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qvid-pro-qvo · 4 years

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a double shot for me (with a splash of you)

also known as a coffee shop au no one asked for, but i wanted. aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader.

word count: 8628

rating: teen, for lots and lots of coffee consumption, baked goods, and falling in love one cup at a time.

Penelope sees it first.

Ever since JJ left, cases fall on her more and more. Those pesky paper files that the FBI insists on keeping around. Dark manila folders embossed only to be thrown away. It’s a shame, but those are the ones she has to take up to Hotch’s office.

She makes the climb, moves to his door with purpose. Reaches out to knock, clutching one of her more muted pens in case Hotch needs one to sign. Not likely, but the last time she had one with a fuzzy pink thing on a spring, and the visual of Hotch signing one of their cases with that much... fluff made her eyes cross.

Anyway. She’s up and in, Hotch giving his permission, and the files in her arms get placed in his box.

“Just a couple of signatures,” she informs him.

“Are these finished consults?” he asks, and she fills him on what details she can. It’s while she’s filling him in, though, that he lifts a mug of coffee to his lips.

It’s a new mug. One that she’s never seen on his desk before. Definitely different, because the ones he usually chooses are the kind that the FBI keeps as standard issue, the ones that get stolen and restocked because they’re convenient and... just okay, as far as mugs goes. They hold coffee effectively enough, is what she’s saying.

But this is a mug. A kind of cute mug, with a logo on the front of some coffee shop. It’s white, too, almost a shock on the more somber mahogany of her boss’s desk.

“Garcia?”

She realizes then that she stopped talking. Hotch is staring up at her, mug still poised halfway up to his lips, and she blinks, mouth falling open a little.

“I’m - I’m sorry, sir. I was just admiring that mug you have. Is that place any good? It opened up pretty recently, right?”

He glances at it. Seems to notice it for the first time as well, and his face softens. That’s the only way Penelope can describe it, as if looking at the mug makes him think of something... good.

But when he talks, it’s like any other conversation. As if that little moment she spies doesn’t happen. Nods, face just on this side of neutral.

“Yeah, I like their coffee. Fair prices, too, even with the knowledge that a building full of FBI agents are here to overcharge.”

She chuckles, but it’s for more than the joke. It’s at the fact that Hotch seems that close to smiling himself, and she pulls back from his desk with a little grin. “All right, sir. Thank you.” Her head dips a little.

“Thank you,” he shoots back, and when she leaves, she thinks that maybe she’ll let that place be all his.

The first time Aaron-With-Two-A’s comes into your coffee shop (distinguishing him from Aron-With-One-A and Aahron-With-An-H), you’re pretty smitten with him. You can’t tell if it’s the fitted suit and tie, the jawline, or the small smile he gives you when he orders, but by the time you serve him with an extra bright smile that he kindly returns... well, you’re in love. He could be the love of your life. Especially when he drops a tip in the jar.

An exaggeration, of course. It’s not love.

Maybe.

Anyway, you see him walk out the door and at that point you know that you’ll never see him again. This isn’t the part of town that usually gets the suits, and there are shops closer to where they gather that he’ll probably use next. Your luck is shitty anyway, so anyone like that who brings you a little bit a joy would, of course, never return. You’re already a late bloomer, and known for your bad decisions, so while you’re very thankful for your job you know it’s not luck that landed you where you are.

But you suck it up, of course. You can’t afford to get distracted. You’re the only one working a shift in the afternoons, and that time is used for cleaning and second-guessing every decision you make, along with doing your best to make damn good coffee.

But he comes back. More than once. Get his same order, a very plain black coffee with a couple of sugars, and you hand it over across the bar each time, sometimes going out of your way to put it in his hands. Smiling, your handwriting the scrawl on the cup that spells out his name.

A-A-R-O-N.

He’s becomes a regular, and you feel comfortable calling him that. It isn’t every day he comes in, not even close. Sometimes he’s gone for three weeks at a time, but he always trails back in, bright and early for a hot cup. Soon, you’re adding smiley faces to the end of his name, and the first time you do it you can’t help but peek out behind the pastry case to watch him see it.

He smiles. You smile. It’s a win.

Slowly small talk develops. It’s weeks, pulling little tidbits from him each time you take his order. Basically, what happens is you ramble for too long, he smiles and responds, and the process repeats.

But he seems to enjoy himself, and you definitely are, and as long as the line isn’t held up, you don’t really mind.

Of course, the days aren’t all peaches and cream (though the peach galette you sell always tastes like it). One day, a slower Tuesday, you’re trying to hide the way your chest aches, after a particularly brutal phone call with your mother that brought tears to your eyes.

Why are you wasting your time on this – this coffee shop? she had asked. Mocked. You gave up a lot for that dream of yours, and you’re just scraping by –

And you’d tried to explain. You really had. What it meant to you, to start this on your own, to get away from your past, your bad decisions, your spouse. From what was holding you back. But she snapped, and she scolded, and as you closed your eyes and hung up there had been nothing you could do but gasp for air.

Her words overwhelm you behind the counter, and you close your eyes tight at the memory, not realizing that at the same time, the coffee cup you’re holding overflows.

The coffee scalds you. Because it’s fucking coffee. You let out a cry, dropping the cup all over the floor, grateful it’s only a cardboard one for to-go orders. It splashes your no-longer-clean jeans, and at that moment you’re done. You’re just done. Your hands are shaking, and burned, and you push to the sink in a gasped sob. Your hair falls in your eyes, gets shoved back, and once it falls forward again you reach up to pull at it overwhelmed.

Your name is called out, but you wave the hand that isn’t stinging, splashing water without meaning to when the faucet gets going. “I’m fine, just - just give a minute, I’ll get it right out.”

“Are you okay?”

It’s an innocent question. And you should be more put together, it’s a goddamn customer, but your already shitty day just peaks and you whirl around to snap before even processing who’s in front of you.

“Do I fucking look - oh. Oh, my god.”

It’s Aaron. With two As. The coffee you spilled? His. The voice. His? The look of concern, one that makes your cheeks flush with a red you haven’t felt in a long time? His.

Of course. The one time you yell at a customer, and it just happens to the one you have a raging crush on.

“I’m - I’m so s-sorry,” you stammer. “Like I said, it’ll be right out, I just...” You don’t even know how to recover, instead choosing to turn back to your hand, which luckily is not blistering. It’s just bright red, inflamed. The cold water over it helps, but you can still feel the undercurrent of the sting. However, you still have a job to do and you force yourself to pull way, moving to grab another to-go cup. “I’ll get you a fresh one, okay? Give me a minute.”

“Put your hand back under the faucet.” It’s not an order, but his voice carries the weight of one, and you blink a few times to stop the tears before moving back to the sink, whimpering as the cool once more rushes over your skin. “Do you need me to go get anything? Is there anyone in the back to help you?”

You can’t help your snort. It feels snotty with the tears that you’re just barely holding back. Why is he being so nice? You just make the coffee.

“No. It’s just me this morning. Just my luck, right?” The crushing loneliness of that statement floors you, and you find yourself staring at the running water to avoid his eyes.

The water is the only noise in the room, besides your occasional sniffle. After a moment, you force yourself to pull back from the water, eyes closing tightly as the pain ramps up again. And Aaron is still there, his eyes holding an intense kind of pity, and you realize his hand is reaching for yours.

He clears his throat as you raise a brow at the gesture. “I’m not a doctor, but I have a third-grader at home. Burns are nothing new to me.” You give him a weak smile (of course, he’s a father), and he takes your hand gently, looking over it with that classic intensity. He’s furrowing his brow at it for a while, and the whole time he’s just... holding your hand.

“Your professional opinion?” you ask in a shaky voice, and he hums, turning it over to look at your palm. He looks up at you again, and when he speaks it’s deadpan, brow furrowed.

“I don’t know. I think we’ll have to cut it off.”

There’s a beat, and then you’re sputtering out a laugh before you can stop yourself. He smirks before letting you pull your hand back. The pure shock of the statement brings you back from the edge, and the tears in your eyes seem to vanish as you realize you’re giggling, a hectic kind of sound. He doesn’t seem to mind the horrific noises coming from you, though, because he’s still watching you, one hand sliding into his pocket as his face relaxes.

“You’ll be okay. It’ll heal on its own – just make sure if any blisters appear you don’t pop them.”

