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From 2 to 3 (hotch x fem!reader)

Sequel to The Only Heartbreaker Find snippet here

Summary: Hotch has a steady grip on his life. All measured and predictable. Then one morning in the cold, frigid air of the Alaskan landscape, daylight pours in through the opened windows of his hotel room. His eyes still shut, the sunrays warm up his face despite the lilac breeze. He finds himself with a bedmate but cannot recall the night before. (Also:) After a bad case that leaves you wounded, Hotch and you are scared to cross into 'otherness'.

Tags: daddy issues package, angst w happy ending, angst and fluff, pining, comfort, pushing the agenda that hotch is an acts of service kinda guy, age gap, yearning, longing, hurt/ comfort, protective hotch, soft hotch, the great alaskian landscape for some reason, and summer as a motif, ONE BED trope, a lot of dialogue ngl

notes: no tw! hey all - not really a comeback when idk what THIS is but i been listenin to a lot of peach pit and mitski *once this was named Heat Lightning - and it's all fluff and HOTCH pov, after the events of the only heartbreaker. Some flashbacks. some longing. Some utter nonsense of dialogue tbh sry for grammar errors if any! and sry if this incoherent lmaooo <3 ALSO love being surrounded by friends and a community of creators whose work i love sm - and who in turn inspires me to create. sth i didnt think i had it in me anymore lol but ! lemme know if this work was anything

WC: 7k approx

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Hotch has a firm grip on the events in his life. He is a father; was a fair husband until he wasn’t, and he is a regular at all the establishments he frequents: grocery store, coffee shop, bakery, butcher's, farmer’s market; and he has a strict regiment for exercise and pastimes. All to counteract the unpredictability of his work. It didn’t start this way. Naturally, his position came later and then his attitude: sort of a chicken and an egg situation. Except, people who’ve known him longer than the job – which coincidentally happens to be in a disproportionate ratio to those who know him because of it – would argue that he’s always been like this.

A firm, steady hold on his life. In control.

His work seems to test him on that every single day without fail. If it’s not a murder case, or a kidnapping, then it’s a bomb threat – New York still not the same for him but he’s managed to take a hold on the inevitable, unconscious reactions of his body to the city’s name, after some laborious practice. If it’s not that either, then it is an event that leaves one of his agents seriously harmed in the middle of the day.

Strauss casually reminds him of the last one some days, like she means to make sure he’s not as damaged as one should be after everything he's already endured.

And yet, he’s doing okay. If he were the type to do so, he’d wave a hand in the air dismissing it all: firm, strong grip, of course.

Then one morning in the cold, frigid air of the Alaskan landscape, daylight pours in through the opened windows of his hotel room. His eyes still shut, the sunrays warm up his face despite the breeze bringing in chilled air.

He stirs, something tickling his nose. He huffs out, wanting to blow away whatever irritation that is. It drifts away, settling stubbornly on his chin this time. Refusing to wake up just yet, he decides to move it away but his arms are occupied. His body cocooned under the pile of blanket and duvet, weighed down by a bed-mate, hands firm around the stranger.

No wonder he’s not freezing, he realizes, glancing down in surprise. A handful of naked thigh muscle over one of his legs keeps him locked in, and his other hand is settled precariously close to a chest.

She is sprawled atop him, gently snoozing into the crook of his neck. His eyebrows shoot up, and he tries – and fails – to remember how he’s ended up here. How she did.

He must have gotten uncharacteristically drunk last night. All he remembers is spending the late hours with the team, some jokes from Rossi and Garcia over who in their gracious mind would return to this state due to the temperatures. He must have picked up someone at the bar they were in. It wasn’t anything spacious like in big cities, but a new face could have been exciting for some. It isn’t customary to drink either. Too many issues over dehydration, and how alcohol isn’t factually a good alternative to the cold, and ultimately a prevention for alcoholism as there are no nearby addiction treatment facilities (– he remembers the speech from Reid, but not the woman in his bed?) but there had been booze on their table last night.

Albeit not plenty...

Hotch refocuses. He must have made a move on someone. Or the opposite, most likely. Though he’s done little of any of this in recent months. Quite a long while, if he has to measure it . Not since you started out teasing him with small innocuous innuendos, tying up his libido in knots.

He frowns at the top of his bed partner’s hair, beautiful and shining, but he doesn’t remember anything. Your hair is the same color and length, he thinks uneasily. Maybe that’s why the woman in his arms had his attention last night. He reluctantly releases her… waist , and reaches to brush her hair away from his face. It smells like that first bite of a summer fruit; like the air sticky sweet with anticipation of the season; like it could be the last thing he tastes and takes in for the entirety of his life. Something uncomfortably familiar to it he cannot name.

He reaches down and gently lifts her hand where it rests over his torso. Intent on studying it almost clinically but finds at once he doesn’t need to. Not when slender, long fingers, palm calloused in the same spots his weathered ones are – from carrying guns and handcuffs – shed light to the identity of his bed partner. Partner , he corrects. Just work partner. A noise startles out of him. It rises a groan out of her, that even though he should be restricting causes something else in his body to stir awake.

“Chilly”, she rasps, and lifts her face to look at him through blurry eyes. He knows those eyes, though they’re calculative and sharp, teasing too when they’re directed at him. He knows those delicate features of her face too.

You.

You both stare.

The moment stretches. Limbs become aware. Bare skin prickles with a million buzzing needles wherever skin is in contact. Fuck, he breathes out as evenly as possible, he doesn’t remember a time where he’s felt so much all at once. The open window is reprieve to the perspiration appearing at his temples and neck.

And then it isn’t a relief anymore when a hammering from outside barges rudely inside, shattering the silence. You yelp, and he sucks in a sharp breath, both drawing even closer in confusion.

Hotch slides his hand from the heat of your thigh to your back, cradling your body against his. You both wait, ears perked up and high alert.

The hammering continues rhythmically, before turning into a splintering sound, echoing outside. People huff and puff and it starts up again. He relaxes, the noise becoming un-dangerous to your safety.

“Someone’s chopping wood”, you offer meeting his eyes. The sudden movement has made the blanket slip from your shoulder, baring it to the room. “Cold”, you murmur again.

A shiver courses through you and a fierce, protective feeling in him makes him forget all the million questions in his mind. He’s quick to pull the blanket over you. He even has the reflex to look around the room for something warmer. The surest way is to climb out of bed, and shut the window – he’s fortunate to find he has pajama bottoms on. The outside finally kept out, he strides to the hearth of the room and lights up the fireplace.

It doesn’t take long for the space to fill with warmth, and for it, a strange sense of pride settles in. Like he’s procuring for the basics – like the first men to discover caves and fire and the length they’ll go to sacrifice for the protection of a loved one. Take his health of mind for instance. He has to try to grasp how you’ll react, already prepared to lie and conform to whatever you decide on this .

“Thanks”, your voice is a mere whisper, and he stops thinking. With the small size of the hotel and the limited number of rooms, he hadn’t expected them to be comfortable and cozy. His bed is large, larger than the one he has at home, so the sight of you right in the middle, hair splayed over the pillow he’d slept on these last few days, and hugging  the sheets to your chest…

Hotch has the oddest feeling of… he doesn’t know how to describe it. 

Your cheeks look puffy, colored with warmth, and hair messy almost like ran through gentle fingers. Something blooms in his chest. He’s never felt anything like it. But he recognizes it is laced with something eerily similar to relief.

You clear your throat, and he reaches for the pitcher of water over the table. He pours a glass for you and then downs one himself. He toes on the complementary slippers and glances around. The window had been left open and the dozen of blankets say the opposite – though he knows he runs hot after drinking. His collared shirt and suit jacket are haphazardly thrown over a chair, his shoes by the door. Yours too, though there is a clear trail of your garments littering the floor, leading from the door to his bed, discarded as if in a hurry to more relevant things. A wave of heat crawls up his spine and he casts his eyes to the opposite side of the room.

How can he not recall? It hardly seems…fair.

Hotch turns back to look at you, the surprise on your face not hiding your own study of the room.

“What happened last night?”, he simply asks.

You draw in a shaky breath. “Do you not remember either?”

He walks to your side of the bed, sits beside you and offers the glass.

The proximity doesn’t make you as jumpy as before, though it’s the first time he’s the one making the distance between you two. Whether out on a case, or back at the office – wherever and whenever, as if it was a second nature to you – he is the one relying on you making the first move and approaching him. It had been almost funny the first few times it happened. You’d just been hired as a replacement for JJ – another kid on the way right after her second – but instead of attempting to make friends with the group you’d bantered with him.

