt it--

You felt his fingers lightly touch your arm as he reached for his drink, a simple gesture to anyone watching, but to you, it was a direct challenge. His touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his fingertips tracing a path down to your wrist, barely noticeable under the hum of the bar.

You caught your breath, the sound drowned out by a burst of laughter from Morgan. Hotch’s touch was feather-light, yet it ignited a fire that you felt all the way to your toes. You glanced at him, his expression unreadable in the low light, his eyes a shade darker than usual.

He was watching you, a slight tilt to his head, assessing your reaction. You knew this game, the push and pull of it, and you hated how well he played it. The warmth from his hand seeped through the fabric of your sleeve, spreading slowly up your arm.

His thumb brushed casually against your pulse point, a touch so light it might have been accidental. But nothing with Hotch was ever accidental. Your heart hammered against your ribs, betraying your calm exterior.

Under the table, his knee pressed more firmly against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the tension crackling between you. It was a bold move, given the company, and it sent a clear message: he wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared.

You took a sip of your drink, the cold liquid doing little to cool your flushed skin. The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. You tried to focus on the story Rossi was telling, the familiar timbre of his voice usually so soothing, but tonight it was just background noise to the silent conversation happening between you and Hotch.

As Rossi's story reached its finish, the team's laughter filled the air, but you barely heard it. Hotch’s fingers were still on your wrist, his presence enveloping you, pulling you into an undertow of desire that you weren’t sure you wanted to resist.

Just kept listening to the conversation, completely unbothered, completely compossed, while you sat there actively trying not to combust.

Finally, as the laughter died down and the team’s attention shifted to the next round of drinks, Hotch leaned closer. His breath was warm against your ear, his voice a low rumble that only you could hear.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

Your stomach flipped.

Because Goddamn him, he knew exactly why.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay level.

"Just listening."

Hotch hummed, his fingers brushing over your thigh, absently, unhurried, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

"You always get this quiet when you’re distracted?"

Your throat went dry.

"I’m not distracted."

That time, he did smirk.

Just the tiniest curve of his lips, still out of sight from everyone else, still completely subtle, but God, you felt it.

"No?" His fingers pressed just slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Then why are you gripping your glass so tight?"

You hated that he was right.

Your fingers were wrapped tightly around the glass in your hand, your grip white-knuckled, your body burning alive.

And Hotch, fully aware of it, just sat back, composed as ever, taking a slow sip of his drink.

Like he hadn’t just wrecked you in public without anyone noticing.

By the time the team was wrapping up, you were fully over it.

Your face was warm, your heart was pounding, and Hotch was still sitting casual as ever, like this hadn’t been a test of endurance.

And maybe you could have left it alone. Perhaps you could have brushed it off.

But then--

As everyone stood to leave, Hotch leaned in one last time, his hand settling lightly against your lower back, his lips brushing just barely against your ear.

"If I didn’t know better," his voice was smooth, dangerous, "I’d say you like it when I do this to you."

That did it.

Your face burned, your body tensing, and before you could stop yourself, you whipped around, voice low and warning.

"Aaron Hotchner, if you don’t stop--"

Hotch blinked at you, mild, unreadable, the picture of innocence.

"Stop what?"

You glared. "You know what."

And then--

Then, the bastard smirked againl.

"No, I don’t think I do."

And fuck, you knew then. You had completely, utterly lost.

The car ride home was silent, the air thick, the tension tangible.

And Hotch knew it.

You knew he knew it, because he was smirking the whole damn way back to his apartment.

Finally, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you turned toward him, voice exasperated.

"What was that?"

Hotch didn’t even look at you, "What was what?"

"Don’t play innocent, Aaron."

He exhaled, amused, shaking his head slightly. “I was just enjoying a night out.”

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “You were trying to make me lose my mind.”

Hotch made a low hum, thoughtful, "If I had been trying, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did."

Your brain short-circuited.

Your body locked up.

Because Jesus Christ, he was serious.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling into your lap, because if you responded now, you were going to lose even harder.