He gets a playful glare for his efforts, and you reach for a clean washcloth, soaking it in cold water and wrapping it around the affected hand.

“Any other advice?” you ask him, and his eyes glance toward the coffee on the floor.

“No. Fresh out, but. Let me help you clean up.”

You huff out another laugh. Was he serious? “And ruin your suit?” You gesture to his whole outfit. Hell, he’s got a tie on that screams expensive, shoes that surely are the cost of a full day’s profit. “Trust me. Coffee smell stays with you. And once it’s bad, it’s bad. I’ll get it, after I make you another coffee, one you can actually take with you.”

He doesn’t seem too convinced. For a moment, he looks almost like he’s going to ignore you, take off his jacket, and grab the mop. But no matter how much you would love to see that, you shake your head, and emphasize it again. “No. I’ll do the cleaning.”

Your stern tone gets him to lift his hands, in surrender. You smile, then, a real one, without much snot, and he starts moving towards the door.

“You’ll have a good day, all right?” He says it so… so confidently, so assuredly. And smoothly pulls out his usual two-dollar tip from his wallet, dropping it in the jar.

“You don’t want your coffee?” you call out, but it’s like he doesn’t hear you. And then he’s leaving, and you’re trying to think of what to say. Something, anything, to thank him for his kindness.

“Wait!” you cry out. You must sound desperate, because he stops and when he turns back to you, you’re rummaging around behind the counter. You almost completely disappear for a moment before you’re popping back up, your prize in hand.

“Here.” The gift is thrust forward. “To say thank you. Really. You didn’t have to stay, and you did. And. I think my day will be better because of it.”

He takes it from you, turning it over in his hands.

“A coffee mug.”

Suddenly, the gesture feels stupid, and your face flushes as he keeps turning it over in his fingers. “Yeah, I - I would’ve given you a ticket or something, for a free coffee and pastry, but I only printed those for the week of the grand opening. I’m sorry, really, it’s dumb, I can take it back, and we can pretend this never happened -”

But when he looks up at you, you stop talking. The earth has stopped spinning, as far as you’re concerned. His eyes have wrinkles at the corners, because you suppose that’s what happens when he grins. You find yourself tracing them, unable to pull your gaze away. In this light, he looks brilliant. The shine of the early morning sun is dancing on his features, and you feel like an idiot for even thinking it but it’s all you can think.

“I can just… I owe you,” you finally say, and to that he shakes his head.

“No. This is – this is great.” And he means it, chuckling with it.

With a lift of the mug, he turns and goes out the door, leaving you a little agape as the world starts turning once again. And in that moment, the coffee smell is worth it, just so you can watch him disappear from view.

Rossi notices because he notices Aaron.

After all, the man’s life is… pretty routine. There are parts about the job that have him yanked all over the place, but the days that they’re at home, it’s methodical. A comfort in a way, knowing that some things never change.

At work before everyone else. Working the day away. Coming down for lunch (or not, depending what he (or Jess) managed to make at home for him and Jack in the evenings). Going back up, and working until everyone else leaves. He takes phone calls and meetings in his office, and every so often one of the team ventures up to interrupt, but. All in all, a pretty straightforward schedule most days of the week.

Dave doesn’t like to burn the midnight oil unless a book’s got him hooked, or get up too early unless there’s something in it for him, and so he’s always trailing in behind him, still before the others but at a time that’s sane.

Until one day. Aaron comes in a little later, later enough to catch the same elevator, and there’s a look on his face that’s a little… hurried.

There’s a cursory scan – no rumpled clothing, no identifying marks. And Aaron knows that he has eyes on him, because he ducks his head, not looking in his direction. Besides, Hotch isn’t exactly the type for one-night-stands, and so Dave rules it out with a nod and a press of the elevator button.

“Dave,” the unit chief acknowledges, and then steps off of the elevator once they arrive.

So. Something’s up.

Dave doesn’t confront him immediately, though. Just lingers, watches. Hotch knows that eyes are on him, but Rossi’s good enough that that doesn’t matter, especially when it happens again. Another elevator ride together,

“So,” he asks his friend, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “Who’s got you running late?”

There’s not an immediate answer. Hell, the guy almost looks chastened at it, like Rossi’s scolding him for coming in at 7:45 instead of 7:15. How dare he make it in only fifteen minutes before eight in the morning?

“There’s this… coffee shop I like to hit before work. Stumbled into it one morning, and…” Hotch murmurs. He pauses, and the numbers keep climbing.

“Yes?”

If anything, Hotch’s face seems to flame, working his jaw for a second as he considers telling Dave what he already figures. “The barista. Think they own it, too, and makes good coffee in the mornings.”

Rossi doesn’t say anything at first. Just chuckles, shaking his head a bit.

“Well. Have you gotten this owner’s number?”

The silence is very telling, and Rossi just laughs.

“Come on, Aaron. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well, a rejection, for one,” Hotch replies with a look shot Dave’s way, but the older man just shakes his head again.

“Rejecting a handsome FBI agent who frequently pays the bills? Nah, I think you’ve got it,” he says, with a hand reaching to smack Aaron on the back. It’s that he leaves him with, along with another call over his shoulder.

“Y’know, once you get the number, you probably won’t have to spend so much on coffee!”

The days continue to pass by. Slowly, and surely, your little place seems to get some attention. More customers, more regulars. You manage to remember the names of your people most of the time, too, when the late nights keeping books and thinking of new bakery ideas don’t run away from you. And with those days, Aaron remains.

He still comes in the morning, at the asscrack of dawn. Of course, you don’t call it the asscrack of dawn in front of him, but often you’re still yawning when he comes in and asks for his order. And with it, since he’s so early, he stays to chat more and more. Sometimes, you see him glance at his watch, and excuse himself in a rush, and you can’t help but feel a little thrill at the thought that he just… likes talking to you that much.

There’s worry with it, too. What if he just feels so obligated to stick around? Are you forcing him to stay back longer than he needs to? But those fears are squashed by the way he always looks back to wave at you, lifting the cup of coffee you made him.

Of course, right after that he’s gone.

It’s like he vanishes. No sign of him in the mornings, and you feel a little bit of sorrow over the loss. But of course, immediately there’s a bit of embarrassment with that sorrow. You barely knew the guy, was he really worth a bit of mourning? But he truly just disappears, and for a moment your head comes up with crazy explanations as a way to cope without your early morning conversations, deal with the continued exhaustion that weighs on you as your business grows.

All hope is not lost, however, because it’s another late night into early morning balancing books when you see Aaron next.

It’s been a couple of weeks. You don’t exactly know what he does, but you know it’s something that requires the suit and tie, so you figure it’s important. Maybe a business trip, or something else that kept him away from your shop, but either way, it doesn’t matter. Because he’s back, and he gives you a little smile when you take his order, even when you can only yawn your way through it. The conversations even flow, like they did before, another source of incredible joy.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, on the tail end of yet another jaw-popping yawn. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Your hands lift above your head in a stretch, and his gaze drops to the tip jar where he deposits his normal amount: two dollar bills.

“We all have those mornings,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s not a problem.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you have a morning like this,” you tease. Your hands move easily, even in your exhaustion, making his usual order with a flourish. Two sugars, in a little to-go cup, coffee over the top to make sure it’s mixed in. “What’s your secret? Don’t tell me you’re an energy drink fanatic. I’d feel like you were going behind my back.”

“No, no. Just your coffee,” he returns, and it’s easy. Comes out of him without any thought. If you blush, you hope he doesn’t notice, because your face is turned to his cup to make sure it doesn’t overflow.

“You’re too kind.” Lid on top, secured tightly, and when you turn back to him and hand it over, he doesn’t turn away. His comment makes you feel bold, too, so the name you write on it has a winky-face instead of a smiley-face. “Don’t stay away too long, my good days always come when you’re my first customer,” you add, and something seems to… shift.

Because Aaron doesn’t turn away. Smiles at you, at the coffee cup, and then glances back behind him. There’s no one else in the shop, there never is this early – it becomes known around the city as a good place to get a quick bite later in the day, set up and do some studying for a while since the black cups of coffee can be bottomless. But he checks anyway and then passes his coffee cup from one to the other, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a little card.

“I was… politely encouraged by a coworker to take the leap,” he admits, and your heart is pounding in your chest. You’re offered the little white cardstock, and when you look at it, you see his full name. It feels like a momentous occasion, Aaron-with-two-As shifting to Aaron Hotchner. “And if you’re willing, I would love to go on a date with you. Get to know you more.”