Out of everyone.

“ You’d think this would be easy, no?”, you’d muttered under your breath, right in front of the police captain in Ohio – or had it been Oklahoma? – and your face so serious and professional Hotch had thought he’d imagined the words. Dead in his tracks, he’d stopped to peer down at you by his right.

It had been mid-June. The exhaustion of a humid day spent over casefiles weighing Hotch’s soul – almost like the first heat spike right after spring. Heavy. Draining. And more to go. Dressed to the nines in a suit like you’re the unit chief, you’d show up at the office on your first day a bit over-eager to start. Hair away from your face. But the top of your nose and cheeks are a different tint of color, sunburnt though he knows the unit you transferred from allows vacation days as much as the BAU. Not even a hint of a polite smile when you’d shaken his hand. Neat, polished, tidy – Hotch had thought: There’s an agent who knows how to be professional.

In Ohio or Oklahoma – you'd angled your body a bit like a bodyguard towards him. A certain stance you never seemed to drop, as familiar to him as if you’d always been there. Funny how that seemed to happen too. Shorter than Hotch, smaller in stature, but as feral as you’d been having a stare off with a criminal. Funnily protective.

“Excuse me?” Hotch had cleared his throat.

“Cops?”, you’d said in a serious tone, “you give them a donut and coffee and surely that means the work is done?”

His gaze had followed yours to where other police officers were gathered, with boxes of take out and pasty shops had been discarded over a meeting room table. As if the BAU and Hotch personally hadn’t requested files necessary for the case they were there to help with.

A kid caught for misbehavior, Hotch had looked up in shock but the police captain had no ears for your jokes – not that he had any during the whole speech he had given him over not antagonizing victims. Victims, for god’s sake. You’d scoffed that out too. (Hotch remembers).

“What?”

You’d rolled your eyes. An uptick of your lips and the smallest scrunch of your nose. “I’m just messing around.” He had nodded, flabbergasted, but had paused when he’d seen you pull out something from your pocket.

“Figs”, he’d stared down at your hands clasped together. Carefully wrapped in towels, you offer him fresh figs which you'd untucked individually before handing one to him. The interviews you’d both done this morning in a white suburb had brought you through gardens and parks and playgrounds. Wives and mothers had gravitated to you first, like in any case as this one. Accommodating you especially with teas and lemonades and fresh fruits.

“I usually eat them whole”, your knuckles had covered the bounty, hiding it away from the captains and the precinct. Voice a whisper, you had leaned in, your elbow brushing against his.

He had a white collared shirt on, sleeves rolled up, while you had long shed the suit jacket in favor of commodities. “But you peel like this”, thumbs together you had teared at the unblemished skin of the savory fruit. It had pulled apart, thin and flimsy as you explained how the color of it signified an early season picking. Then once satisfied, and with fingers stained, you had popped the whole thing in your mouth. The grin that had followed was mischievous, but it was accompanied with a slight crease of your brows.

“Not ripe”, you had given your verdict, “but I was dying to try them out. Now, I know and I’ll be back to buy them once they’re ready”

His own fig had come apart in his hands, but he scooped it all up and chewed quickly. It had been years – an eternity even – since the last time he had been this keen and appeased by stolen fruits. Sweeter than he remembered, more so than what yours must have been.

The third fig you had eaten raw. A quick flicker of your brows up and wide, daring him to say something in reaction as you swallowed. Then you scrubbed your hands clean with the towels before resuming your previous position. Seriousness and professionalism once more, and the captain had re-approached like nothing’s occurred. No testimonies or evidence as you hid your tracks too.

“You’ve got a little something there”, you had pointed with the tip of your pinkie at your cupid’s brow, not looking back at Hotch. He had gotten the cue a bit late, but then followed - swiping at the same spot on his mouth, without realizing his gaze intent on yours. The clear sticky substance had been scrubbed off just in time.

Then a split second before the captain opened his mouth, your last words had swooped in like a heatwave.

“Not a lipstick stain and unfortunately harder to explain” The consequences it left seemed to remain for long, not bound by the weather. He paid half a mind to your following statement.

“ – Captain! Shall we insist again on how not trivial it is not to dismiss the statements of the civilians...”

The glass of water still full to the brim doesn’t spill over even with his hasty movements.

He swallows thick before asking, “Did we…?”

You take the glass from him, tilting it and refusing to respond – your face going beet-red. Hotch smothers a smile. Water slips from the side of your mouth and he fists his hands, the inanest, strangest desire to clean it up with a thumb resurfacing.  You slam the glass to the bedside table with purpose and swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand.

“No”, you let out, breaths irregular, but voice not as raspy as before. As you settle into a proper sitting position, the sheet drop to your collarbones, held by your arms.

He's mesmerized by the movement, like he hadn't experienced the same privileges as that sheet moments before.

“I think I’d remember”, you shrug.

No, he almost corrects aloud, he’d remember and never permit himself to forget.

He stands abruptly, feeling parched. Fills another two glasses with the jug of water and looks down at the quarter zip you’d donned the night before, now lying at the foot of his bed.

“I don’t remember a thing”, he admits, frowning at the garment.

“Last thing I recall,” you glance back at the door, “Was Derek pulling out that bottle of absinthe in his room.”

Hotch winces. That seems to be his last memory too, even though he’d given the other man a look of disapproval.

“We each drank some but Reid started on his monologue again and we ended up playing cards”, you raise your eyebrows and he nods, understanding that the bottle had been then forgotten for the game. Yet after 3 sleepless nights chasing a lead from the Cyber Unit, they’d all felt restless, tired, and drunk without drinking. Exhaustions of the likes he hadn’t experienced since law school.

He would have been used to the feeling but now finds himself out of his depth.

Just as fiercely as you’d broached the subject, you look away from him, and move again. He recognizes the look on your face. Something of a realization, he notes.

“I, uh,” your voice is a timid whisper, “My leg doesn’t ache”

Hotch blinks. “What?”

“Extreme temperatures make my bullet wound ache”, you reach for a hair tie by the bedside table. It’s mingled with his personal belongings: his wristwatch, a pen and notebook he keeps when he cannot sleep because of late night work observations he writes down, and the silver cuffs of his button-downs. With two steady hands you gather all your hair away from your face and into a tight ponytail. “My surgeon said I would always be a little sensitive and I usually take numbing pills”

Something akin to regret ignites in his chest. The day he’d beheld you bleeding out, gunshot wound to your leg, had been the longest day of his life. That was nothing to wait in the hospital.

He’s unconsciously moved closer, clearing the distance once again. Any shame he’d felt over the situation you’ve both found yourselves in dissipates.

The back-to-back cases surely have not helped. They’d gone from Florida, hot and humid and unbearably long summer nights, to a case in Alaska. Case after case like usual, but then he’d asked the team if they’d rather take a few days off – all unanimously agreed they’d rather hop to the other flight.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?”, he stops himself from offering comfort, your leg propped up under the covers. He belatedly recognizes it had been the same one holding him down while sleeping, as if both your bodies remembered the transaction of comfort – offering and seeking it – without preamble.

You wince, “It’s my responsibility. I don’t want to be an influence on the decision-making of the team.” Yet you still seek to bring levity. “Wouldn’t want to sway the vote. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest when you would have held me to different standards, boss ”

“I already do”, he confesses softly, and watches with satisfaction as the words brighten up your face, the same way it makes you shy away. Yet as much as he’d prefer to make you see the truth, clear as the snow outside, he redirects.

“I’d rather you’d told me. We might have been better off another night in Florida”

“In that motel room?” you echo, brows up, “Are you kidding me? I slept with moths and mosquitoes in my room. I’ll let you know I didn’t impact that building’s electricity bill at all. I shouldn’t have even paid since the showers were inhumanely hot too.”

Surely that had been the deciding factor for all of them to want to leave Florida at once in favor of Alaska.

“I didn’t even sleep well”, you say under your breath, and cross your arms before you, frowning. “If anything I would have left Florida even if you’d said the case was in Antarctica”

He watches with amusement as you finally meet his eyes. Once unable to do so, after the place you’d both found yourselves in, your gaze is challenging again. Teasing.

“Are you telling me you had a better time in Florida?”

“It was fine”, he says, not admitting to anything.

You sigh, no smile yet so he continues.

“It was humid but we did have air conditioning—”

“Yes,” you murmur talking over him, “one in 3 rooms had it and my room wasn’t the lucky one.”