Hotch, of course, knew this.

Which was why--when he pulled into the parking garage and put the car in park--he finally glanced over at you, his gaze slow, dark, knowing.

"Come inside," he said simply.

And fuck, that was all he had to say.

xoxoxo

You had barely gotten through the door before you felt it--the weight of his presence, the air charged, his demeanor too casual, too confident, like he already knew how this was going to end.

You should have walked away. Should have seen it coming.

But you had walked right into it.

You had let him pour you a drink, let him pull you onto the couch beside him, let yourself breathe in the warmth of him, the sheer gravity of him.

And then--

The first move.

He had leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that would call attention to itself

But enough to make your breath catch--to make your body react before your brain could catch up.

And Hotch? He had noticed immediately.

His lips curled slightly, his voice lower than before, “You tense up every time I touch you.”

Your stomach flipped.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I do not.”

Hotch exhaled a quiet, amused sound, shaking his head. “You do.”

His fingers brushed lower, skimming along your forearm now, his touch light, unhurried, deliberate, “And you don’t even realize it.”

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you instantly because Jesus Christ, this man was dangerous.

“You’re fighting it.” Hotch shifted, his voice smooth, devastatingly confident.

Your throat went dry.

You hated how right he was.

But you couldn’t let him win.

Not yet.

So you exhaled sharply, tilting your chin up, “And what exactly am I fighting?” Giving him your best unbothered expression.

Hotch smirked.

And then--

He leaned in.

His lips ghosted just along your jaw, his breath warm, deliberate, controlled, and when he finally spoke--

It wasn’t fair.

“You want me to ruin you.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your pulse spiked so hard it nearly made you dizzy.

Because fuck, that was it, wasn’t it?

That was exactly what this was.

You had spent weeks trying to endure him, trying to pretend you could keep up with him--

But now, you realized--

You didn’t want to keep up.

You wanted to lose. You wanted to fall apart for him.

And Hotch knew it.

It happened so fast.

One second, you were holding onto your last shred of restraint, trying desperately to pretend like you weren’t completely and utterly wrecked by him.

And the next--

You snapped.

You turned on the couch, grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you with zero hesitation.

Hotch barely had time to react before your lips crashed into his, your hands fisting into the fabric, pulling, needing, demanding.

And fuck, he gave in instantly.

A sharp inhale against your mouth, a low sound deep in his throat, his hands gripping your waist, grounding, steadying as he pulled you closer.

You shifted, straddling him without a second thought, your fingers tangling into his hair, and God, the way he groaned against your lips, the way his grip tightened around you--

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

This was everything you had been holding back, everything he had been pushing you toward--

And now, neither of you were pretending anymore.

You pulled back just slightly, breathless, your body burning, alive, completely consumed by him.

And Hotch?

He tilted his head up toward you, his gaze dark, heavy, knowing, his breath warm against your lips.

“I told you.”

Your chest heaved, your hands still gripping his shirt, and God, he looked so satisfied.

So pleased with himself.

So infuriatingly smug.

And that?

That just made you kiss him again.

And this time--

You weren’t holding back at all. Hotch’s hands tightened, fingers digging just slightly into your waist, his breath warm against your lips as he murmured--

“I knew you’d break eventually.”

Your pulse spiked, your body thrumming with heat, your entire world tipping off its axis--

Because fuck, he was right.

And you hated that he was right.

You gritted your teeth, your breath uneven, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt as you yanked him closer, your voice low, warning, desperate.

“Shut up, Aaron.”

Hotch chuckled--low, dark, impossibly knowing--his fingers tracing slow circles along the bare skin beneath your shirt.

“Make me.”

You did.

Your lips crashed into his, teeth and heat and hands grasping at anything solid, your body pressing into him, needing more, needing all of him.

And fuck, he let you take what you wanted--

For about five seconds. Until, he took over.

Hotch shifted, his grip tightening, his body twisting, and before you could even register it, you were suddenly on your back against the couch, breathless, pinned beneath him.

You gasped, your fingers fisting into his shirt, because fuck, when had he learned to move like that?

