warnings: this is filthy and Iâm not sorry. Fingering (f), pure fucking smut, aaron definitely talks you through it and is here to please.
Heâd put you in a trance one too many times before.
Just⊠watching the way he moved about. His hands distracted you from the corner of your eyes. Carefully turning and falling upon the pages of his file that laid in his lap above the sheets.
God. You couldnât focus.
The words on the page before you were nothing but a blur as the veins took focus and the fantasy before unraveled in your mind.
It didnât take much when a man like Aaron was so casually attractive. Glasses sitting on his nose, hair dried and loose on his head, a white tee worn relaxed around his chest.
And God⊠those hands. His fingers, the thumbs. What you would do in that moment under the cool lighting of the bedroom, in the heat of the comforter, and the plush of the pillow to have him trace the edges of your face with them. Paint a path along the lines brought by time and catch on the smooth curl of your lips, drawing a wave before wetting one, or two, so gently with the moisture of your mouth.
âHey,â his voice broke your trance. âYou alright?â
pairing: dbf!bodyguard!hotch x reader summary: it started out as a sleepless night and a midnight snack, and ended with your bodyguard standing between your legs in your dadâs kitchen. wanings | an: suggestive, age gap, power imbalance, r gets turned on by hotch peeling an apple (sheâs just like me fr), shoutout to all my shawties with a nut allergy - i am magically erasing it just for this fic, sorry babies!!! word count: 2.4k
You couldnât sleep. The pillows were too flat and somehow too full all at once. The left side of the bed felt wrong, and the right wasnât any better. You hated sleeping on your back, but every time you turned over, the sheets twisted tighter around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.
Even your pyjamas were uncooperativeâclinging to your skin in all the wrong places, too warm where you didnât want them to be and not warm enough where you did.
Everything felt off. The room felt foreign, despite it being yours for years, and the air was too still. Even the glass of water on your nightstand had gone warm, like it had given up on you too.
With the deepest sigh you could manage at quarter to one, you threw off the covers and climbed out of the bed that was doing more harm than good. The sheets tangled at your ankles like they wanted you to stay, but you ignored them and padded your way downstairs, hoping the kitchen would offer a little more peace than your bedroom ever could.
The house was too quiet without your father in it, no footsteps pacing down the hall, no muffled phone calls bleeding through the walls. Heâd left for the weekend, some conference or retreat, you hadnât really listened. You just remembered the part where he said, âHotch will stay here, just in case.â
Hotch was your version of a nannyâif nannies were ex-FBI agents who still carried guns.
It was excessive, honestly. The whole bodyguard thing. You werenât a diplomatâs daughter or some heiress under threat, just a girl with a last name people recognised in the right circles. But your father insisted, always had. And it didnât help that they were good friends.
For your dad, having Hotch around probably felt like catching up with a buddy over coffeeâor whiskey. For you, it meant not being able to run to the store without a full-scale security protocol and a man whose version of small talk was a silent nod.
And now, with your father gone, he was somewhere in this house. Asleep, maybe. Or awake and reading reports on people who werenât even after you.
You rolled your eyes to yourself.
Ridiculous.
Making your way towards the kitchen, you didnât see any lights onâso naturally, you werenât expecting anyone else to be awake. Which is why you nearly screamed when a low voice cut through the silence.
âCanât sleep?â
You jumped back, hand flying to your chest. âJesus Christâwhat the hell is wrong with you?â
Hotch didnât flinch. He stood there, perfectly still in the faint glow pouring in from the garden lights outside, one hand curled around a mug like heâd been there for hours.
âIs that coffee, or did you finally crack open the good stuff?â you asked, moving past him to the fridge.
âDecaf.â
You pulled a face, grabbing the water jug. âDecaf? Do you ever just switch off?â
âI do,â he said simply.
You arched a brow as you poured yourself a glass. âWhen?â
âNow.â
You let out a laugh, the sound feeling almost illicit in the hush of the room, too human for the hour.
Of course this was his idea of switching offâstanding in a dark kitchen at one in the morning, drinking lukewarm decaf like it was some kind of ritual. Or maybe routine. Aaron Hotchner struck you as the kind of man who followed routines with concerning precision.
You took a sip and turned, leaning your back against the counter so you could face him fully.
He still hadnât moved, mug in hand, gaze fixed on you, or maybe just past you. It was always hard to tell with him. He had that maddening ability to look like he was paying no attention at all while somehow catching everything.
Even the traitorous sound of your stomach rumbling.