Hotch goes on, unaffected, “-- and Derek bought those tablets for insects to install in the room. If you’d only plugged one in a socket…”

You lean forward, to be heard though your voice doesn’t raise in volume, “The rechargeable night light which doubled as a pesticide? Which smelled like chemicals and expired?”

“And even the quality of the motel wasn’t up to perfect standards the restaurant nearby was satisfactory,” He has to stifle the smile that wants to escape. You fully sit up this time, the tiniest wince shadowing your face as you switch into sitting cross-legged and move even closer, arms falling away at your sides.

“ You mean the restaurant which was open from 11am until 3pm and then only two hours at dinner time? The only restaurant open for miles in that location?”

“The food was good – great even.” Hotch insists, “ Someone even called it a contender for Michelin stars”

Your right hand curled into a fist lands on top of his knee. “Why did you have to remember that? I mentioned it once. In passing.”

One of his brows shoots up, but he doesn’t smile just yet. It would be admitting defeat – your positions switched whenever you both argue over something.

Your smile, on the contrary, is tentative. Triumphant even, the minute he notices a memory flash in your head.

“Remember the second night?” He halts as you speak, and in retrospect that is a mistake. Finally all attention is on you. “When you suggested we order take out from there?”

How could he not remember when he had gotten the urge, for the first time in his life, to walk back to the establishment and demand his dinner – which had arrived in the little boxes all scattered and pressed as if someone had sat on them before the delivery driver had handed them out to Derek. He’d even considered Yelp and one-star reviews. The sudden burst of anger was so cataclysmic that of course, you’d notice first.

It had been you who’d marched back to the building and said no more than a few impolite words. You’d both agreed to pretend like Hotch hadn’t joined in halfway into that speech.

“Don’t”, he warns, “Don’t bring it up”

Your attempt at appearing formal falls short, immediately, because your hair comes apart from the strict do. Wild strands frame the sides of your neck and cheeks, and that same sunburnt look graces your face.

“But I will,” you argue, your fist bumping three times over his knee to punctuate your words, “Nothing to complain – my butt.” An indignant scoff, “ You wanted to flee Florida faster than the rest of us. If you hadn’t been already around us, having that phone call, I’m certain you would have called the pilot first to give commands to Alaska.”

The sheet and the duvet and any semblance of a cover have been forgotten. They never even cross your mind as you’re in a full-blown out winning argument – gesticulating with arms and body.

“I know with goddamned certainty you would have walked into the cockpit and turned that plane around if we had been mid-flight too.”

“I’m not a pilot”, he offers, his one-track mind diverted. Your shoulders are bare to the air. Thin straps pool at the sides, right next to the sheet at your biceps . Bare, he realizes, his mouth dry. Unlike him clad in pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt, you seem to be the opposite. A fire tendril reminds him of the state of your leg too – his palm had been wrapped up comfortably over bare thigh not as if he’d urged the position but had found comfort in discovering it there. Had made sure it didn’t move back.

“I’m not so certain that is the truth.” You spearhead the argument, unencumbered. “That there might even be a field you know nothing of – seems impossible to me.”

The last trail of decency perspires with his sanity of mind – the cover slipping further below your collarbones.

Hotch calls your name with gentle urgency, and tears his eyes away from yours at once.

Not before he notices the heat spreading across the unblemished skin. Neck and top of your chest – apparently they get sunburned too.

“Oh,” your breath is a shiver. He feels it from the head of his hair to the tip of his toes. “Sorry”

Your knuckles stay over his leg, while the other pulls up the sheet. He feels your eyes on him still, and the tension that fills the air is unlike the one before. Awkward and stifling.

His voice sounds foreign in the room. “Are you…”

“No”, you let out at once, “I have shorts on and well… a stupid goddamn tank top.” You tuck back up the thin straps, frustrated and breathing heavy.

“God, I’m sorry again”

He turns sensing something else in your voice: hurt.

“Nothing to be sorry about”, he reassures, “nothing at all”

“Easy to say,” you mumble, “when you’re the one in decent clothing.”

“You are too”, he says with some fight, not allowing you to reprimand yourself.

“Come on,” you murmur, staring at your hand over his leg, “We haven’t even gone swimming together. Not sure anyone is meant to see this much from a coworker before.” Your tone of voice chokes him up, “Thought bleeding out and clothes teared at the back of an ambulance was going to be the height of it.”

A reflex as normal as breathing, Hotch reaches for your hand, clasps it over his knee. He must be the only one who feels the jolt of the touch. Pushes through it because he won’t ever let you spiral into the dark motions of insecurity and shame.

You’d had this discussion more times than a few. A wound as the one you’d bared was no easy feat. Not only did it impact your job for months, having you stationed in the office and out of the field. It has done a number on your self esteem too. The health counselor had helped you come to terms with associating the value you bring at work with the one you hold within yourself.

Hotch had been unaware of the fight going inside you at the time. Some of the frustration had been angled towards him too, being the unit chief and the one commanding your stay-in. That was, until one late night Friday, he'd ordered you to stay seated after everyone had left, and he’d come clean about New York.

Hotch had never brought up New York in the months and years that followed. Not even to the people that had saved his life: Derek and Penelope. The ones who’d seen him bleed and scream, shrapnel on his skin after the SUV he was supposed to get in with Kate had exploded before the two of them.

He wasn’t sure Penelope even knew how long he’d clung unto Kate’s hands, after. Derek had because he’d been the one to pull him up, firm hands under his elbows.

Hotch watches the emotions on your face play out with the story unraveling.

He would have liked to lie until death if possible, never wanting to bear having you see him as anything else but frail and vulnerable. But that hadn’t seemed to help you and he was at wit’s end. Dark undereye circles and similar body exhaustion – Hotch had been feeling the consequence of you pulling away from his companionship.

“I don’t know what to say”, you conclude after minutes in silence. The air conditioning in the building had been shut off; the entire office was dull.

Hotch stares down at his empty hands, the memory of holding you in them long vanquished.

“There is nothing to say”, he inhales deeply, “I was reminded of it because Strauss requested I attend a conference in NYC next month.”

“Shit,” you shake your head, your hands over the table slightly trembling. “I can’t stand her”

Hotch smiles.

“Can’t someone else go? Can’t you miss it?”

He shrugs. “It wouldn’t serve me any good in the long term.” He leans over the table, his voice conspiratorial, “It’s a large piece of land with five boroughs – the jet would have to land there sometime.”

“Right,” you nod. He stands up before he feels compelled to confess other vulnerabilities. You do the same, both mutually agreeing not to bring it up.

He'd thought for sure that had been in it but a month later, inside the elevator, you’d broached the topic.

“Are you meant to head out alone?”

His gaze pans to yours.

“To New York?”

“No”, he replies.

You nod, staring at the doors, before turning to him to ask, “You leave on the 11 th ?”

“Yes”

“Count me in, then. I’ll bring my paperwork with me.”

Surprise and a tinge of something else but he hadn’t argued back.

Months later, you’d willingly knocked on the bedroom door out in another state, everyone getting ready to pack and leave after the case had been solved successfully.

Your second one back in the fieldwork. Surprisingly for him, you’d followed all his orders to not strain yourself. Closer to Rossi and Reid, helping with their work in different precincts. Conducting interviews and examinations, and around more people than precedent.

“I don’t know how to act like before”, you lean back against his door frame, voice a muddled whisper, rivaling the noise of the heater he’s yet to turn off. The air is stale inside the bedroom. Dusty furniture and nothing remarkable apart from the fact he’s the one occupying it.

He finishes zipping up his go-bag, throws it further over the made bed but doesn’t turn around; overly familiar with the hardship of opening up to someone while looking into their eyes.

“I don’t think I used to be careless or freer before- before the shooting”, a soft, subdued bump, your body slumped against the door, eyes almost closed. “I didn’t think there would be anything different about me – people get shot all the time in our line of work but I am different.”

At the silence, Hotch turns to sit down at the corner, elbows over his thighs. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling different.”

“That’s just it, right? It could have been worse…should have been. I know how lucky I am.” The hurt in your gaze is not hidden. “That’s why I feel so stupid to say this now—” a gulp, “I’m acutely aware of my leg”

Hotch pauses. “Aware?”

He meets your gaze though he doesn’t find amusement there, only the echo of regret, guilt and sorrow.

“It’s as if everywhere I go or what-whatever I wear, my leg has been painted red and everyone can see it. As if I’m carrying with me a marker that tells everyone how much I was hurt or that I’m not the same”

You cross the floor of his bedroom and perch on the other corner of the bed, leaving the door wide open.