Hotch smirked, his breath brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice low and completely unfair.

“Now that’s better.”

Your stomach flipped, a breathless sound catching in your throat as his hands skimmed up your sides, slow, controlled, deliberate.

And then, his lips brushed over your pulse.

Just a whisper of contact, not enough, never enough, but God, your body arched instinctively, your breath catching, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Hotch hummed against your skin, pleased, “You’re so easy to unravel.”

Your breath stuttered, your mind blanking, because Jesus Christ, he was doing it again.

And the worst part?

You loved it.

You hated how much you loved it.

Hated how effortlessly he could reduce you to this--

To breathless gasps and frantic fingers, to helpless tension, to something desperate and completely undone beneath him.

Hotch, of course, knew it.

Which was why, after another slow, deliberate brush of his lips against your throat, he murmured, “Tell me what you want.”

Your stomach twisted, your body shaking beneath his, because fuck, he was making you say it.

You swallowed, your fingers trembling against his shoulders. “You.”

Hotch hummed, “Say it again,” pleased but not satisfied, his lips dragging along your collarbone, his hands smoothing down your sides, taking his time, making you burn.

You hated him (you didn’t).

You hated how much you loved this (you did love it).

You hated the way he was completely in control of you without even trying (you’d let him control everything).

You hated how badly you wanted him to never stop (you hoped he didn’t).

“Aaron,” you gasped, half a plea, half a demand, your fingers tugging at his belt, desperate, impatient.

And the walk to his bedroom was a blur.

Your back hit the wall, his lips crashing into yours, hands grasping, pulling, anchoring, never letting go.

Your shirt hit the floor, his hands skimming every inch of you, learning, memorizing, his breath hot and desperate against your skin.

And God, he wasn’t just toying anymore.

This was real.

By the time you made it to the bed, you were burning alive, your fingers desperate to strip away everything between you, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Hotch hovered over you, watching you, his hands framing your face, steadying you, his breath ragged, uneven, barely controlled.

Your breath shook, your fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheek, memorizing the moment.

And then--

You smiled, soft, cheeky and completely breathless, “You’re flustered, Hotchner.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing, his fingers curling against your skin.

And then, with a low, rough sound--

He kissed you like he was never going to stop.

You gasped against his mouth, your own hands grasping at his shirt, fisting into the fabric, yanking him impossibly closer.

His voice, low, rough, almost teasing, broke through the haze, “So impatient.”

You bit his lip in retaliation.

Hotch groaned, deep, guttural, wrecked, and fuck, that sound sent heat surging through you so fast you nearly melted into the mattress. 

He dragged his lips slowly down your jaw, his breath warm against your throat, his hands firm on your waist as he pinned you in place.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, dark, unbearably smooth, “how long I’ve wanted you like this today.”

“Then stop holding back.”

His jaw tightened.

And then, with zero hesitation--

He didn’t.

The rest of the clothes hit the floor in a blur of movement, hands grasping, mouths searching, heat building with every breath.

You pulled him flush against you, your hands everywhere, your nails skimming down his back, pulling him closer, desperate to have him right where you needed him.

Hotch groaned against your lips, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.

And God, you had never seen him like this.

Never seen him completely, utterly undone.

Never heard his voice this raw, never felt his hands this desperate, this needing.

And fuck, you wanted all of it.

Wanted him to ruin you.

Wanted to ruin him right back.

Your lips dragged down his neck, tasting, taunting, savoring, and when he groaned, his hands gripping your hips harder, you smirked against his skin.

“You always so composed, Hotchner?” you murmured, your voice breathless, wrecked.

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head as his hands slid lower, his breath ragged and completely destroyed.

“Not with you.”

And God help you, that was the moment you knew--

This wasn’t just about giving in.

This wasn’t just about breaking tension.

This was something else entirely.

And now, there was no stopping it.

His hands were everywhere.

Rough. Desperate. Needing.

And God help you, you weren’t any better.

The heat between you was consuming, spiraling into something neither of you could stop even if you wanted to.