Then there’s a pause, and there’s a cloud of… something. You watch it come and go, and the whole time you just offer the same smile, a smile that seems to rouse him of whatever he’s thinking about.

“But, if you don’t want to, I understand. My work life is pretty hectic, as I’m sure you can guess, and I know you know I have a son –“

“I would love to.”

It’s the easiest thing to say, because you feel it with every fiber of your being. Because Aaron Hotchner seems like a really sweet guy, who works in Quantico and still comes by your coffee shop every morning he can.

“Really, Aaron. I would. As you can guess, my schedule’s pretty routine, but I do close as of right now, so, our dinners might have to be later rather than earlier –“

“Dinners?” he says it with a small smile, and you flush at the slip.

“I didn’t mean to… assume anything, but. Whatever we get a chance to do, or keep doing, I would love to. Just. Give me a second.”

You don’t wait any longer. Your fingers move to your phone, input his number, and immediately send him a text, with your name. When his phone buzzes, you smirk.

“Now you have mine, too. Easy as pie.”

When he leaves, that day, it feels like something special. You don’t know what, just yet, but it feels new, and bright, and good.

Yeah, you think to yourself, I hope we get to do at least a couple of dinners.

Emily notices next.

It’s a later night. The whole team has their nose buried in something, whether it be a consult or a report or, God forbid, something for Strauss. There’s work to be done, and unfortunately the jet life is only a small part of it.

She’s working on a report that particular evening. This case ended a few days ago, but since shots were fired it’s taken longer to sort through. Positioning, discharge time, how many shots, where, at who, with who. A nightmare, but incredibly necessary, and she’s done with it soon enough.

Her coat mocks her as she rises to her feet. So close to picking it up, dressing, and heading out the door. But she mentally promises to be right back, that home is just a little visit to Hotch’s office away.

She climbs the steps, and is glad to see the door is cracked open, that warm lamplight is filtering out from the open blinds. It means that when she knocks, he’ll let her in.

A couple taps of her knuckles. She waits a beat, two. No response.

Huh.

Another tap. Tries to peek in, but the door is just open enough that she can only glance in with one eye. She’s not usually one to snoop without the pushing from Derek or Penelope, but her eyes are tired and she’s ready for a night in with Sergio.

Is he... is he on his phone?

His cell phone?

And smiling?

Her eyes widen a bit, and she pulls back immediately. At this point in the night, Hotch is nothing but business. Tired, like all the rest, and if he’s bent over anything, it’s a file he needs to sign off on. Maybe Jack. Maybe he got a picture from Jess…

But he’s... distracted. And she knows Hotch’s smile when he’s looking at Jack, and what she had seen is not that.

She knocks again. A lot louder, and when he responds, it’s quick. But not quick enough. There’s a beat, and she narrows her eyes.

“Come in.”

She pushes into the room, file in both hands. Immediately her eyes drop to his desk, but his cell is gone. She looks up at him, and he’s looking at her, like nothing’s the matter, like he wasn’t just smiling at his phone –

“Prentiss?” he asks. Brows furrowed at her, their permanent state.

She’s brought back to reality. Because that’s what this is, reality. He was probably just... looking at a picture, or a video, or… something. “Right. Sorry. Just finished up my report for the Douglass case. Wanted to drop it off before I headed out.”

“I’ll sign off on it tonight,” he tells her, and he bends over an open file on his desk. Like nothing ever happened. “Thank you, agent.”

She thinks on that, jogging down to her desk. Glances behind her at the shine of the light from his office. Pulls her coat on, flicks her hair over the collar.

Huh.

Getting to know Aaron Hotchner is a joy.

It’s a little complicated, finding a date that works for the both of you. Not because of anything other than clashing schedules, and it’s a good learning experience to realize that Aaron Hotchner is always on call. But there are points when he’s home, and free, and you finally are churning enough profit for someone else to close in the evenings, so the nights are what work the best.

And dinner is… great. It’s fantastic, really, and you get to know Aaron Hotchner as that, not just Aaron with the great smile and lines at the corner of the eyes. Well, he definitely still has the great smile, but now you know the whole person.

He tells you about his job, what it means to him, and it feels like you’re truly getting to know him. You can tell he’s passionate about what he does, helping people, and you find yourself enthralled by the way he speaks about his position, his team.

“Sometimes it hurts, knowing what we’re leaving behind when we fly back,” he tells you. “But. I also know there isn’t any other group of people I could this with. None of us are perfect, but when we’re together I know we can get the job done.”

Aaron doesn’t get animated, exactly. His passion is a quiet one, simmering deep within him, right where his heart is. He doesn’t talk with his hands, gesticulate or raise his voice. No, he talks with his eyes. In the way he locks gazes with you, looks up at you from the meal, in the way they crinkle with his little smiles and get warm when he mentions his son.

You’re captivated.

And he gets to know you, too, a little. A lot, really, and you feel like you’re rambling, but you’ve got his full attention, a little smile behind his clasped hands as he listens to you wax poetic about the inherent romanticism of owning your own café.

Well. Not really, but it feels like it comes pretty close to that lecture (a different lecture, for a different time).

After all, it’s your place. It’s a place for the college kids in the mornings and the evenings who suck down your cold brew incessantly. It’s a place for the workers at after sunrise, who just want a quick treat before sitting down and doing real jobs. For the curious in the afternoons, who run their fingers over your bookshelves and sit down for a place to think. It’s a place for the nerdy, and the lazy, and the studious, and the dreamers. It’s yours, and it’s kind of romantic.

“I know it’s not a lot of people’s dreams, to open a café. It’s… childish, as my mother would say,” you tell him. “But it’s more than just a shop to me. It’s owning a business, running something on my own, creating new things for people to try. It’s perfecting my bakes, and now, teaching others to. Coming up with recipes is one of my favorite things, even more than the latte flavor of the month. Giving people a place to come and be comfortable, y’know?”

You’re rambling again, and you find yourself hiding behind a sip of your wine, but he’s nodding. Like he gets it.

“I don’t think it’s childish at all,” he tells you, in a tone that makes your heart swell. “A dream is a dream, isn’t it? We all have them.”

And maybe you’re putting a lot on Aaron Hotchner, but it’s nice to get to know someone who understands, even just a little.

One date turns into two, and then three. They’re spread out, over a couple of weeks, the two of you stealing a few hours when you can. It’s the dating life of two very busy people, but neither of you mind. Each pairing of dinner and drinks is full of life and laughter and a little bit of something else.

You feel so guilty when the next time you’re meant to spend time together, another late evening, has to get pushed back. Aaron had warned you that the first cancellation would probably come from him, but it’s you texting at 5:30, letting him know that your usual closer bailed because of the flu.

It’s not a problem for me to take over, but it means that I’m going to be here until 10:00 or 10:30 cleaning up and prepping the dough for tomorrow morning. :(, you say, and add the frowny face for effect. You prefer them over emojis, just because you can’t draw emojis on coffee cups.

Frowny faces are pretty serious, he quips, but your little chuckle is weak when you read it in between orders.

I’m so, so sorry, I know it’s last minute.

Don’t worry, he texts back, quick as can be. I promise I understand. We’ll just do next week.

You’re sure? I can try and find someone to cover for an hour, at 7:30 or so.

Don’t put that stress on yourself. Next week, and it’ll be extra special to make up for it.

So that’s that. Your heart breaks a little knowing you won’t see him, but his words make you feel a little less guilty. Only marginally, really, but you have other things to focus on, like the onslaught of cleaning that comes after the doors are locked.

At 9:30, you’re sending the last stragglers away, which gets you a late start to cleaning up. Your stomach is rumbling, too, because dinner at your home didn’t end up happening.

But at 10:00, when all seems lost, and you’re realizing that 10:30 is going to be more like 11:00, Aaron’s there.

At first you don’t even realize it’s him. You’re so focused on scrubbing and cleaning the espresso machine that the person standing outside isn’t even a thought. But then your phone buzzes, and when you look over, it’s him, with a bag of something that looks like food.

You going to leave me out in the cold?

You snort at the text, shaking your head, lifting your hands and showing the suds to him through the glass. “Two minutes,” you mouth over, and he smiles at that. At you.