“Physical therapy helped with being back on the field and retrieving my stamina. Then again…”

You mimic his position, and look down at your feet - at the phantom of the bullet wound on your thigh. Hotch hadn’t left your side in the hospital. He hadn’t dared to when he’d never felt fright like the one that day. He hadn’t reeled it in either. Long stays by your bed after recovery, talks with the nurses and doctors, and when you weren’t on painkillers or somber – you’d both act like him holding your hand in his, chatting about easy things was normal.

The wound had brought you closer for a few weeks, until therapy began, and until he made it clear you were not to return to work for some time  Until the reminder that he is your boss froze the progress made.

Anger and frustration built and it eased up only after the talk on New York.

Still. None of you dare touch the other. Funny that, Hotch thinks, staring back at his hands. He’s come to terms that he might have just pictured it all in his head.

“I’m doing good mentally”, you say convincingly, hands moving as you gesture. “There are no more nightmares or panic attacks. I’m good in that respect.”

“If anything I feel more regulated now, with the tools I have on how to deal with a bad case or another bad scenario. I just…”

“Just?” He pushes a little.

You push your hands through your hair, remaking a ponytail and then giving up, fingers unsteady. “I feel hideous.”

The turn to watch him is so quick, Hotch equates it to the same reflexes out in the field. As if he would laugh or be insensitive to your feelings.

“I can’t look at myself in the mirror”, you swallow thickly, “For god’s sake I can’t wear dresses anymore”

You disguise the tremble in your voice with a laugh. “I know it’s stupid in the grand scheme of things. You can say so. It’s all in my head.”

You slap your hands over your knees and stand. “Well. Thanks for hearing me out. It’s not New York 2.0 at least.”

“Wait—"

All those hesitations that had frozen Hotch into place fall away. You stare at his hand clasped around your wrist, pleading with you not to leave. Another minutiae reflex.

 “Hotch, I’m fine”, the words in your mouth wobble and face to face he finally notes the tears gathered in your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me what you’re going through,” he rushes out first, “However unimportant you think it is, I always, always value what you share.”

You bite your lip, frowning so not to cry. His hand traces back to hold yours steadily, his thumb making soft circles over your knuckles.

“You went through something traumatic.” Fuck, he did too, that day. “Give yourself some time”

You sigh, your shoulders slumping further. “Sure, Hotch. Time is all I have as a medicine lately.”

Your fingers squeeze his before tugging you tug your hand away. You give him a weak smile. “I hope it fixes my self esteem too eventually, when I think nobody finds me attractive anymore--”

“But you are.” Hotch stands abruptly, and he doesn’t think before he blurts. “You’re a beautiful woman”

The stance you’re both in – close but not too much, a stand-down but not technically one, both of you frowning and looking almost angry at one another – might appear to an outsider as if you’re both arguing. Even in the back of the ambulance, you’d fought all the way.

“Hotch…”, your voice is a warning, and you’re about to roll your eyes – he can tell. “Honestly, this is all…nice, but I wasn’t looking for fake compliments”

You grimace when he doubles down. “Fake?” he sputters. “Fake? You think I’d lie about this?”

“Come on…”

“I don’t let out vacuous words.”

“Yes, when you’re on the job or whatever but I’d rather you not give me empty flattery…”

“I am being honest”

“I doubt it’s the same as when you pointed out Spencer’s awful new haircut…”

“I mean it”

Your reaction – a scoff and a glower – makes him fight harder. The anger climbing up his bloodstream is inane. It makes his entire body overheat.

“How about you tell me?” He pulls you in swiftly, a quick gasp parting your mouth open. His intense eyes meet yours – narrowing. The tears in yours dry out as you gaze up at him. “Tell me if I’m being dishonest with you: you’re the single most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life”

Those eyes of yours – the color sometimes sprouting up in his dreams when he couldn’t sleep – meet his mouth for a fraction of a second before darting away. Blush dusts your cheeks and your legs wobble.

His heart does the strangest thing: starting up a new hurried rhythm.

“So? What’s the verdict?”

You clear your throat and straighten, extracting your hand from his grip. “Truth”

You put a step between each other. “Thank you”, you mumble, “but you don’t have to do that”

The fire from the fight – or maybe your presence - had ignited in him still but he wants it to die down quicker than this. “What was the solution, angel? Let you doubt yourself?”

 Even regret, he’ll battle if he has to, though his own is more due to his poor memory.

“I don’t mind at all, angel,” he says softly. Sweet as you look right now, he feels weak to his bones. Thus he bites his tongue, omitting just how beautiful he finds you right now.

“Good,” you reply, blushing “good then… I’m, uh, glad. I’m relieved I have these on when I usually sleep with far less.”

Another tear in his heart.

“I was going to bet you slept in a full suit,” you mock with a smile, “Penelope and Spencer have theories, though his were that it was more of a nightdress and night cap situation – Disney’s Scrooge rendition.”

A chuckle escapes him. “No hats.”

“Your best pal, Dave, isn’t helping the allegations either. The things he’s said behind your back…” None of you notice the gravitational pull, both your arms now resting over his legs.

He laughs at the giddiness on your face. “Would I want to know?”

“He’s mentioned a silk suit once or twice”, you shrug, laughing, “so it doesn’t wrinkle during sleep. Smart, but unrealistic”

“Sure.” He smiles back, “Not as much as a hat you wear to bed”

“I denied that theory too”

“Good to know”, he gives your hand a small squeeze; your other clutching loosely the hem of his shirt, distracted by its softness, “I wouldn’t want people thinking that of me.”

“I’m protecting your honor if anything”, you continue, enjoying the tangent this conversation has taken. He’s too taken by the shine of your eyes to care. Too caught on your every word. “I had something to say against the suit as well. Penelope didn’t consider the summer.”

“Ah,” he shakes his head, all serious, “what a mistake”

“Not breathable with all those layers…”

“What was your theory?”, Hotch has both of his hands softly wrapped around yours, massaging the muscle of your forearm. He’s convinced himself not to linger on the goosebumps pebbling your skin. It could be a result of the fireplace, or the temperatures.

Your teeth latch onto the softness of your lower lip. “It wasn’t anything too crazy like Derek joked about…”

One of his brows goes up in question.

“Birthday suit”, you respond with a stifled laugh. “I simply said you’d probably prefer comfort. Boxers and a soft tee.”

The words are hushed, intimate.

Your fingers toy with his shirt, “Though I would have preferred a white one.”

His mind is hazy and slow. “Preferred?” He blinks.

“Not that this one isn’t…good”, your breath fans his chin, and looking up at him, you say, “White would make you soft… gentle. Opposite of what you appear on the outside but how you truly are from within.”

He lets his eyes fall shut. He hurries for something wise to say, the ground beneath him having tilted. “I do choose comfort above all else”

“I know”, your fingertips sneak underneath his shirt and the first touch makes his whole body tense up, though your hand stops there. The muscles of his stomach ripple. “You’re burning”

His large palms engulf your arms, rubbing up and down slowly. The tremble of your breath is hot against his jaw, your mouth near.

“As warm as the fireplace”, you let out a laugh, though you don’t move away from the breadth of his body. Hotch watches in fascination the shiver taking over yours.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“Mhmm”, you shake your head. A strand of your hair tickles his chin. He watches your eyelids flutter shut and the moments remain suspended.

God, how he wishes he’d bottle up this feeling every single time it occurs . A piece of him lives in each of them too, every time they happen.

The first time he’d felt time pause, and resume trickling slowly had been when you’d both shared a dinner together. Nothing peculiar over that night. Not the food, nor the location. Not even the city the BAU had been stranded in for a case. Nothing except for the company. You, sitting on a barstool, elbows perched over the marble ordering greasy food, still in work clothes, neat and polished, but your hair loose over your shoulders.

“I’m not mad about it”, you speak softly, pulling him back to this present moment. You tilt your head to look up at him, “When I realized…”

He nods, a massive boulder of a weight loosening from over his chest.

“I was conflicted –” you swallow, “embarrassed too”

He encourages you to continue with comforting touches, gentle patterns on your arms formed by his thumbs.

“I was thinking, what if you kick me out of bed? And I think I’d have relived the shootout again instead.”

He shakes his head, “Never. I would never have”

“I know—”

A breath rushes out of him when your hand splays over his stomach, having dared to reach fully under his shirt. You’ve always been more courageous than him, he thinks. In another life he would have already crashed the distance. Pulled you into his arms and tasted your mouth.