Hotch wasn’t gentle now.

Wasn’t careful.

He was fully, completely undone.

And fuck, you wanted him like this.

You wanted all of him.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing firm, anchoring, pulling you flush against him, bare skin meeting bare skin, and Jesus Christ, he was solid.

Strong. Unyielding. Overwhelming.

Your lips crashed together again, the kiss messy, starved, like you’d been waiting for this your whole damn life.

Hotch groaned against your mouth, low and wrecked, his hands sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing into your skin like he never wanted to let go.

Your stomach tightened, your breath shaky, your body already burning alive beneath him.

And when he moved lower, when his lips ghosted down your neck, his breath hot against your skin--

You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair, your entire body shuddering as his lips brushed lower, then lower still.

Tasting. Exploring. Claiming.

You arched beneath him, your body seeking, aching, and fuck, Hotch noticed instantly.

He chuckled against your skin, his voice dark, knowing, completely unfair.

“So eager.”

Your breath hitched, your nails digging into his back, because, God help you, he was taunting now.

And he knew it.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, and when he groaned, his grip on you tightened right back.

“If you don’t stop talking,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless, “I will make you.”

Hotch huffed a laugh, his lips dragging along your collarbone, slow, deliberate, completely in control.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You did.

You flipped him over, your hands pinning him down, your breath ragged, your lips crashing into his like you were determined to make him unravel this time.

His breath stuttered, his hands gripping your waist, his body tensing beneath yours, his control cracking at the seams.

And God help you, it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Hotch’s hands skated along your sides, his touch slow, reverent, exploring, like he was memorizing the feel of you beneath his fingertips.

You shivered, your breath coming in soft, uneven pants, your pulse skipping every time his fingers traced over newly exposed skin.

And fuck, he was taking his time.

His lips dragged along your collarbone, warm and open, his breath heavy, steady, consuming.

His fingers gripped your waist, grounding you, his body solid against yours, heat radiating between you in a way that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t long until you were back beneath him, bodies pressed so close together. 

And God help you, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

Needed more.

So you arched beneath him, your body pressing up into his, your fingers skimming down his back, gripping, seeking, pulling.

He groaned, low and wrecked, his breath catching, his fingers tightening against your hips. He lifted his head, his gaze dark, heavy, completely unreadable.

And fuck, he just looked at you.

Just stare.

Like he was taking you apart with his eyes alone.

Like he was seeing you for the first time and still somehow knowing exactly how to touch you. Like you hadn’t already been under him, over him, and all around him before. 

His voice, low, thick, almost strained, "Are you sure?"

Your stomach flipped, your breath hitching, because fuck, how could he even ask?

You let out a soft, shaky exhale, your fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him down, closer, needing him right where you wanted him.

"I need you to stop asking questions and just--"

Your words were cut off as his lips crashed into yours, swallowing whatever remark you were about to make, leaving nothing but heat and wanting and absolute, complete surrender.

His hands slid lower, his touch burning and slow, his body pressing into you, against you, against every part of you that had been waiting for this, aching for this.

And God help you, you let him. You gave in completely.

You let him take you apart, piece by piece, breath by breath, kiss by kiss--until there was nothing left but him.

Much later, long after the tension had snapped, after the air had settled, after the last remnants of desperation had faded into something warmer, slower, softer--

You found yourself laying against him, your body tangled with his, your skin still thrumming from the aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms were wrapped around you, his fingers trailing lazy, absentminded circles along your spine.

And for the first time--

Neither of you spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Because every word had already been spoken in the way his hands had held you, in the way your body had moved against his, in the way neither of you had let go even once.

Your fingers traced along his ribs, your breath steadying, your body finally settling into his.

And then, barely above a whisper--

He murmured against your skin, soft, quiet, so damn real, "You’re dangerous."

You huffed a breathless laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. "Me?"

His arms tightened slightly, his lips brushing your temple, his voice gravelly and warm.

"I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you." Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, because that wasn’t teasing anymore.

That was something else entirely.

And now, there was no going back.