He narrowed his eyes at you.
You sighed and set your glass down. âGuess water doesnât count as dinner.â
âDid you skip it again?â
âI wasnât hungry earlier.â
You reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. âDonât even think about judging me,â you called over your shoulder. âIâm about to make the best midnight snack of all time.â
âI wasnât going to say anything,â he replied, and you caught the quiet clink of his mug being set down.
âI know that face,â you argued, pulling a knife from the drawer and setting it down beside the cutting board.
âI donât think you should be using knives in the dark.â
Before you could squint in protest, the overhead lights turned on, painfully washing everything in a harsh yellow brightness. You blinked against it, eyes adjusting.
âSorry,â he murmured, though he didnât sound particularly apologetic.Â
He was closer now. Not near, exactly. But close enough for you to notice the way the first few buttons of his dress shirt were undone, a crisp white undershirt peeking through. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the fabric soft and worn, like it had moulded to the shape of him over the day.
You pulled the apple towards you and reached for the knife again, fingers curling around the handle like you actually knew what you were doing.
You hated the skinâalways hadâbut never bothered to learn how to peel it properly. Too impatient, too clumsy, too willing to just eat around it, even if the texture made your teeth itch.
There was a peeler somewhere in the kitchenâthree drawers over, maybe fourâbut with him watching, you didnât dare go searching for it. Youâd rather struggle in silence than look incompetent.
Your pride was a powerful thing.
You set the blade to the apple and sliced it in half. Then angled one half to cut it again when his voice stopped you.
âArenât you going to peel it first?â
You froze, the knife hovering mid-air. âOh yeah,â you replied quickly, like that had always been the plan. âObviously.â
He didnât respond, but you didnât need to look up from the cutting board to know he was watching you.
Clamping your bottom lip between your teeth, you rearranged the apple in your hand and dragged the blade along the edge with an unsteady hand. The skin peeled off in thin, uneven curls.
Frustrated, you adjusted your hold and tried againâonly for the blade to slip and nick your thumb.
âFuck,â you hissed, and without thinking you brought your thumb to your lips, gently sucking the sting away, brows pinched together in annoyance.
And then you looked up.
A mistake.
Hotch was still watching, his expression devoid of any indication of what he was or wasnât thinking. But you swore, just for a second, his gaze dipped from your mouth to your thumb still pressed against it, and then slowly back up to your eyes.
There was nothing overt about it. Nothing inappropriate. He hadnât moved, hadnât said a word. But the kitchen suddenly felt too warm, and now you were acutely aware of your thumb at your lips.
âLet me see.â
You pulled your hand away, thumb slipping from your mouth and wiggled it in his direction. âItâs fine. Barely broke the skin.â
He was already moving, rounding the kitchen island. When he stopped next to you, he nodded towards your hand again.
Reluctantly, and maybe a little more flustered than you wanted to admit you held it out again, palm up, thumb turned towards him.
He didnât touch it. Not yet.
But it felt like he had, the way his gaze settled on the barely-there cut like it was something delicate. Important. His eyes traced the mark, and somehow that was worse than if heâd used his hands. You swore you felt the heat of it bloom under your skin, like his stare alone could draw blood.
It had to be some kind of magicâor straight-up voodooâbecause your hand began to burn beneath his attention. So much so that you pulled it back instinctively, a breath catching in your throat before you could stop it.
He didnât say anything, didnât ask why, didnât press. Instead, he reached forward, hand bypassing yours completely and picked up the root of your minor injury and your embarrassingly half-peeled apple.
The blade glided beneath the appleâs skin in one smooth motion, peeling it away in perfect ribbons.
You watched him in silence, barely breathing each time his fingers adjusted their grip, every shift in pressure causing the veins along his forearm to flex. The silence wrapped around you both, thick and strangely intimate, broken only by the soft scrape of steel against fruit.
âYou donât have to pretend to know how to do everything,â he said quietly, eyes still on the apple.
There was no judgement in his voice, just a fact, a simple truth wrapped in something that felt surprisingly gentle.
âI suppose not,â you murmured, hopping up onto the counter beside him, letting your legs dangle freely.
âI could teach you,â he offered, still not looking at you.
You stilled.
At the way he said it.
At the words themselves.
He finished peeling the last strip and sliced the apple into even wedges.
âHow to peel the skin off with a knife,â he added, like that clarification would make the moment feel lessâŠwhatever it was becoming.
It didnât. If anything, it made it worse. Or better.