You’re hurrying to wash and dry your hands on the towel at your waist, and when you make your way to the door he hasn’t stopped smiling at you. The door unlocks with a clank, and when you pull it open the cold air rushes in, along with Aaron Hotchner. Of course, it’s hard to acknowledge him, when you can smell what he brought you.

“Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be making it up to you?” you remind him, but there’s something weak in your voice when you feel him pull you into a hug. With it, you feel his lips gently press against your hair.

It’s exactly what you needed. A break, some food, and him. And even though it’s only for a short moment, fifteen minutes while you scarf down what he’s brought you, knowing he was there is what pushes you through the end of the night.

And the fact that Aaron sticks around to stack the chairs, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up?

It helps a little bit, too.

Derek’s embarrassed, but he’s the last to catch on. And only because it’s right in his face.

To be fair, he wasn’t exactly looking. There were other things to worry about, bigger fish to fry, and Hotch’s love life wasn’t exactly top of the list. But Emily mentions the possibility, and then Garcia, and then even Rossi makes a comment that gets him a dirty look from the boss.

Coming together to gossip about Hotch’s love life is at the very least entertaining and watching the team watch their boss becomes Derek’s pastime. Emily swears that he’s always texting someone with a grin on his face, and Garcia informs them of Hotch’s newest mug and his eyes as he did so (yeah, his eyes). Rossi doesn’t play along as much as the others would prefer, but he has a glint in his gaze when they bring it up.

Derek even does his best to spy, peek around corners when he knows Hotch is close, but even with his best efforts, he comes up empty-handed. For a minute, he almost thinks the team is pulling a prank on him, but his girl insists that something’s up.

“Baby, the look on his face. I’ve never seen such a wistful look at an innocuous cup of coffee before.” The two of them are lingering in her office after a long day, his offer of a ride home keeping him behind while she finishes something on her screens.

His snort comes with a shake of his head. “I’d believe it was indigestion at this point, over… what? A fling?”

“It’s Hotch,” Garcia laughs. She reaches up, poking Derek in that arm. “You really think he’s the type of have a fling? No. Whoever it is, they matter, and matter enough that he has not let that mug come off of his desk. He uses it every day, Derek. Every. Day.”

Point taken, but Derek is still skeptical. It’s a coffee mug.

He takes the bait, though. He watches and waits. Observes. But Hotch is often a door that stays closed.

Until everything seems to go to shit one day and he has to open up.

It’s a really bad case, and the jet is a last-minute decision. The whole team thinks they’re going home, after just landing back, and end up with thirty minutes to pack for a plane back to Nashville. Sure, Derek understands, but he has plans he has to cancel, too (plans that Emily teases him relentlessly about once it all calms down). Overall, not the best way to end the week.

Everyone goes to make their respective phone calls, or at least, those that need to. But before Derek can put his phone up to his ear, moving to the conference room for some privacy, he hears him.

Hotch.

He’s just on the other side, and talking softly, but the sudden shift means not much else is happening besides last-minute packing. So Derek hears, and he eavesdrops.

And he listens.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you. I know that there wasn’t any warning –“ Hotch immediately starts, but whoever is on the other end must him off. He follows it up with the slightest hum and it’s… warm. It makes Derek’s eyebrow lift, but he keeps his distance, tries to glance around the corner.

Hotch is sitting, leaning on the edge of the round table. His legs are crossed, and his face is tilted downward. He looks pained, with the furrow in his brow, but the person on the other end seems to be talking sense. After all, Hotch lifts his hand and wipes, and the furrow is gone, and he’s smiling again.

“I know, but. Putting it into practice is still hard for me. Jack… he’s… he’s a strong kid, but I know days like these are the hardest.”

There’s some more words from the person on the other end of the line. Hotch smiles, a small private thing and Derek sees, in that moment, what Penelope means. About it being… different. And in that moment, Hotch is thrown back to Haley, and it looked like for his boss to get to talk to her.

There’s an echo of that here.

“I owe you, really. Jess will come and relieve you as soon as she can… Okay. Thank you, again, and I’ll call you when we land back in Nashville, okay? And if I could talk to Jack, then… Perfect. Okay. Have a good night, yeah?”

Derek’s gone, before Hotch finishes his conversation. His hand is holding his phone up to his ear, walking down towards the stairs. But there’s no one on the other end, and all he can think about is how Penelope is going to say how much she told him so.

Three dates turn into ten. There are dinners and lunches and time stolen when the two of you can. There’s coffee in the mornings and decaf in the evenings. He teases you for it, your downright addiction, but a couple of kisses that taste like French vanilla follow it.

It’s sweet. And you like the way he tastes even without the coffee on his lips.

However, you know it’s more than just sweet dates. There’s layers to Aaron Hotchner, ones that get peeled back alongside yours. It’s opening up to each other, on walks after dinner. Those are good, the two of you, side-by-side, because it’s an even playing field. No bar between the two of you, no coffee shop, no badge. Just. You both.

You tell him about home, and what it meant to leave. He’s seen the impact of your mother, the way she winds you up and leave you hanging, but you tell him about the tan line on your ring finger. The way you were left broken and nowhere to go but away to follow a dream, because the dream was the only lifeline you had left. What else could you do, with a hobby and a throwaway degree in business admin?

He tells you about Haley. About her laugh, about her smile. About the way they would poke and prod and teach each other until the two of them were rolling on the floor. You see how much he loved her, how much he loves her still. And when he talks about Jack, well, there’s nothing that can stop him from absolutely gushing, and you don’t want him to. Seeing this just affirms that Jack’s the luckiest kid in the world to have a father that cares about him so much.

There are layers, to each of you. But like a good chocolate-filled croissant, the insides are worth it.

And you get to meet Jack, and Jess. Finally, it feels like, after hearing so much about each of them. The four of you end up going to the zoo, on a weekend, an outing with Aunt Jess and Dad’s new friend, and by the end of it you’re smitten with all of them. Because Jack gets a lot from his father. A fierce protectiveness, a kind heart, incredible perception, and a love of chocolate ice cream.

“Do you like chocolate?” he asks you, suddenly, as the four of you eat your scoops from the vendor. Hotch and Jess are chatting, so they don’t hear the question.

“I like chocolate a lot,” you tell him. “What about you?”

He seems to ponder it a second, before shrugging, taking a long lick of his cone. “It’s all right. Second favorite to mint chip, but above cookie dough.”

You laugh a little, seeing the logic. “I see. I think if you switch cookie dough and mint chip, we’re on the same page there, buddy.”

He nods. “What about my dad? Where does he go?”

It’s a jump you can’t connect, and you raise a brow at him, stopping in your tracks and Jack doing the same.

“On the list. Of things you like. Where’s Dad go?”

“Oh.” Your cheeks are flushing, and you realize that Jess and Aaron have stopped their conversation, are watching the two of you. But there’s only one true answer, and you smile at him. “Well, he’s at the top of the list, Jack. I really like your dad, and… I hope I can keep spending time with the two of you. And Aunt Jess, of course.”

There’s a beat. Jack takes a long lick of his cone, getting some on his nose, and then shrugs again, a little bashful as he looks at you again.

“Yeah, that’d be cool. I like talking to you. And Aunt Jess doesn’t like chocolate, so I like that you’re on my team.”

You try to ignore the warmth that immediately floods you, especially when you look back behind you and Aaron is watching, his head ducked behind his cone so you can only see the edges of his smile. “I like being on your team, too,” you agree, leaning forward to offer a napkin, and Jess just chuckles, the four of you continuing on your merry way.

Things push forward. And some days are harder than others.

It’s complicated, after all. The more you learn about Aaron’s job, the more you realize how much he gives to it. And some of those days leave him worn down. You do your best to support him, to support all of them. And in return, they do the same for you.

The call comes in the middle of the day, and when you see it’s from Aaron you immediately smile. Your hands are elbow deep in a yeasted dough you’re kneading for fresh cinnamon rolls, but you’re able to lean down and answer it with your nose.

“Just a second, sweetheart.” You pull your hands from the mess, move to lift your phone to your shoulder and trap it with your ear. You feel a crick in your neck immediately, but it’s worth it. “Hey, sorry. I’m at the shop. Didn’t want to put you on speaker.”

“It’s okay,” he returns, and he sounds tired. Even in two words, it seems like he has to take a breath, to steady himself. “How’s the day going?”

You shrug, humming as you continue to work the ball of dough under your knuckles. “It’s all right. Ashley is running the register and Ben’s helping her work the front. They’re doing a good job. Makes it easy to focus on the good stuff.”