That was real.

That was something else entirely.

And God help you, you felt it everywhere.

His hand rested against the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, thumb absently brushing over your skin--a slow, reverent kind of touch, the kind that felt more like grounding than claiming.

You swallowed, your fingers tracing light, thoughtless shapes over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, still just slightly uneven.

You should say something.

You should respond, should acknowledge what he just said, should do anything but lay here drowning in the weight of it.

But all you could do was stare at him, at the way his jaw was still tense, at the way his throat bobbed slightly, like he was bracing for whatever you were going to say next.

Like maybe he wasn’t sure if he should have said it at all.

So you did the only thing you could think to do. 

You reached up and cupped his face, fingers tracing along the sharp line of his jaw, your thumb brushing just under his cheekbone, slow and deliberate.

Hotch exhaled, heavy, measured, but he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull back.

Just watched you; waiting.

Your voice came soft, quiet, barely above a whisper, "You mean that?"

His brow twitched, like maybe he expected you to brush it off, to tease, to challenge, to do anything other than meet his honesty with honesty.

But you didn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Not with him.

Not now.

His fingers curled just slightly against your back, like he needed something to hold onto, and when he finally spoke--

"Yes,” his voice was low, careful, unwavering.

The breath pushed out of you, your fingers tightening just slightly where they rested against his face, your body warming from the inside out.

Because fuck, there it was.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Just truth.

And that?

That was more dangerous than any teasing remark he could have thrown your way.

You swallowed, unsure if you were steady enough to speak, but knowing you had to anyway.

"I’ve never wanted someone like this either."

His jaw tensed beneath your fingers, his throat bobbing again, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Like he was committing every word to memory.

Like he was afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile moment had settled between you.

But then--

Your fingers slid lower, tracing along the column of his throat, across his collarbone, down over the scars and stress and everything that made him who he was.

And you whispered, "I think I might be in trouble."

Hotch huffed a breathless laugh, shaking his head, his lips twitching just slightly, but his fingers tightened against you, his voice lower, quieter, something dangerously close to soft.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, your own smile breaking through, "yeah,” your forehead falling against his as you exhaled.

And then, before he could say anything else--

Before either of you could ruin the moment with too much thinking, too much overanalyzing, too much wondering what the hell you were supposed to do now that you’d both admitted this out loud.

You kissed him.

Slow. Steady. Intentional.

Not desperate, not rushed, not frantic--

Just this.

Just you and him.

Just something that neither of you were pretending wasn’t real anymore.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the most dangerous thing of all.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[solardrop]

mean drunk.

aaron hotchner x fem!reader.

summary: after a bau night on the town your boyfriend tries to get you to admit to being mean when you drink. But he can't seem to keep his hands to himself either... (or hotch says you're a mean drunk and you say 'nuh uh") tags: smut NSFW 18+ alcohol use. dubious consent because both parties are drunk but 'consenting'. oral m/f receiving. unprotected p in v. spitting. literally like 2 seconds of anal. word count: ~2.6k a/n: be nice to me you aren't allowed to be mean this is my first time writing a fic since the finnick odair x oc fic i posted on ff.net when I was like 12 LMAO. first smut in general too so. yeah. all divider creds. to @cafekitsune

The two of you stumbled into the entryway of Hotch's bedroom with your faces all but glued together. Thick hands grasped at the small patch of skin revealed as your shirt rode up your back. 

You lean into his chest and grips a handful of your breast in his hand appreciatively before walking you backwards to the plush comfort of his bed. Suddenly, he pulls away from you completely and boyishly smiles down at you perched  on the edge of his bed.

His lips and neck are covered in a glittery brown sheen from your lip gloss. Black hair spiking in unnatural directions. The powder blue dress shirt he wore haphazardly wrinkled from your efforts to untuck the crisp fabric from his now tightening dress pant. You could eat him from the top down. But he was just standing there. Smiling at you instead of stripping. 

"Aaron, I swear if you dont fucking touch me I'll kill you-"

He giggles as he unbuttons his shirt, "Very mean drunk."