“I think I’m… Happy.”

Your eyes full of emotion do it for him. Something compels him, a deeper pull than anything he’s ever experienced.

That’s when the knock on the door resounds.

You both retreat with a smile. You untangle your legs from him, shifting away from his lap.

“It’s okay you can get it”, you say, “but let’s not go back like nothing happened once you do”

Hotch brushes a kiss on the top of your head. On your temple. On the apple of your cheek before standing up. “I’d die if I did, angel.”

Turns out behind the door awaits none other than hotel room service – something Hotch didn’t know was provided in this tiny establishment. He takes the trays and lines them on the table. Waffles and eggs and fruits, together with freshly brewed and hot coffee. The concierge tells him it had been prepaid by Hotch himself, the night before, though ordered for past midnight with a message he’d left on the phone.

“Wow,” you let out, “That’s a lot of food”

He hands you a coffee and sits down at the foot of the bed.

“I know.”

“Maybe we are smarter while drunk”, you say overjoyed, taking a plate of waffles.

He settles with the plate with eggs and bacon. “I wonder how wise we are when we can’t remember everything…”

The memory of the night before would return. 

Hours later. Long after you’re both sated with food and the company. Again in bed, but this time sober and fully aware of how you curl around Hotch’s body, and how he tucks you against him.

Another few hours of sleep, until both minds and bodies were fully rested. Followed swiftly with fevered grasps. Kisses that were bound to happen at last.

“Absinthe” you laugh, pointing at Hotch like he hadn’t been in the same room where Derek had pulled out a full bottle of alcohol out of thin air like a magician.

“Are you going to penalize him over it? Will it impact his annual agent evaluation?”

Your laughter is loud enough to wake up the entire hotel – the entire small city. His jaw hurts from grinning all night. Hotch grabs your hand in his once he notices how unsteady your feet are as you walk down the hallway.

You wrap your other arm around his, “Are you going to, Aaron?”

“I wouldn’t”, he smiles down at you. He’s lightheaded but not drunk on the one glass he had.

“I feel unsteady.”

“How much did you drink?"

You happily sigh, leaning fully into his side, cheek against his bicep. “I don't know. I must be drunk. I’m taking pills so it probably messed me up.”

“What do you feel?”

“I don’t know”, you huff out, “restless and exasperated. Like my heart is in my throat too. Maybe I might get sick”

“Oh, angel” You smother your smile against his arm. He reaches with his free hand to touch your forehead and feel for temperature. “You’re fine. You’re not hot”

But you don’t move away and neither does he. Both having stopped in the middle of the hall, nowhere near either of your rooms.

You’re warm. Eyes intense and stirring like clouds before a storm. Entire face heated and… blushing?  Unmoving from your position next to him, you lean into his touch, his hand dropping to engulf the side of your face.

“Do you want to stay tonight?”

Your eyes flutter closed before opening to gaze at him in wonder. “In your bedroom?”

“You could take my bed”, he murmurs. His thumb traces a line from your cheek down to your jaw. “I’ll be there if you need me”

“Nonsense”, you blurt, “We can share”

He doesn’t know how he manages to make it to his room. He’s in a daze, dreaming surely, even though you’re solid and warm against him. His key is in your hands, unlocking his door. His hands on the small of your back, comforting and steady. He feels on fire just from your presence, from the act of watching you hurrying to get into a room you’ll both spend the night in.

The innocence of it all is intimate. His heart beats rhythmically fast and he feels it everywhere on his skin.

“Make yourself comfortable”, his voice is unwavering as he folds his suit jacket on a piece of furniture. He can’t help but be fast in his motions, like this is all part of a dream unless he’s not under the covers as fast as possible.

A like-mindedness you share as well. Your clothes end up in heaps on the floor. You quickly tuck yourself under the covers.

That lightheadedness makes him stumble. He’ll dry out – die out - feeling your body against his. If not from the emotions he’s kept hidden for so long, then it will because of the warmth you’d exuded.

“Good idea”, you say as he leaves a window open. “I love feeling the sun on me when I wake up.”

It must be real, after all. He pauses, thinking of other things that might make your stay as comfortable as possible.

“The fireplace?”

“That’s okay” your voice is muffled by the duvet up to your nose. “After we wake up”

That reminds him.

“Breakfast?”

You nod enthusiastically. You had skipped dinner because of work so the only other thing he looks forward to – apart from waking up to your face in the morning – is sharing breakfast together.

After a message left to the receptionist, he lies down, pulls the covers up to his stomach.

“Mhm, it’s nicer than my bed” you say through a yawn. You reach for his forearm, squeezing it lightly once. “Goodnight, Aaron”

He brushes a soft kiss on your bare shoulder, goosebumps chasing it on your skin. “’Night, angel"

============

Tagging: @the-modernmary @laurensprentiss @genevievedarcygrangerreading @hotchs-bitch @skyler6666 @rousethemousee @arsonhotchner @ssa-izzy @fatherhotchner @anetoupekelly

tagging people who've interacted w part 1 :)

@azenpal @mischiefmanaged71 @fromthewalls @jhiddlesbatchles03 @jasmine-galaxies @jaspxr @multiobsession @caprisunzz

In love, specially with the last two💖💖🫠🫠

Louis Garrel

I'm going to cry😢😢 It's so good

a hug from peter would solve all my problems 😭 can you write something where peter hugs reader i'm sorry it's vague but i just need a hug but it's okay if you choose to not write it </3

same here babe same here :) i hope this is okay — peter visits you at your work and literally that's all you needed | sad/anxious reader, wc : 0.8k

The office has been busy today. It's scary, suffocating and you hate the way the files on your desk just keeps on increasing with every passing minute.

It's lunch time and you're staring at the desktop screen, not in the mood to eat or drink or do anything. You just want to finish everything that is left and leave for home.

You woke up with an aching dread in your chest, heavy and unbearable. Heart pounding so loud in your ear and yet you pushed yourself out of your bed. Though now you regret doing it.

But in your defence it wasn't something new, worrying is like a second nature to you and it has been since forever, so you did what you're good at. Pushing your limits. Even if it felt heavier than the other days for some reason.

The feeling intensified when you found a sticky note on the bedside table that said Peter had to leave earlier than usual because his boss, Mr.Jameson was in a funny mood today.

When he is not though?

And with that you forced yourself to brush your teeth, to take a shower, to look presentable for your day. You forced yourself to work, forced yourself to smile when your coworkers smiled at you. No matter how exhausted you're feeling you somehow manage to do every single task that you're supposed to do.

It's when your colleague calls your name that you blink out of your muddled thoughts.

“Your boyfriend is here.” your colleague smiles and then you smile too. It's the only good thing about the day, getting to see him. In fact Peter is the only good thing in your life. Him and Aunt May to be precise.

You make your way downstairs and find him at the reception, standing in a corner he's looking outside the glass window, bag hugging his back, earphones wired in. Pretty as ever as he patiently waits for you.

He pulls the earphones out when he sees you. It's less crowded here since everybody is out for lunch, it's just you, him and two others from the cleaning staff.

“Hey, baby” Peter smiles, as you near him, hand reaching to hold yours.

“Hey, yourself.” You greet. The lump in your throat tightens at his touch.

“I'm sorry, I didn't call, I-I saw your texts but I was kinda stuck somewhere, and then I figured maybe I should just come here and see my girl.”

My girl. It's not the first that he has referred you as his girl but it affects you the same way each time.

Your nose stings and you think you're going to cry. You're sad. exhausted. And you missed him so much.

“Please don't be sorry, Pete. I understand you're busy.” you say, leaning into his chest, arms limp at your sides. Wordlessly, he needles his arms around you. You didn't realise that you needed this- that you needed him to hug you, until you got it.

“Bad day?” his chest rumbles as he speaks. You nod, your nose rubbing against his shirt as you do so. He smells like your detergent, his cologne and coffee and something smokey.

And it happens before you can stop it, your feelings come crashing down at you in the form of tears, his hold around you tightens, hot tears soaking through his shirt.

“Hey, hey, baby.” he whispers, petting your hair. “Everything is fine. I'm here. You're safe.”

You know you're safe, it's the safest place in the whole world. His arms. Peter knows it too but he also knows how louder things get in your head sometimes. Which is why he tells you again and he'd do it every time you need him to remind you that you're safe ; that he is safe and that the world is not on fire.

You stand there, in that corner for quite some time, holding him close listening to his calming voice, his heartbeat.