You werenât sure which.
âPlease,â you breathed, then noddedâeyes basking in the way his jaw was set, how it tensed as he focused.
You were not thinking about apples anymore.
He finally looked at you then and without a word, picked up the other half of the apple youâd failed to peel. He stepped closer, closing the distance between you and the counter until he was just one step away from standing between your legs.
âHere.â He held the apple out to you in one hand, the knife in the other. âHave another go.â
You took the fruit first, then the knifeâthe handle still warm from his gripâand you almost dropped them both when his fingers brushed against your wrist.
You tried not to fumble again as you adjusted your hold, tried not to think about the space between your knees and how it had suddenly become his.
âStart at the top,â he murmured, eyes fixed on your hands. âLet the blade find its edge. Donât force it.â
You swallowed and nodded, pretending the words didnât land somewhere deeper than they should have.
You set the knife to the skin and dragged it down slowly, letting it curl away in a delicate ribbon.
âThatâs it,â he said softly.
The words sank into your skin like heat.
Then his hand came to your wrist again, his fingers threading with yours as he guided your grip. âKeep the pressure even,â he instructed. âIf youâre too rough, itâll break. Too lightâŠand it wonât do anything at all.â
Your breath stuttered in your chest.
Were the two of you two still talking about peeling apples?
When you looked up at himâhis eyes already on youâyou werenât sure he knew either.
Your hand trembled slightly under his touch, and whether he noticed or simply felt it, he let go. His fingers brushed away from your skin, only to rest on the edge of the counter beside your thigh.
âDonât rush it. Take your time. Let it come off in one smooth line.â
He might as well have been speaking directly to your pulse.
You turned your focus back to the knife, guiding it carefully along the curve of the apple. The skin began to peel awayâuneven but still intact. You angled the fruit, adjusting your hold so the peels would fall onto the cutting board beside you and in doing so, your thigh shifted just enough to press lightly against his hand.
He didnât move.
His hand remained exactly where it was, fingers loose and relaxed against the counter, like the contact hadnât happened at all, or like he was choosing not to acknowledge it.
âKeep going,â he encouraged. âYouâre doing fine.â
So you did. You kept going, though your mind was split in half between the apple in your grip and the warmth of his hand still resting beside your thigh.
When the last strip of peel dropped to the cutting board, you exhaled slowly, setting the knife down beside it.
âSee? Youâre learning.â
Your voice came out low and a little unsteady. âOnly because youâre a good teacher.â
âIt helps when you actually listen instead of fighting me on everything,â he replied dryly, stepping away to move towards the pantry. âPeanut butter?â
You nodded automatically then paused, realising he couldnât see you with his back turned. âYeah,â you said aloud, your voice softer now. âPlease.â
While he moved, you turned your attention back to the apple, quietly cutting your half into wedges. You didnât climb down from the counter, didnât want to. You were too comfortable, and the slow, deliberate ache between your thighs didnât feel like it wanted to be disturbed just yet.
He returned and set the jar down beside the cutting board, unscrewing the lid and placing it neatly to the side. You dipped the knife into the jar, dragging out a thick swirl of peanut butter and began swirling dollops onto the apple slices.
You picked one upâmaybe as a reward for your hard work, or maybe just to distract yourself from how hard you were worked up.
You took a bite and gestured toward the cutting board before you did something stupid, like offer him a slice from your hands.
He grabbed the one with the least amount of peanut butter and the two of you went silent, mouths full. Your mind still hadnât caught up since that first gentle, âI could teach you.â
He moved before you could, stepping away from the counter to grab a small plate from the cabinet. You watched him intently as he returned, methodically placing the remaining slices onto it.
âYou kicking me out of my own kitchen?â you asked, half-jokingly.
âI am. But only because itâs late and you need the rest.â
You huffed a quiet laugh, then hopped down from the counter. âWell, I suppose I shouldnât ruin the rare streak of me listening.â
You turned to grab a paper towel, wiping your fingers slowly, fully aware of how your pyjama shorts had ridden up when you jumped down. And you did nothing to fix them. Didnât tug at the hem. Didnât cover your legs.
When you turned to face him again, his eyes were on yours and not anywhere they shouldnât be. But the way his fists were clenched told you they mightâve slipped elsewhere when you werenât looking.