Aaron chuckles, just a little. It’s reserved. “You should bring some samples home to Jack, then. He loves taste-testing for you.”

There’s a pause, both in your hands and your response.

“Just Jack, then.”

His breath comes out again. Long and low. “Yeah. The case… we thought we had it solved, and then. Something came up. We’re flying back again, waiting for the jet to refuel.”

You know what that means. Even if he doesn’t often tell you, directly, outright, you know that it means another body. Another life lost. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I had already called Jess, told her I’d be picking up Jack. Would you mind going to get him? I don’t want to jerk her around.”

“Of course.” It’s immediate, and you glance at your watch, blowing off remnants of flour. “He gets out at 4:00?”

“Yeah. I’m so sorry to do this to you, I know there wasn’t any warning –“

You click your tongue. “It’s not a problem. You know that. Besides, this dough rests overnight, and I can do some experimenting using your incredible oven, hmm?”

Aaron just lets out a little chuckle. There seems to be some relief there, but you can’t tell right away. “I know, but. Putting it into practice is still hard for me. Jack… he’s… he’s a strong kid, but I know days like these are the hardest.”

You nod, giving your neck a little stretch as you lift your shoulder to carry the load of the phone. “I know. It’s hard for him, and for you. But it’ll work out, okay? Just promise me you’ll be safe, for all of us.”

“I owe you, really,” he tells you. “Jess will come and relieve you as soon as she can…”

“She doesn’t need to rush. We’ve got it.”

And with that, you know it’s a load off of his mind. One you can take from him. “Okay. Thank you, again, and I’ll call you when we land back in Nashville, okay? And if I could talk to Jack, then…”

“I’ll make sure he’s available,” you reassure him, and his little sigh is… just what you needed to hear. To know that his head will be where it needs to be when he flies.

“Perfect. Okay. Have a good day, yeah?”

“I will. I love you.”

It comes out. Automatically. Your hands stop working again, and you feel color on your cheeks. Aaron doesn’t say anything either, and the two of you seem to sit in a kind of dangerous limbo.

But then he just chuckles. A sound on the receiver, like he’s standing to his feet. “I love you, too.”

“Be safe.”

It’s a gentle farewell, and you can’t help but stare at your phone as it resumes its place on the countertop, staring at the screensaver you have. The two of you, and Jack, looking up at the camera.

It works. It’s complicated, and comes from nowhere, but it works. The three of you, working together to build something special. You’ll never replace Haley, but you don’t to. It’s new, and brilliant, and happy, and you find that you have another dream taking shape, one that has the Hotchners front and center.

(And Reid? Well.

Spencer’s not unaware. Spencer actually puts all of the pieces together before almost anyone else, including your identity.

“I think you’ll find that I’m what you would call perceptive. Very perceptive.”

That’s what he says to Derek, at least, when he asks him how he already knew who the mystery date was. Dave offers Hotch a plus-one to a night over at the Rossi mansion for the team and their significant others, and Hotch actually takes him up on it. That’s when they meet you, for the first time, but Reid’s the only one who doesn’t seem to be surprised who walks through the door.

But no one else has been to the coffee shop that’s on the mug, or has seen the person that Hotch has been texting and calling, and… well.

Spencer has had the pleasure of doing both all in one morning. Because next to the coffee shop you work at is a bookstore specializing in rare editions, and one day Spencer decides to go before work.

He adds a little eyebrow wiggle to his words for Derek’s sake, too, which gets him punched in the shoulder.

It’s worth it.)

“You didn’t have to bring me breakfast,” you tell him, crossing your arms over your chest.

It’s a little firm, especially since you now know that Aaron’s drives have been fifteen minutes longer to stop at your place. The direct route to the FBI Headquarters breezes right by you, and getting off and stopping is definitely out of the way.

But he doesn’t care. And truly you don’t, when it’s him and you realize that the bag he has contains one warm sausage roll, and a glazed donut, fresh from the shop by his place. that melts when you bite into it. “I know you didn’t eat anything, and you hate trying to snack on the stuff you have yet to sell in the morning,” he says. Shrugging, as if it’s that simple, because to him, it is. “And I wanted to.”

“Did you get something for yourself, too?” you ask him.

“I wasn’t the one who had to leave in a hurry, was I?” he teases. His eyes are deep and dark, and you get caught in them when you catch his meaning.

Your face turns a crimson that he smirks at, leans forward to make it brighter with a kiss on your cheek. “Well, I wasn’t the one who was insisting on some last minute… affection,” you shoot back, but all that elicits is a low chuckle from him, all bass and gravel. “Besides, Mr. Profiler – question with a question. You didn’t eat, did you?”

He doesn’t answer, choosing instead to lean against the countertop you’re sitting on, watching as you pull out the two treats and placing them on some napkins you have right at the front. But his non-answer is definitely a ‘no,’ and you give him a look.

“One day I’m going to teach you to take care of yourself as well as you take care of others, okay? Here. We’ll split ‘em.”

You snag a plastic knife, and get to work, and soon there are two perfectly portioned plates of pastry in front of the two of you. It’s early enough that customers aren’t exactly a problem, and so you don’t feel guilty sitting on the counter when you know you’ll wipe it down, or leaning down to kiss some glaze off of his lips since there’s no one to see or an order to distract you from.

Of course, neither of you notice the eyes that happen to glance in the window. Not when Hotch is standing between your legs, facing away from the glass, and not when you pull back just to look into his eyes, and in the end it doesn’t matter that a tall and lanky fellow profiler managed to sneak a peek.

Because that’s when you start to feel that your luck has really changed. The early morning before the workday, when the world just starts to come alive. There, in your shop, before the sign has even been flipped to open.

And there, in your coffee shop, as you sit on the counter, you realize that Aaron-with-two-As, standing between your legs, could possibly be the love of your life after all.

tag list: @emilyxprentiss // @genevievedarcygranger // @quillvine // @falcon-arrows // @afuckingshituniverse // @sercyan // @sparklingkeylimepie // @kianagilder-blog // @alexxcorona113 // @mandyandy22 // @thedeaddrop // @angelsbabey // @lolychu // @icyprincess // @gabbygabbie // @cevanswhre // @roses-and-grasses // @mayaaaa // @baadmaxx // @ssaic-jareau // @mooneylupinblack // @rachelxwayne // @greenie128 // @dilaudidwinchester // @stylesboy // @grandpascurtains // @softbibxtch // @winterscaptain // @hurricanejjareau

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #gender neutral reader #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #david rossi #derek morgan #spencer reid #fluff #coffee shop au

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roguefreyja · 5 years

Text

Winner Names Her Prize | Sera/Leliana

Rating: Explicit

read at AO3

______

Skyhold feels empty. The Inquisitor is gone. Taken the best of them with her, but left Sera behind this time, something about rest being important. Only Sera doesn’t feel very rested—more like restless. It’s only been a few days, and she’s already sick of practicing in the training yard, bored of hanging around the tavern; she even managed a failed prank on Cassandra that was an utter disappointment, and a waste of perfectly good pudding. She sets her bow to the side with a huff and goes to retrieve her arrows from the targets in the yard, and the one that carried too far to the left and landed in the dirt. There’s a bit of a scuffle behind her, hushed voices and the sound of heavy boots. She swears it’s Cassandra, or was Cassandra, but by the time she turns around it’s only Leliana, and the armory door falling shut a few feet from her. “She is unbearable sometimes.” Leliana sighs, and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose briefly. Her candor makes Sera snicker—she isn’t wrong—and Leliana smiles. It’s a rare sight, and though Sera has been privileged to it before, it never fails to elicit a small thrill in her, like being let in on a really good secret. It’s not like Leliana is especially approachable, and yet, she has a way with Sera that she can only think to describe as soft. She’s only ever seen her like that with Josie, and once, Cassandra, but to be privileged to it herself is strangely satisfying. “Do you want to have a go with me?” Sera waves an arrow in a vague gesture, catches a flicker of curiosity in the way Leliana looks at her. “A little fun to take your mind off it?” “Pardon?”