A successful case led the entire team to a night of drinks at O'Keefe's. Penelope was all but pouring shots down everyone's throats; she somehow even managed to get Hotch to down a few extra glasses of scotch than his typical. Unsurprisingly the result was everyone being absolutely sloshed. Everyone was giggly and free, playing stupid drinking games before the topic of 'drunk personalities' came to the table. 

JJ declared herself a sleepy drunk, while Derek, Garcia, and Emily all admitted to being more flirty. Spencer and David started going back and forth about the psychological implications of the human personality traits while intoxicated. So their categorization as chatty drunks went without saying. You were starting to agree with JJ on being sleepy when your annoying man decided to cut you off and say you were mean when drunk. 

Sure, liquid courage did loosen your tongue a bit. You were guilty of causing few hurt feelings after a night out. And maybe Aaron had to whisk you away from a few bar fights with people you couldn't take without your handgun. But you were not a mean drunk!

An uncharacteristic back and forth bounces between you for the remainder of the night. Only ceasing when he smashes his lips against yours in the taxi home. 

His calloused hands flip you around roughly. Propping your hips up towards his face. Your face heats as he presses his face into your wetness, inhaling deeply and moaning at the scent of you.

"So pretty.." He spreads your lips apart with his thumbs, the moisture there almost holding them together. 

Your head was spinning, now from more than just the alcohol. The position was just embarrassing. You were almost completely upside down and your back arched shamelessly. Hell, you couldn't even see Aaron's pretty face like this. His strong thighs and thickening length weren't bad to look at either but you wanted to see him. 

you crane your neck around to tell him as much when he closes his lips around your clit and sucks greedily. 

"Aar-" you gasp. 

You squirm in the grasp he has on your hips. He tightens his hands around you, preventing your from escape. the warmth of his lips travel up from your nub to lick a few long stripes against your slit. 

"Oh fuck off-" you start.

He was going to kill you like this. Your face and neck were too hot, your back was starting to ache. The alcohol and your arousal swirling your mind into a fog.  Hotch continues his attack on your sex. Sucking and licking with whatever intensity he pleased. His words slur together as he praises you. The sound so intelligible you're convinced that they're more for himself than you. 

When the warmth of his tongue prods at your entrance, you fall forward. The wiry hairs along his thigh press into your cheek as your face is squished there. The invasion has you moaning and wailing, bucking your hips closer to him now; begging for him to delve deeper. Your desperation must amuse him because you feel a short puff of air and the semblance of a smile against you. What an absolute drunken ass. 

With a renewed burst of energy, you lean over without warning and suck the head of his length into your mouth. The strong, salty flavor of him spreads along your tongue as you circle the muscle around his tip. 

"Fucking hell-" he rips his mouth from you and yelps out. 

He jerks at your stimulation. His hips thrust into your mouth reflexively, the erratic movement causing his shaft to slip deeper into your mouth. You allow it, pressing your face closer and closer to him until the coarse patch of curls above his length pressed against your chin. 

He's always been so thick. But being held like this, he felt even heavier and stiffer in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks to pull off of him almost completely, the remaining glitter on your lips streaking up his shaft, before quickly pressing yourself down to the hilt. His tip taps against the back of your throat, you welcome the intrusion and swallow around him. 

He stutters your name out, the syllables melting together as you bob your head along him. You giggle at his lack of articulation. The mean, pristine, crime-fighting machine Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner. Reduced to nothing but a gasping mess from a moment in your mouth and a few glasses of whiskey. A hum vibrates from your chest when you pull of to stroke him with a taunt. A string of saliva still connecting your lips to his swollen pink tip.

"See honey? if I was such a meanie drunk," a bead of precum weeps from his slip, you tongue darts out to collect it, "I would take such good care of you like this. Right?"

You slip back down to bask in your self-proclaimed victory. Savoring the heady taste of him before Aaron abruptly drives two thick fingers into you. 