You grabbed your apple slices, heading for the door. âSame time tomorrow?â
triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre:meet-a-cute but youâre mainly just ogling at Hotch as he swims in a speedo. Summary: You know those encounters that last, like, five seconds where literally nothing happens but still manage to blossom into a full-blown crush? Yeah. That. Partly because youâre chronically single. Partly because youâre starved for attention. Mostly because you saw him in a speedo. A tight speedo. A tight, half-metallic speedo. A tight, half-metallic, very low-waisted speedo. So really, itâs not a crush, itâs cause and effect. Also⊠heâs a dad. Too. Warnings: objectification of the Hotchner body (called out twice for not having an ass, affectionately), implied age gap, sexual jokes and cuss words Word Count: 4.7k Dadoâs Corner:I genuinely donât know how to tag the reader⊠but sheâs giving me fleabag energy⊠so, uhmmm, letâs roll with that. Huge thanks and smooches to @hotchology for developing and proofreading the snippets I dropped in your dms at 11 pm unprompted đ§ââïž
Itâs not your fault youâre staring out the cafeteria window that just so happens to overlook the pool. Youâre literally facing it. What else are you supposed to do - dislocate your neck inhumanly to look the other way?
That window was meant for people-watching.
Specifically, for anxious parents to spy on their kids mid-paddle without interrupting the lesson every time little Aiden coughs. Itâs not your fault youâre childless and currently repurposing the feature to ogle burgundy-swim-cap guy in lane four.
Youâre just⊠respecting the buildingâs original design intent.
summary:Â For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, youâve told yourself his gruffness doesnât bother youâthat his clipped words and cold stares donât matter.But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop.For free.Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that donât need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, andâmost shocking of allâgetting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.
pairing:joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au
content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is readerâs daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned
caught in a moment of panic, you freeze, but hotch guides your next moves, revealing just how comforting surrendering control can be
pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: age gap, power imbalance, sexual tension, anxiety/self-doubt galore, gun violence, near-death experience, hurt/comfort, depictions of trauma responses, authority kink, themes of submission and control, brief mention of parental emotional neglect wc: 3k request: here
You were starting to think someone should stage an intervention, maybe Garcia or JJ, because this is getting borderline pathetic. More specifically, you, are getting borderline pathetic.
The second Hotch speaks, reality melts into background noise, and youâre zeroed in on the column of his throat, the subtle movement of muscle beneath perfectly pressed shirt collars.
Youâre standing in the middle of a crime scene, dirt kicking up around your sensible shoes, yet all you can think about is the shift of tension in his jaw. Tighten, loosen, swallow â rinse and repeat. Itâs mortifying, really, this fixation.
You wonder why it happens or if he even realizes heâs doing it. Maybe itâs an unconscious reflex, his overwhelming need for control compressed into a single, visible place. Authority, responsibility, and his entire leadership style condensed into that twitch. Itâd be poetic if it wasnât so distracting.
In which Spencer proves to you how much he loves your big breasts.
pairing spencer reid x gf!reader genre smut (18+) cw reader has big breasts and is insecure bc of porn standards, just 6k words of tit worship: tit play, tit sucking, tit fucking. lots of teasing, oral (f receiving), p in v, cum play, creampie, reader wears a dress and lingerie, spencer is clingy and horny, spencer and reader are slightly tipsy, soft!dom!spence wc 6,3k a/n for my big tit girls <3 i hope someone can relate to this, and if you donât, i hope you can still enjoy! thank u lovely @esote-rika for proofreading
Everyone whoâs had the honor of meeting Spencer Reid in an informal setting is aware of the fact that he isnât a drinker. Youâd score an indefinite amount of points in his book if you have something besides alcohol to offer. And Spencer isnât picky â some trail mix in a bowl works as a good enough replacement.Â
So, being surprised was an understatement when Spencer suggested coming to the bar where you were having drinks with your friends. The case he was on got wrapped up quicker than anticipated. He was about to walk to your apartment to spend the night with you when he remembered you were out with friends.Â
It was the plan to pick you up and walk you home, making some light conversation with your friends while he was at it (for the amount of months youâd been dating, he should invest more time in getting to know the people who are close to you). He hadnât planned on drinking, even surprising himself when he downed the two shots of liquor that one of your friends handed him. But he had no choice. Not when he walked into the bar and noticed you dancing in the crowd. Not when you were wearing that tiny black dress that was on his mind ever since heâd found it in your closet. Not when you turned around, your eyes twinkling and a bright smile tugging at your lips when you noticed him. And certainly not when his gaze had lowered and landed on the cleavage that was close to spilling out of your dress. He truly needed the liquid courage to get through the night.Â