“You’re good, I know. Everybody knows. I’m good too, yeah? Fancy we see who would win between us?” She waggles the arrow again, nods over her shoulder toward the targets. “You—” Leliana blinks, recognition sweeping over her expression. “You want to challenge me?” “Is that a problem?” Sera nearly laughs, but she bites it back. Leliana’s surprise is genuine and a little amusing, if she’s honest, but, she’s seen how others act around her. She’s probably not used to getting invited for a bit of fun—the thought suddenly doesn’t seem so funny, and Sera’s mouth twitches with a frown. “No, no. Let’s see... three rounds on these?” Leliana points to the three targets in the middle of the yard. She pauses, considering them for a moment. When she turns back to Sera, she seems lighter than just moments before. Maybe it’s the way the sun catches her hair, bright and hot, the way it plays against the glint in her eyes when she speaks. “Winner names her prize. How is that?” “A prize?” Sera giggles, half because the way Leliana says it sounds suggestive, and half because the suggestion makes her stomach flutter with nerves. It seems unlikely, it’d be mad—but she presses it anyway, just a little, just to see what happens. “Like what?” Leliana shrugs nonchalantly, but Sera swears there’s mischief in her eyes. “Anything you like.” A cheeky little half-smile. Sera feels her cheeks prick with heat at the notion of it all, the way Leliana holds her gaze. “Although I will need my bow.” Leliana glances over her shoulder abruptly, up at the windows of the rookery and the angle of the sun overhead, as if nothing just happened. But Sera had felt that, she wasn’t just imagining what was right in front of her. Her mind drifts back to all the shared looks between them that she catalogued in her memory, the comments that seemed like innuendo but which Sera had convinced herself must be otherwise, the times when she had felt Leliana’s eyes on her and only her when she came to the tavern late at night, alone—the realization is as the final pin of a lock clicking into place, undone. Maybe Leliana hasn’t been keeping tabs on her at all, at least, not in the Lady Nightingale, Spymaster of the Inquisition way that she expected from her. Maybe it’s been something much more personal. The idea makes her feel suddenly warm. “Shall we meet here in two hours? You may need to practice beforehand.” Leliana deadpans with a precision that Sera finds terribly attractive. “Oh, you’re—” She almost chokes on a laugh. She’s not sure she’s ever seen Leliana like this, and there’s a strange delight at playing a part in it. “Yeah, alright, I’ll just be practicing.” She draws out the word, sarcasm more than obvious. “Don’t keep me waiting, you.” “I wouldn’t dare.”

______

Three arrows left, and they’re tied. Sera’s not surprised, but she’s not sure how to angle it to win, either. Maybe she actually should have practiced. She cracks her knuckles absently and narrows her eyes at the targets in front of her, as if they’re any different now than they were in the last round. “Would you like some?” Leliana’s voice cuts through her concentration. “What—” Sera blinks out of her own daze. Leliana holds a peach out toward her with a single, evenly shaped bite torn from the pretty ripe blush of the fruit. She raises an eyebrow in suspicion, but Leliana doesn’t falter. “Are you trying to distract me?” “Is it working?” Leliana smiles at her, coy as ever. The peach looks juicy, even from a distance, and Sera can almost taste it at the thought of taking a bite. “Pfft.” She shifts uneasily, focuses instead on setting all her arrows upright and trying to ignore the creeping heat in her cheeks. Maybe it is distracting, but she isn’t about to admit out loud that the way Leliana takes another bite out of that fruit is suggestive—not even accounting for what happened earlier, and especially not accounting for the satisfied little sound Leliana makes when she starts chewing. Or the way she brushes her thumb just below the pout of her lower lip to catch the errant juice that lingers there. Sera tries to shake it off, to not think long on the shape of Leliana’s mouth, the imagined softness of her lips—as if it were even the first time. She scuffs her boot against the dirt, picks up her bow again with a huff. “If you need to distract me to win, go ahead, I s’pose.” “Ah, well.” Leliana seems pleased, despite the accusation. “Perhaps you should be more careful about how loudly you share your trade secrets. Particularly this one. I knew I was not alone in the sentiment, but—” She chuckles under her breath, eyes lighting up when she looks at Sera again. “Well, it seems you were right.” Sera’s ears burn. Her cheeks too. She remembers a few nights ago, in the tavern over beer, when she was going on about peaches, ripe peaches—how eating them was a lot like something else that she rather enjoyed eating, before she and the Inquisitor were both snorting with laughter. That Leliana somehow overheard that is not all that surprising, but that she’s turning it back around on Sera is something else entirely. Something that makes her head feel fuzzy when she feels Leliana’s eyes on her. “Ruffles was right about you.” She doesn’t mean to say with such admiration, to reveal her hand so blatantly, but she lets it lay. Channels her energy into her bow instead, gives herself a second to be distracted by the bite of the draw against her fingers. The arrow lands just left of center. “Josie?” Leliana sounds surprised. “Yeah. Said you were a proper tease. She warned me, too—something about a measuring stick, or, was it... anyway, I don’t know what you did, but she was going on.” Sera draws again, finds an outlet for her nerves in that familiar motion. This time, the arrow strikes dead center. “I didn’t believe her then. Should have known you keep the fun bits hidden, too. Spymasters aren’t s’posed to be fun, right? Not supposed to be pretty, either? Only scary, I get it.” She feels a rush of warmth after she says it, a thrill that hums in her chest. As she draws her final arrow, she glances over at Leliana. Even cloaked in the shade of the armory, she can make out that her words land with effect. The anticipation hanging between them is certain now, heavy in a way that makes her stomach twist, makes her want to keep talking—her aim falters, and the last arrow strikes a good hands-breadth away from the bullseye. “What I mean is, it’s nice—all that. You. I mean, really you, not just some title, yeah? And—” Sera lets out a heavy breath that verges on a giggle, rife with nervous energy. She gestures to the target instead. “Anyway, you win, Peaches.” “I—“ Leliana looks a bit disarmed, but even that is not without grace. A flicker of something unmasked, but she doesn’t fumble long. “Well matched. Thank you.” “Fair’s fair, right?” Sera shakes her head, almost to herself—her heart still thuds loudly in her chest, a reminder of what faltered her aim. Odds are she was a better flirt before the realization that Leliana was flirting too, before her offhand crush became something suddenly so present and palpable and so devastatingly good-looking while aiming a bow. “So, do you know what you want?” That garners a smirk from Leliana. Winner names her prize, as she had put it. “I do.” Leliana holds Sera’s eyes for a moment, as if considering her answer, considering her, before she continues. “You know the parapets above the garden, yes? Meet me there this evening, just after dinner.”