“I'm sorry, You came here to see me and I just-” you sniff, pulling back. “ I don't even know why I am crying.” well you kind of know but it's hard to explain with words. Like it's so many things but also nothing at the same time. It seems pointless but you can't help the way you're feeling.

“No more sorrys, bub.” he urges. “What do you have a boyfriend for?” he brackets your cheeks between his palms and smiles before leaning in to kiss your forehead.

“Hug me all you want, I'm all yours.” his lips hot against the soft skin as he kisses each of your damp eyelids.

“How are you feeling? If it's too much then we can leave, I'm sure your boss won't mind, would he?”

“I'm feeling much better, all thanks to you .” you mumble, eyes closed, arms snaking around his waist.

“You're amazing, you know that right?”

“Nope, you are.” a peck on your nose.

“Excuse me, I'm complimenting you here, so shut up and take it.” your lips curve upwards, your first smile since he showed up here.

“Okay.” Peter says as he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a hug again. “I'm amazing.”

Not more than you. He thinks. The smile on his face is unmatchable.

When it's my turn🥺🥺

pov: going on a date with aaron hotchner

In the next 3 months, you will be richer, happier, wiser and healthier!

Reblog to affirm!

Same🥺🥺

the way a hug from him would solve everything in my life

So freaking hot🫠🫠😏😏

Familiar Feeling

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Female reader

Warnings: SMUT NO PLOT (They literally just met), unprotected sex, they fuck everywhere

I just moved into a new apartment with my two best friends, Faith and Lane.

Faith is a writer and swears that the Marvel actor, Sebastian Stan lives in our apartment building. Lane is an actor and she agrees with me and thinks that Faith is losing her mind.

None of us have seen him in the building. He is like our own little myth.

One day, Faith was out at a meeting and Lane was at an audition.

I was left alone so I was just cleaning up the apartment. I cleaned my room and the main courters. I then decided to take the trash out and on my way, I swear I saw Sebastian taking his trash out.

He smiled at me as he passed by me.

I quickly turned around and spoke.

"You're Sebastian Stan aren't you," I said as he nodded.

"Yeah, we're neighbors I think. I've seen you around," He said.

"You've seen me around? My two roommates have been on the lookout for you ever since my one roommate thought she saw you in the laundry room."

"Yeah, I've seen you around. You always wear those shorts with the pink string," He said as he eyed me up and down.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you were flirting with me, Mr. Stan," I said as I smirked at him.

"What if I was? And it's Sebastian."

I just smiled at him and then walked past him to dump my garbage.

"I'm going to go back up to my apartment where my two roommates are not and I am going to run a bath to wash off the trash shoute," I said as I sashayed past him. I could feel his eyes on my ass as I moved past him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I said as his eyes averted back to my eyes.

He dropped his trash off and then followed me into the elevator.

I stood against one wall and he stood against the other with his hands in his pockets.

I was the one standing closest to the buttons so I pushed the emergency stop button.

Sebastian practically flung his body over to me and pinned me against a wall.

"Needy girl needs me so bad, huh?" He asked as he wrapped a hand in my hair and neck. He kissed me so deeply and passionately. I'd never been touched like this before and didn't want it to stop.

He went over and turned the elevator back on.

We got off on my floor. I do quite literally mean, got off.

I held his hand and led him into my apartment.

"It's really clean in here. It smells like you," He said as he took a deep breath.

I smiled at the thought that he already likes the smell of me after one day together. Not even one day. Maybe a couple minutes. We've just immediately clicked with each other.

"Do you want something to drink? Maybe something to eat? We might have some leftovers in the fridge."

"No, only you," He said as he sighed and sat down on my couch.

I smiled and walked over to him on the couch.

I stood in front of him and he pulled my pants down along with my panties. He then pulled down his pants and underwear.

I sat down on him facing him.

He moaned out as I rode him. He grabbed at my hips and I tugged on him all over.

"Fuck, you feel better than I thought," He said as he grabbed my ass and squeezed tightly.

"Oh my god," I moaned as I came around him. He pushed me off of him before he came inside of me.

I pulled my pants and he pulled up his haphazardly right before we heard the door open to the apartment.

"Oh my god! Did you hear? Apparently, someone saw Sebastian Stan leave the elevator on THIS floor!" Faith yelled as she and Lane entered the room.

"HOLY FUCK!" Lane screamed as she smacked her hand to her face.

"You're Sebastian Stan," Faith said as Sebastian stood up and he shyly smiled and waved at the two girls.

"Yeah, he's going to be here for a bit. We were just uhm. Hanging out," I said as Sebastian turned pink and the girls quickly gathered their belongings and then turned around and left the apartment.

"I'm sorry about them. They are just fangirls and I was just-"

He pulled me into another kiss. A kiss that felt like we knew each other. Like we are closer than we actually are.

"You taste so good and I can't get enough of it," He said as I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his hips.

He carried me to the kitchen counter and sat me down on top of it.

He pulled my soaked panties down along with his pants to show that he was already hard again.

I was trembling and waiting for him again.

He pushed himself into me and found a steady pace as he hit my G-Spot ever so often. Enough to make me squirm and scream under his touch.

He had one hand on my lower back, holding me up so I don't fall off the counter. The other hand was on the counter steadying himself so he didn't fall to his knees.

I came again and he pulled out again.

"I think that just about finished me off," He said as he put his pants on. I slid off the counter like a puddle.

"I don't even think I remember how to walk," I said as he held me by the waist to stabilize me.

"Oh, Sebastian. Don't touch me like that unless you want me all over you again," I said as he removed his hands ever so slowly. I thought I was going to fall right then and there.

So I did.

I slowly fell to my knees. His hands went to my hair as I undid his pants that were on his body for less than a few minutes.

I sucked him off as he braced himself by holding onto the counter behind me.

"Please," He moaned as I continued. I knew he barely had anything left in him and this was probably hurting him. But, him begging me like that felt so good.

He tugged on my head a little once he released it in my mouth.

I stood up and wiped my mouth off.

"Go spit in the sink," He said as I opened my mouth to show him I'd already swallowed.

"That's disgusting," He said with a hidden smirk.

We both cleaned up and I went to change.

He was sitting on the couch just scrolling through his phone when I came back.

"I should get going because I have an appointment for a photoshoot but, I would love to take you out on a real date sometime. Today was the best day I've had in a really long time," He said as he handed me a piece of paper with his number on it.

"Call me," He said as he walked over and kissed me before walking out the door.

Lane and Faith came home later that night and I felt dirty so I cleaned the counter and I mopped the floor. But I forgot about the couch.

It wasn't until late late that night when Faith was sitting on the couch next to me. "What are these stains?" She asked as I just looked between her and Lane.

"Those stains are-" I paused before trying to come up with something. "Yeah, I don't know what those stains are."

I love it. Forever in my heart❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

It's so good!!!! 🤤🤤

August

Inspired by August by Taylor Swift

Summary: When Haley and Aaron broke up after junior year, you never thought it would be for good. But still you found yourself falling (into bed) with the boy who hated you. Your best friend’s ex boyfriend.

PART 1 | PART 2

Word Count: 4338

Warnings: 18+ for smut, very angsty ending, general teenage shenanigans, talk of disassociating, Haley hate (kind of? But also not really?)

A/N: I started this a couple of months ago after hearing “skinny dipping” by Sabrina Carpenter and realizing it would be such a cool idea to see a then and now. I never thought I’d write smut or young!Aaron so this is very new in all ways. I will take all the feedback or constructive criticism you have, thanks for reading!

Gif credit goes to @hotch-girl <3

“But I can see us

Lost in the memory

August slipped away into a moment in time

‘Cause you was never mine”

Everyone knew Aaron and Haley. Aaron might have been a jock and Haley might have been a nerd but everyone knew them as Aaron and Haley. They just made sense.

When they got together our sophomore year, the whole town talked about it. Aaron smiled more and Haley hid her face less. The two were known as the town’s sweethearts and it was genuinely deserved.

When they split the summer between your junior and senior year, no one believed it would last for long. Especially you.

You were Haley’s best friend. Your parents had become fast friends after meeting as parent volunteers at your kindergarten class trip to the aquarium. Haley would come over when her parents did and the two of you would go play while the adults did whatever adults do.

She was a bit more outgoing than you and always fought to bring you out of your shell. Dragging you to every event she could, the two of you were inseparable. Were.

When Haley and Aaron got together, she suddenly had less time for you. She was busy with her new relationship, you understood that but missed your best friend. It didn’t help that Aaron didn’t like you. Every time Haley would invite you to do something with them, Aaron would glare at you while she was looking away or maneuver himself so he was between the two of you and start to spread out more and more until you had to move.