Your eyes snap open and the sound that rips from your throat reverberates around the room, even muffled by the length of him. He picks up a rapid pace. The wet sounds of your pleasure winding you up even further than you thought possible. His girth slips with a pop. Moaninh against his calf as your body slides from its arched position to lay almost flat against his outstretched legs.

"Aar- '' you cry. "Aar this is so- Baby I- I don't think I can-"

You jump as he spits on your lips and grinds a thumb into your nub. As if you needed to be any slicker. The tight circles he makes are punishing. His saliva cooling against your folds doing little to waver the heat building between your legs. His fingers slam into you over and over, sometimes curling down and brushing that soft, sweet spot deep inside you. 

"Uh uh. The gorgeous girl I know can do anything," he presses an additional finger into you, "isn't that right?" 

You buck your hips back into him, the praise sending a shock to your core. You chance a glance over your shoulder at him, and you have to screw your eyes shut again and groan at the sight. The entire lower half of his face was covered in you. The bottom lip tucked between his lips shiny, red, and swollen. His eyes were low, hyperfocused on the movement of his hands between your legs.  Pale face still red from the night of festivities. He looked absolutely entranced. Completely pleased himself and they way he was wrecking you. 

"Aaron, Please just-" He wickedly pinches your clit between his thumb and forefinger and you squeal. 

"Hm? That attitude" he says as he pinches you again.

"Fuck-"

"See?" Another pinch. " I told you, you're a mean drunk," he does it again. 

Tears prickle in your eyes, sweat along your forehead clinging your curls to your warm skin. You thrash and cry as he continues his onslaught.  He was sitting beneath you, pushing and twisting and gripping your body in any way he wanted while you cried and you were the mean drunk?

You try to slip away from him, the pleasure too much, yet not enough to send you over the edge. But he slips his fingers out of you to grab you by the hips, spreading the globes of ass apart to spit on you again. 

Except this time the cold shock landed right on the pucker of your asshole. 

"Aaron!" you whimper

"If only my baby was nicer to me," he has the nerve to sigh wistfully, "I'm so damn hard, if she asked me politely I'd fuck her so good she'd lose it..." 

He rubbed his thumb over your hole, not pushing in, but applying enough pressure to have you keening in pleasure. 

He sighs again, completely ignoring your pants and cries. "But I think I can finish without touching just like this, hm? Maybe in 30? An hour?"

No. Nope. Absolutely not. 

If you had a lick of sense left in your brain right now you'd realize he was fucking with you. You'd recognize his words and the creeping smile on his face as the bullshit they were. But right now all your muddled mind was registering was the danger of being held shaking and pained for an hour without release. You would never finish like this, you couldn't. You needed to look into his eyes, feel his lips graze along your face as you came.  You wouldn't get that, not like this, you'd be stuck like this.

"Pleaseplease Aaron- Aar- fuck. Please I need you, Aar. Please-" 

He breathes out a laugh. Finally granting you mercy from his wicked hands. He grunts a little at the effort of pulling himself up around you, kissing your shoulder as his face finally nears yours. 

"I thought you'd never ask" he smiles, "Where do you want me gorgeous?"

You twist to move on your back, and Hotch shifts to allow you more space. You face him for the first time in a while, and your heat clenches almost automatically when his eyes meet yours. 

It was fucking sick how he had the nerve to call you gorgeous when he looked so positively delicious himself. His lids were still low and his cheeks were still tinged pink. But now you had a true view of the slick coating his mouth and chin. A crooked smile beamed off his face, smile lines deepening at the gesture. 

"Like this," You hold his face in your palms, pulling him down to peck on the lips quickly, "I want to see you, please."

"Anything you want, legs up for me." He playfully taps his hand on the side of your ass. Your legs shoot up quickly, and his eyes crinkle with laughter at your desperation when he props your knees on his shoulders. 

He presses his lips to yours again before shifting all his weight to one arm, the muscle there flexing while he reaches down to grip himself with his free hand.

He runs the tip of his length along your folds, every brush causing you to twitch with sensitivity. Special attention is given to your already swollen clit, nudging his hips forward to swipe against the delicate bundle of nerves.  He pulls away and slots his lips above yours to kiss you fully. 