______

“Ah, good, you’ve found me.” Leliana smiles, something radiant even in the dim light of the evening. She doesn’t wear a stitch of her usual armor—only a simple light top with buttons down the middle, and dark trousers tucked into her boots. It’s plain in a way that’s surprisingly flattering, lends a sort of ordinary vulnerability to her that Sera hadn’t ever noticed before. Leliana stands to greet her, to kiss her cheek, she thinks, yet nearly misses—her lips graze the corner of Sera’s mouth instead. It’s brief, soft, yet so palpably charged that Sera feels flushed when Leliana steps back to sit down. If Leliana notices, she doesn’t let on. “So, we’re…” Sera swallows against the feeling in her stomach—butterflies always sounded pish and frilly to her, but, it’s apt. There are a few lanterns, a quilted blanket laid on the stone where Leliana sits, and next to her a basket, too dark to see its contents other than the top of a bottle that protrudes from it. “We’re having a picnic? At night?” She can’t help but sound a bit incredulous, having regained some of her composure. “That’s your prize?” It’s not a bad idea, but it’s not exactly anything she would have expected, either. She moves to sit across from Leliana, and stretches her legs out over the blanket. “Of sorts.” Leliana laughs. “I wanted to do something we might both enjoy. And truthfully—” She reaches to pull the bottle from the basket—wine. “It’s been quite a while since I have been able to enjoy a proper date, if you don’t mind indulging me. I couldn’t ask for better company.” “Me?” Sera giggles. The mere idea makes her chest fill with warmth, something soft feeling. “You put together all these nice things, and you just want me to be here? That’s not—” She shakes her head, flashes a grin. “You’ve got a funny way about you.” “Is that a yes, then?” “Yeah it is.” Sera takes the wine bottle from her and pulls a knife from her boot, pushes it into the cork so she can twist it out. “Hard to imagine you not getting a date, innit?” “Hardly.” Leliana laughs, a sweet, girlish sound, but there’s a twinge of something darker there. “I suppose I have been busy.” She retrieves two empty jam jars from the basket—sturdy enough to travel, handy enough for drinking from, and sets them down. Sera follows with wine, filling the jars halfway. “What’s the point in staying so busy that you forget to enjoy yourself? Or… other women.” Her eyes flit up to meet Leliana’s, to gauge her response—her kittenish smirk is almost smug. "C’est la vie.” Leliana lifts her glass to meet Sera’s, and the jars make a satisfying clink when they touch. When she speaks again, her voice is like warm honey. “You are very good at reminding me of that, you know.” “Oh—” Sera’s eyes linger on the curve of Leliana’s throat, the line of her collarbone just there, exposed by the top few buttons of her shirt that lay open. Her armor reveals nothing in comparison, but this—Sera gulps her wine in an attempt to keep her eyes from roaming further. “What’s that?” “Josie is always pestering me to relax, to take time—when things are dark, that is easier said than done. But I’m sure you would agree, there’s nothing quite like a charming—“ Leliana shifts, and her fingers brush Sera’s where her hand rests on the blanket. She is acutely aware of the coolness of Leliana’s skin, the slender curve of her fingers against her own, the way her heart rate has jumped madly. “—beautiful woman to remind you of the light in the simplest things. A look, a touch.” “Forgive me if I’ve misunderstood.” Leliana leans forward, narrowing the space between them until Sera can feel her breath on her skin, can make out the faintest of freckles that spill over the bridge of her nose. When Leliana’s lips brush against her own, her eyes flutter shut. It’s slow and impossibly soft, overwhelming. Up close, she smells of incense—not the kind the Chantry uses, but the kind sold in the alleys of Orlais, familiar, smokey, and sweet. It mingles with something heady and floral on her skin, seeps into Sera’s senses in a warm, dizzying way. They kiss again before Leliana starts to pull away, hesitates, in case she misread, Sera thinks. But Sera catches her, threads her fingers into the softness of Leliana’s hair, draws her close again. “You haven’t.” She murmurs, and Leliana nearly moans in response, a faint sound that buzzes against Sera’s mouth. The sweet spice of wine lingers on her lips, and when their tongues meet it’s soft, shameless in a way that makes Sera sigh, sparks a familiar, persistent heat low in her belly. Leliana kisses with the same sort of poise that inhabits everything she does. The same that Sera always found so captivating—only here, up close, it sends a thrill up her spine. There’s a sort of brazen, unhurried thoroughness to the way Leliana explores her mouth, and Sera finds herself easily following her lead. Her own hands wander, slipping from Leliana’s hair to the warm curve of her neck instead, along the crest of her hip. She lets her fingertips map the shapes that make Leliana, the places that make her breath catch, or hum soft in her throat. She doesn’t know how long they spend like that—long enough that she feels almost lightheaded, that when they part, finally, the night air is cold against her skin. Sobering in comparison to the heat that remains between them, that simmers just under the surface of the look they share. Leliana smiles, something coy and strangely intimate that strikes Sera at her core, makes her downright blush. “Well… wow.” Sera lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, nearly giggles to match the feeling in her chest. “You know, you have the most charming dimples.” Leliana says it without pretense, a delighted observation, and Sera feels that in her chest too, warm and light. “You’re all honey and butter, aren’t you?” Sera leans closer, nearly grinning. “Soft underneath... think I like that.” “Oh?” Leliana’s eyes light up, the sort of reaction that can’t be tempered up close. “We should do this again sometime, yeah?” Sera’s voice comes out barely more than a whisper, huskier than intended, but she can’t help herself. All around them the air feels heady, alive, and the way Leliana’s still absently touching her knee makes her whole body tingle. “I would like that.” Leliana practically purrs, and Sera wonders if the tremble of excitement she feels ripple through her is palpable. “How about now, then?” Leliana moves her hand over the top of Sera’s and lifts it, reaching up to cup Sera’s palm against her breast. The shape of her beneath Sera’s fingertips fills her hand just so, with a weight that sets her mind swimming with imaginings of what’s underneath Leliana’s clothing. Even despite the fabric between their skin, her nipple stiffens against Sera’s palm, making it very clear how this—how she—effects Leliana. “Now’s good.” She breathes, and finds herself leaning closer still. To her surprise, Leliana turns her head, instead presses one kiss, then another, hot across Sera’s cheek. “Will you come to my room? Surely it’s more comfortable.“ Leliana shifts, murmurs sweetly against Sera’s ear. Her fingertips dip below the waistband of Sera’s clothing to caress her stomach, just beside the sharp line of her hipbone. “Shit—“ Sera nearly hisses at the sensation. Leliana’s hands are soft, calloused and steady, and she makes a satisfied sound when Sera reacts, almost a chuckle under her breath. “Just here.” Leliana sits back and nods to gesture at the door to their left, just behind Sera’s shoulder.