Haley never noticed. You loved her, truly you did, but she was always a princess. When you were little she always had to be the damsel in distress. Her perfect story started with her needing help and ended in happily ever after when her nightly prince saved her from some big evil. She never wanted to save herself.

You didn’t fault her for this. Not everyone could be like you. Not everyone had to grow up early and learn that the only person you should depend on was yourself. In fact, part of the reason you loved her so much was her almost childlike optimism. You would pummel anyone who threatened to take it away from her. Sometimes you wished she would be a little more in touch with reality, but friendship - like all relationships - was about compromise.

So you compromised. You gave her time and space and let her settle into her new relationship. You didn’t fault her for it, you reckoned that it was a normal teenage girl thing. So you waited.

Her never ending schemes to get you involved led to a decreased time for your hobbies, specifically painting and reading. Your new free time was well spent catching up on your always growing “to read” list which always inspired new pieces of artwork. Those books were the reason you didn’t hold the same ideas on life and romance as your friend. While she loved the doting attention of the soccer star and his juvenile pet names, you had a more refined standard of romance. You would accept nothing less than being swept off your feet.

Or so you thought.

Three weeks after the couple broke up, you saw Aaron for the first time. You were at the beach, the last book you had read featured a cute scene with a couple in the water so it inspired you to pack up some sunscreen and head out. You had been there for about an hour when all of the sudden it was too dark to read. Looking up, you found your best friend’s ex boyfriend staring at you.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded, arms crossed as he peered down at you with a frown.

“Reading, you don’t own the beach Hotchner. It’s public property” you reminded, shutting your book while pursing your lips. He rolled his eyes with a sneer as you waited to see what he wanted.

“So funny,” he remarked, “when are you leaving?”

“Whenever I feel like it. Though if it upsets you so much…” you trailed off with a hand on your chin, “never.”

With another glare, he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. His hands fell from across his chest to perch on his hips.

“Well I need you to leave” he ordered. No matter what he had intended, his words had the opposite effect. You found yourself laughing hard enough that you toppled over, dropping the book from your lap. Your chest was hugging your knees as your head was thrown back in what was probably an extremely attractive laugh. When you got control of your breathing again, your eyes peered up to look at his which were locked down your bikini top.

“My eyes are up here, Hotchner, and no thanks” you responded with a smirk. His eyes flashed back up to your face, ears slightly red from the embarrassment of getting caught. He started to splutter, eyebrows furrowed as he came up with whatever excuse he thought would get you to leave.

Ignoring him, you stood from your place on the ground and walked up to him so you were chest to chest, “I’m not Haley. I don’t think you walk on water and I won’t let you boss me around. Go find someone else to control.”

Unlike your friend who’s short stature meant she was eye level with Aaron’s chest, your eyes were firmly locked on his lips. You were close enough that you could feel his warm breath fanning across your nose. Both of you stood there, momentarily stunned by the close contact when his buddies came up behind him.

“Aaron we’re leaving” one of them yelled, passing him by without stopping. Your hands were cocked on your hips, waiting for his next move.

“Later” he responded loudly, eyes still locked on yours. As soon as his buddies were gone, he pushed his face closer to yours. His eyes were dancing with anger as he swallowed loudly.

“Listen here-“ he started, his mocking tone setting you off again. You threw your hands up, one hand running through your hair as the other pointed into his chest.

“I will not ‘listen here’ buck-o, you hold no sway over me. I don’t care what you think or what you want. I was here first and you don’t own this stupid beach!” You yelled, finger jamming into his chest every other point in emphasis.

Grabbing your hand mid poke, his hand tightly squeezed yours as he muttered between clenched teeth, “you are so goddamn infuriating, woman. You know that?”

“I am not” you huffed, annoyed at how warm and right his calloused hand felt around yours, “you are infuriating, you-you-“

His lips were against yours. Your current thought process died and you could feel the wheels in your head spinning overtime as you tried to understand what was going on. The thought of whose tongue was caressing your bottom lip caused a moment of clarity and your hands went flat against his chest to push back and your lips opened to tell him off but the words fell flat. He had taken your motion as encouragement and the hand that was once holding yours moved to grasping the back of your neck, fingers threaded in your hair. The other gripped your hip to the point of being painful and you found yourself moaning into his mouth.

You let your eyes slip closed and tentatively swiped yours against his wandering tongue. His answering groan made your thighs clench. The deep baritone made your head swim, your hands climbed up his chest to grasp onto his shoulders. You were breathless, chest heaving against his as your fingers dug into the muscles in his back. He groaned again into your mouth but the noise was loud enough to startle a group of birds that were walking around in the sand a few feet from you.

The sudden commotion startled both of you out of the moment. Your hands slid down his back to hang down at your sides as you stared, open-mouthed at your best friend’s ex boyfriend. The words wouldn’t come. You knew you should walk away, run away, but all you could think about was the taste of him. The way he ran his tongue against your bottom lip, the way his lips had caressed yours. You wanted more. Maybe that made you a bad person, but you needed it more than anything else you’d ever had before.

During your mental debate, Aaron stood in front of you. His arms were also at his sides, shaking slightly as his chest heaved in time with yours. His eyes never left yours, their darkened shade glistening along with his lips. When he caught you staring at them, his tongue stuck out to lick you off of his lips. The movement sent butterflies flying around your stomach. You gave yourself a minute to close your eyes and think this through but quickly shook off rationality and grabbed his hand.

Pulling him away from the sandy beach and leaving your book and chair, you led him wordlessly to the parking lot. You were backed into your parking spot at the deserted end of the lot underneath a bunch of low hanging trees. You were momentarily thankful that your favorite spot to park kept your vehicle cool with its windy breeze through the cracked windows and shade from the beating sun.

When you reached the vehicle, you avoided his eyes and dug the key out of your pocket. Your hands were shaky as you tried to fit the key into the lock until a warm hand enclosed your own. His steady fingers slipped the key into the lock and twisted, unlocking the door and opening it in one smooth movement. You reached around to unlock the back door and opened it to let the car air out. With a quick slam of the front door, you were both standing close in the hot air of your heated car. There was a little bead of sweat running down his forehead as his eyes studied your face. You used one hand to balance yourself against his lean frame and the other wiped at his forehead and brushed the one long strand of hair out of his eyes. He shot you a small smile, a dimple pulling out as he mimicked your motions to brush a stray hair back behind your ear. The action felt almost too intimate for such a tumultuous relationship so you quickly pushed him into your backseat.

The sweetness of the moment was interrupted and his hands were pulling onto your hips, taking you with him as he kicked the door shut and slotted his lips against yours. You moaned against his tongue as he continued to explore your mouth. Your hands were grasping at his shoulders again for support but you needed more. Quickly you grasped at the top of his shirt and pulled, forcing him to pull away and finish removing his shirt.

Once it was gone your mouth was sliding along the lines of his shoulder, sucking little marks against the muscles there. He was groaning and grasping at your hair, fingers tightening as you would bite down a little on the skin before licking over it to soothe the mark.

You were just about to move down to his chest when the hand in your hair was yanking you up and you were suddenly being kissed with a ferocity that was only hinted at before. Your hands continued the trail you started with your mouth, running your nails lightly over his pecs and abs down to the happy trail around his belly button. As your hands explored his body, he took the initiative to do the same, one hand holding your head close to his as the other traced around your bikini top before circling around your breast. A finger flicked at your nipple suddenly, causing your fingernails to tighten into his chest.

He was biting at your bottom lip with a moan as your fingers finished the happy trail down under his swim trunks. You teased him, running your finger around the edges of the waistband before continuing to move your hand back up his chest. His bottom lip poked out against yours as he pouted from the loss of contact. His lips pulled away from yours, giving you a moment to catch your breath when he suddenly ducked his head down and bit down lightly on your nipple over the suit. You threw your head back with a moan as you pulled yourself fully seated in his lap to grind down against him. The sudden contact caused him to groan around your nipple as his tongue flicked against you and the hand on your waist moved in time with your movements. You were gasping for air as he rubbed against your clit, your wetness soaking through the bikini bottoms and coating the front of his trunks.

The slickness made a squeaking sound that wasn’t pleasant so you hurried to move yourself off of his lap to pull the swim suit off. He copied your idea and quickly slid his shorts down. The sight of him slapping against his happy trail sent another wave of heat through your belly.