You eagerly press yourself closer to him, deepening the kiss. His tongue presses into your mouth and you groan when the taste of your wetness mingles with the familiar bite of the dark liquor on his tongue. 

He notches himself at your entrance, massaging but still failing to push inside of you. A whine bubbled from the back of your throat. 

"Baby, I promise I'm already wet enou- Oh!" your murmuring is cut short by Aaron thrusting into you all at once. 

He doesn't even move before your wretched body betrays you. the abrupt force and fullness pushing a white-hot pleasure throughout your entire being. Your thighs beg to snap shut, but the spread of your knees on his shoulders denies them. Your walls lock around him in a vice, causing him to grunt above you. You're saying something, probably some warbled nonsense, but you can't even hear yourself above the heartbeat in your ears. 

Aaron presses his face into the crook of your neck as you come down from your high. Whispering your name and 'i love you', 'so beautiful's into your skin. 

The fluttering of your core begins to slow when he pulls almost completely out of you, only the head remaining within your warmth. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly, when your breath catches.

"We're not done here are we? Best one of two?" He doesn't wait for an answer before pushing into you, this time much slower.

you mewl at the firm stretch of him. Your hands reach up to grip the back of his neck, pressing his forehead to your own. Your eyes bounce around his features, burning each one into every empty space in your mind like you could ever forget. The precious mole you loved to kiss on his cheek. The unruly hairs sticking up on his temples. His pretty jet-black lashes flutterinh as he struggles to keep his eyes open for you.

His pace intensifies as he gets closer to his own climax, ramming into you. Every push tickles your clit with the thatch of curls that crown his shaft. 

"Such a good girl for me," he tries to hold back a moan causing him to stutter, " Y-you have one more in you I know it." 

The rough sensation of his calloused hands running up your side makes you shiver. You feel it again as he continues to bully his way through your center, the intense warmth pooling in your toes before creeping upwards. You nod your head at him, begging him to keep going, go faster, fuck into you deeper, love you fully. He complies with every soft cry, kissing and biting at your jaw as he forces you over into your second orgasm. 

You were almost completely gone for this one. Screaming into Aaron's mouth as he continues to chase his own release using your body. Your body shakes and you grip his biceps until the crescent marks of your fingernails are guaranteed to become a permanent fixture on his body. 

The breathless whimpering in your ear is what helps slowly bring you back down from your own world. You could tell he was close, his eyes screwing shut and his hips bucking into you out of pace every few beats. Using the last of your strength you push your hips up to meet his thrusts, fucking him back. You press a kiss on his good ear. 

"You treat me so well Honey," you murmur, "Come for me, you're so, so good to me, let me have you"

You suck the lobe of his ear into your mouth and bite down. He punches into you with one final thrust before you feel him twitch, bursts of his warm release spurting deeply inside you. He gasps your name out like a prayer as he comes down. 

Normailly his hardness slipping out of you after a session would cause you to cringe, but right now you were so fucking tired you barely even took note of the sensation. Clearly he was just as out of it as he plopped unceremoniously next to you in silence instead of his normal bossy demands for you to get up and pee after he wore you out. Before you even realize it both of you are drifting off into the best sleep you've had in a while. 

This had to be the worst sleep Aaron's had in a while. His mouth was dry, his head pounding, and his skin felt parched and scratchy despite the sweat that slicked off him. Not to mention the very obvious lack of clothes he was sporting under his bed sheet. 

Before he could grab his phone to send Strauss a termination request form for Garcia (the one he kept saved in his files, yes for moments just like this) you burst into the bedroom and flip the bright lights on. He groans as the rays stab him in the back of the head. You giggle, his pain clearly amusing to you. You saunter over, place a glass of water on the nightstand and press a kiss to his beating forehead. 

"I was wrong, you aren't a mean drunk. You're just mean." he sighs.

You throw your head back in glee

"I'm fine with being the mean drunk," you shrug, "at least we know for sure you're the horny drunk."