You pushed him back against the seat and kneeled above him. His lips were back on yours as an arm wrapped around your waist to bring you against him. The new position had his tip rubbing against your clit. You squirmed against the contact, trying to create more friction as he let out a little huff of laughter while you whined against his lips. Taking pity on you, he dragged a hand from your waist to grasp himself, rubbing little circles against your bundle of nerves. The increase in pressure felt heavenly and you could hardly focus on his kiss. Your lips went lax as your mouth hung open. He pressed little nips on your bottom and top lips before using his nose to push your face to the side. His lips dotted kisses down your jaw and onto your neck. He was busy sucking at a sensitive spot just above your clavicle as he dragged his cock against your clit in slow, teasing circles.

Your moans were loud in the silent car for a moment before you slid a hand up his side to the back of his neck. You tugged at his hair until his lips were leaving your neck and his face was level with yours. His breath was coming out in warm pants that tingled against your sensitive lips. You tried to think straight with his hand still moving against you but you couldn’t help kissing him again.

Leaving a trail of sloppy kisses from his lips over to his ear, you sucked gently on his earlobe before leaning a little further to whisper in his ear, “I want you inside of me.”

His answering groan accompanied a harsh slap of his cock against your clit. You bit down on his shoulder in retribution before shooing his hand away and grasping his length in your hand. You used your wetness that had dropped down his cock as lubricant as you stroked him slowly. After a minute, you were lifting yourself a bit further and lining him up when one of his hands squeezed your hip and the other lifted your face to look at him.

“Are you sure?” He whispered, words clear in the heated moment. Your heart clenched at the sweetness of him, such an odd contrast to his behavior before that day, before leaning forward to nip at his bottom lip. You let your tongue sweep along the spot you bit and nodded before you slowly started to sink down onto him.

The rest of the summer passed similarly in a blur of stolen moments and hidden signals. There were a bunch of big stones that lined the wood chips along the length of your home. All of them were multicolored but there was one that stood out, it was a faded blue on one side and light red on the other. As you were sneaking into your house one of the first nights after the two of you met up, you accidentally knocked it over and saw the color change. The next time you met up with Aaron, you suggested he use the stone to show if he was able to get out that night. If he thought he could make it, he would turn the stone to the blue side but if he couldn’t, he’d leave the red.

You always met at the same time at the same place. Ten minutes after ten pm on the roof of the abandoned warehouse that was between your houses. You would crouch through the hole in the fence and use the fire escape to get up to the top.

Every night up on that roof was the same. He would look at you with those tired eyes and you would have done anything to make it just a little bit better for him. He would hold you as his lips bruised your own, his hands grasping at your hips as he set a brutal pace. There was never much said between the two of you. Sometimes it would be mere moments after you arrived on the roof that he would pull the blanket from your arms and lay you down on it. Others he would pull you into his arms and spend hours watching the stars before kissing you slowly. Every time he would ask if you were sure. The quiet words had become routine but no less special as he lined himself up and brought your face up to meet his eyes.

You kept telling yourself it meant nothing. That the two of you had come to an unspoken agreement to work out your daily struggles with each other. It was normal. It was fine.

It was a good thing, a really good thing, but like all other good things, it eventually came to an end. You had been avoiding Haley, only responding to every other text and making excuses to avoid meeting up. You took a new job during the day stocking shelves at a local warehouse to keep your mind and hands busy. But as you knew, you couldn’t avoid her forever.You were walking out of the house to your car before work one day when she cornered you.

Yelling your name, she ran over from across the street to stand behind your car. You greeted her back with a quick smile but you could tell from her stance with her hands on her hips that she was upset. You were hoping you could at least make it to the start of the school year before having to face the confrontation.

“Haley-“ you started but she cut you off.

“No, don’t you dare ‘Haley’ me” she growled, “what in the hell is the matter with you? You’ve been blowing me off all summer! I thought you were my best friend but just when I needed you most, you leave me”

You hated the way that your throat constricted seeing her teary eyed but you knew you had to be strong for her, “no, I was-“

“Stop lying to me! If you didn’t want to be my friend, you could have just said so! I lost Aaron and then I lost you, so you know how hard that was for me?” She cried. Your stomach clenched at the mention of his name.

“I’m sorry” you muttered, head down as you realized how this situation would play out. You were stupid to think that everything wouldn’t explode in your face. Even if she never found out, you couldn’t face her. Not knowing how it feels to be loved by him. Not knowing how she still loved him.

She continued to yell at you and you let her; your mind floating as you began to understand just how badly this was going to end. A tight feeling settled into your gut as you realized how many people your thoughtless decision would affect, how many people you would lose. As you started to gather your thoughts, you didn’t let your mind stray. You would make a plan of attack and separate yourself from reality, that would be the only way you would survive what was to come.

Later that night, after Haley finally had enough yelling and told you that she never wanted to see you again, you waited for Aaron on the roof.

Normally he beat you there but this time, you were waiting for him. Your back was to the entrance as you stood by the edge and stared out at the bustling city. The squeaking of the door opening let you know you were no longer alone but you waited until you could smell the warm scent of him behind you before you began to turn.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, voice quiet against the soft noises of the city below.

You took a deep breath to calm yourself before you turned to him. His eyes were guarded as he regarded you with no expression. His hands were in his Jean pockets as he waited for you to respond.

“Aaron,” you started, voice calm despite the desperate fear of losing him and yourself in the process, “this summer has been the best summer of my life but I…. I think it’s time we end this. School starts soon so you’ll be tired from soccer practice and Haley will be around. I know she broke it off but she misses you. Everyone wants you two back together, including both of you, so it just seems like this is the right time. She’ll be there for all of your needs and you can go back to hating me when I’m not sleeping with you.”

His eyes bore into yours as he seemed to process what you said. His arms strained under his tight grasp at the material of his pants and you longed to wrap your arms around him and just hold on tight. The ever present crease between his eyes got more defined as he began to scowl, his eyes hardening against your gaze.

“It was never just sex to me” his steady voice insisted hands raising to grasp at the ends of his hair, “it was never just a fling or a hookup. Haley-“

“Is the love of your life” you responded, trying to keep your voice calm despite the quickly growing turmoil you felt. Your stomach was tied into knots as you watched the pain flicker through his face.

“No, she’s not. You don’t have the right to tell me who I love” His face tightened, voice raising in frustration at your lack of emotion.

“But you do, you love her. This was just a fling. Even if you don’t want to admit it, Aaron” you countered, arms folded across your chest as you tried not to shrink away from his anger.

“I did, I do. But that doesn’t mean anything now because we aren’t together. And I don’t need to admit anything. You don’t get to tell me how I feel or what I think, you don’t even know me” he huffed, finger pointing at you as he stilled suddenly. His eyes were regretful as he looked at your withdrawn posture. You gave him a watery grimace as the tears started to fall down your cheeks. You unwrapped your arms to wipe at the traitorous emotional reaction and nodded at him.

“You’re right, Aaron. I don’t know you” you agreed, voice breaking.

“Sweetheart I-”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand and tried to make your voice as steady as possible, “I don’t know you. I’ve seen you every night for two months but we haven’t spoken more than a handful of words. I don’t know you and I’m never going to.”

Your eyes trailed down to the ground as you spoke, unable to meet his gaze. After a moment you could hear him take a deep, unsteady breath before swallowing loudly.

“So this is it then?” He asked, voice hard with his teeth and fists clenched. Your heart broke at his words and a voice in your head screamed at you to stop playing the martyr, to let yourself be happy.

“Yes,” you responded, head tipping back up to meet his eyes, “goodbye Aaron.”

With a quick turn, you started towards the entrance to the roof to return back to solid ground as you heard him whisper a goodbye behind you. The sadness in his voice almost broke your resolve but you stood your ground. You don’t remember anything about getting out of the building or back home besides the empty feeling that sets into your chest. But that feeling never quite went away.

You never told Haley. You didn’t think Aaron would either but he was right, you didn’t know him. Breaking things off with him was the right thing to do but it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest and stomped on by a herd of elephants. You spent every night until school started again crying yourself to sleep. Haley showed up to your house multiple times but your parents listened to your pleas not to let her in. Eventually, your mom caved to your demands to join the local college’s early degree program and you didn’t have to watch as your two favorite people found comfort in each other. You had hoped they would but you didn’t think you would be able to stand watching your classmates vote them prom king and queen or most likely to marry.

Instead, you settled into a routine of pushing your body and mind to the limit as you tried to fill the gaping hole in your chest. You were convinced that years from now, your future self would thank you. But at the moment, all you felt was empty.