______

She’s not sure she notices much about Leliana’s room—it smells like her, and like the fire that crackles in the hearth, pleasingly warm compared to the air outside. She’s struck, instead, by Leliana, by the image of her as she kicks off her boots, shifts her hips so that her unbuttoned trousers slide down until they bunch at her knees, and then she kicks them off too. The firelight licks at her figure, throws shadow and light at odds across the muscle of her thighs. Sera’s eyes are drawn to where the tails of Leliana’s shirt sweep up, exposing the pale curve of her hips. “That’s better.” Leliana seems soft here, beneath the layers of armor and shadows, soft in that unexplainable way that Sera had always felt around her. But when they kiss again, it’s anything but soft. It’s heated, eager, consuming. Leliana is taller than her, even without her boots—she’s noticed before, but it feels all the more apparent now, nearly naked and up close, as she tilts her chin up to lick against her mouth. Her hands skim up Leliana’s thighs, drawn to the newly bared parts of her. It’s easy to undo the rest of the buttons of Leliana’s top, to slip her hands beneath the fabric and really feel her, the way her hips curve in toward her waist, the softness of her stomach that betrays the muscle beneath. She shapes her hands to the swell of Leliana’s breasts, catches one nipple between her thumb and forefinger. “Much better.” Sera murmurs. She nips at Leliana’s lower lip, moves to her throat, testing the spot just above her collarbone first. Then along her neck, and the soft place just below her ear, and Leliana’s breath hitches beautifully. She’s reactive in a way that Sera finds entirely thrilling, intoxicating. “Give me this.” Leliana’s breath ghosts against Sera’s ear. Her hands skim beneath her top, sending a shiver down the back of her neck. She tugs the hem of the garment up hastily, and they continue in this way, a tangle of limbs and eager hands until there is little left between them but skin. The thought makes something in Sera quiver, and she presses closer against Leliana, sucks in a breath at the feel of so much skin against skin, of Leliana’s breasts against her own. The back of her knees bump against something soft—the bed—and she stumbles before Leliana presses her onto it. Presses her weight against Sera’s hips, and the warmth of her naked thighs against Sera’s own. It floods Sera’s senses all at once, pricks goosebumps along her forearms. But it’s the slow, trickling recognition that Leliana had some semblance of a plan all along—not just to lead her to her bed right here and now, but to spend the evening with her, with wine, to kiss her, to perhaps take her to bed—that makes her body flush hot. “Kind of bossy, hmm?” Sera teases, diverts her mind from the cascade of thoughts, from the insistent heat between her legs. Leliana pauses at that, raises an eyebrow. “I am not.” Despite the scowl that tugs at the corner of Leliana’s mouth, she looks amused. “Oh no, it’s a compliment, yeah? I mean, it’s cute, really. I’d take orders from you better than anyone...” Sera trails off, mind wandering. She’s not one to take to being bossed around, but there’s something about Leliana, and that honey warm voice of hers, in this context—she gives a shake of her head, blinks back into focus. Leliana hovers over her still, all curves and shadow in the low light. She looks almost smug. “Come here, then.” She takes Sera’s hands in her own, tugs her forward. “You’re still doing it.” Sera quips. “Mmn,” Leliana hums, shakes her head. She pulls Sera on top of her when she sinks back against the bed, shifts her hips up to meet Sera’s thigh as their bodies find how they fit together. “I won’t tell you what to do. I am sure you are... quite capable.” Sera sputters. Leliana is warm against her thigh, and the way she presses her hips to her ghosts wetness over her skin. Her cheeks flush. “Do I make you nervous?” Leliana’s still smiling, that amused little expression that by now feels almost familiar, comfortable. “It’s not that.” Sera chuckles, almost under her breath, swallows thickly. “It’s... you’re gorgeous, and wet and...” Her eyes flick downward, following the curve of Leliana’s breasts, the flushed perk of her nipples. She follows the same path with her mouth seconds later, and when she licks against Leliana, teases her lips over her nipple and draws her into her mouth, Leliana hums in satisfaction and drags her fingernails up the shape of Sera’s spine. She plays her tongue over the stiff point and Leliana rolls her hips upward, presses herself into Sera with a shuddering sigh. Sera drags her mouth over the space between Leliana’s breasts, trails a zigzag of wet kisses along the underside of the other. She covers Leliana’s nipple with her mouth, laves her tongue against her, and the sound Leliana makes then is enough to make her ache—as if she wasn't already. “Sensitive?” Sera smirks, catching Leliana’s eyes. “Mm, I—” Leliana buries her fingers in Sera’s hair, arches into her when Sera’s teeth tug at her nipple. “Yes.” The scrape of Leliana’s fingernails at the base of her scalp tingles all the way down the back of her neck and into her shoulders, makes her stomach flutter with a heady mix of anticipation and desire. When she looks up and catches Leliana’s eyes, her pupils are wide, her eyelids heavy with desire. Everything feels fuzzy, electric even. She’s acutely aware of her own arousal, momentarily, as she traces her mouth over the length of Leliana’s stomach, of the ache in her clit when she licks at the hollow of Leliana’s hip and loops her arm around her thigh, splays the fingertips of her other hand over the soft curve of her stomach. She even presses her hips into the bed when she dips her head to kiss against Leliana’s inner thigh, and the pressure is almost satisfying. But it doesn’t matter right now. “Hm, cute.” Sera murmurs. Leliana is flushed pink here too; even more rosy than the blush that settled into her cheeks when Sera had first kissed her neck, that lingers there still. Leliana giggles, a quiet sound that borders on lewd, and threads her fingers through Sera’s hair. Sera keeps her eyes on Leliana when she dips her head, licks against her. She laps her tongue, slow, through the slick of her, traces the way her lips pout open, swollen with arousal. “Oh...” Leliana shivers, lets out a heavy breath. “Alright?” Sera smirks, glances up. “Yes, very. More than...” Leliana trails off, hums low in her throat when Sera’s tongue dips against her, licks the shape of her back up to her clit. She slicks her arousal through her folds like honey, kisses against her, and Leliana tangles her fingers further into Sera’s hair, presses back into the bed. Sera can’t help the hum of appreciation, the arousal that buzzes through her at the feel of Leliana, like this—sweet and tang in her mouth, slick against her chin and where her nose presses against her. She dips her head, licks down and then back up the length of Leliana’s cunt, feels the shiver that sends through her hips with a groan of her own. Leliana is hot against her mouth, and her own body aches in response, throbs for attention. She circles her tongue around Leliana’s clit, envelops the swollen bud between her lips. Slides her hand up, fingertips skimming over Leliana’s stomach, to fit against the angle of her hips and hold her to her mouth. Stretched out beneath her, Leliana practically glows—surely a trick of the firelight, but it’s no less mesmerizing. She is pale and soft, interrupted by sharper angles only at her collarbones, elbows, the lines of her hip bones, with freckles like cinnamon spilled across her shoulders. The scar that runs an angry, jagged line just beside her ribs is as pretty as it is cruel-looking, Sera thinks, and curious, though she knows better than to linger in unknown territories. Leliana flushes easily, she finds, a pretty rosebud color that has worked its way down her throat and across her chest. Sera can’t quite reach that high, so she cups her fingers over the lower half of Leliana’s breast, plays her fingertips over her nipple. She mimics the movement with her tongue—soft, teasing flutters against Leliana’s clit. “Sera—ah—” Leliana’s hips jerk, and the sound of her name, like that, tickles down Sera’s spine, makes the muscles within her tighten with pleasure. It takes a moment for her to realize what has happened. Leliana’s grip in her hair loosens, and when Sera licks against her again she makes a strangled sort of whimpering sound, shifts her hips away from her. “Did you just...” Sera pauses, smug, and presses her cheek to Leliana’s thigh to stifle her grin. Leliana is flushed and disheveled and beautiful. “Come here.” Leliana hums contentedly; the lazy, cat-like grin gives her away. Sera leans into the reach of Leliana’s hands, finds herself drawn into a slow, searing kiss. Finds Leliana isn’t shy about tasting herself on Sera’s lips afterward, licking into her mouth with an eagerness that sears heat down to her belly. “That was fast.” Sera smirks, breathless. She can’t help herself. “Mm, you are very good at that.” Leliana murmurs, catches Sera’s eyes. She captures Sera's wrist in her fingers, and rather deftly pins Sera back against the pillows, straddles her with her knees tucked astride Sera’s hips. Leaning over her, she kisses the inside of Sera’s wrist, drags her mouth to her palm, then shifts. She traces the line of Sera’s jaw with her thumb, wipes it across the wetness that still lingers on Sera’s chin with a smirk. “And your hands? They are pretty and capable, and, I imagine, also clever... no?” “You’ve thought about my hands?” That earns a giggle from Sera. She reaches up toward Leliana’s hips, runs her hands down the length of her thighs and back up, fingernails grazing her skin. Leliana makes a quiet sound, a barely contained shiver at the touch, and smiles. There’s something mischievous to the way she looks at her, if not naughty, and it makes Sera’s stomach flutter. “You were the one who picked all the locks in Haven’s chantry basement, were you not?” Leliana reaches for Sera’s hand, lifts it to graze her lips against the knuckles. “The one who helped mend clothing for the refugees at the Crossroads? Who nicked Josephine’s underthings, then hid them in my bureau?” That earns an amused smirk. “I admit, my mind wanders.” The way Leliana looks at her makes Sera’s heart race, some heady combination of sentiment and desire that is both unnerving and exciting. Leliana kisses the pad of Sera’s thumb, leans into the way Sera traces her finger over her lower lip. She doesn’t expect Leliana to part her lips, to feel a hint of the warm, wet of the inside of her mouth against her skin, a ticklish graze of her teeth. It’s non-committal—a tease, or testing the waters, but Sera flushes, and Leliana notices. “Oh.” Leliana’s mouth closes around her fingers then, soft and wet and warm. Her lips nearly brush the last knuckles of Sera’s middle and index fingers before she draws back, slow. Drags her tongue over the sensitive pad of her fingertips, then her teeth, ever so lightly. “Andraste’s tits, that’s—” Leliana has her by the wrist, guides her now wet fingers down between them, tucking Sera’s hand between her legs. Sera’s head swims. She reaches forward instinctively and steadies her free hand at Leliana’s waist, grazes her lips against her collarbone. Leliana’s mouth brushes her ear. “May I?” Her breath is hot against Sera’s skin, as hot as the wet that slicks Sera’s fingertips where Leliana presses them to herself. The formality feels somehow even more filthy, and Sera makes a choked sound, nods into the curve of Leliana’s shoulder. “Yes, please.” The way Leliana holds her wrist renders her immobile, so Sera finds herself gripping the curve of Leliana’s ass with her other hand, steadying herself. Her breath catches when Leliana sinks against her, eagerly buries her index and middle fingers down to the last knuckle. She is wet and hot, and she shudders against Sera, breathes heavy against her hair. Leliana’s grip leaves her wrist, caresses her bicep, her shoulder, then higher, her fingertips against Sera’s jaw to tilt her chin up. She kisses Leliana, swallows the sound she makes when she pulls her wrist back, then presses forward, fingers filling her again. Moisture tickles against her palm, slicks against her thigh when Leliana presses into her, makes her knuckles bump against herself. She moves slow, rolls her hips against Sera with a deliberation that she finds mesmerizing, given her own tendency to rush her desires. She curls her fingers into Leliana, delights in the tremble that ripples through her, the quiver of muscles that follows. Leliana smiles, the faintest quirk of her lips, and hums a satisfied sound like a purr. “My imagination was lacking, it seems.” "Better when it’s the real thing.” Sera can’t help but snicker. Nevermind the fact that Leliana is saying she has thought about Sera, and like this. Nevermind that, because if Sera thinks about it too much, it makes her feel more than a little dizzy. “Daydreams don’t ask you if you want it slow, 'til you're shaking, or...” She trails off, notices the way Leliana’s cheeks flush. “I am already.” Leliana says it with another roll of her hips, and Sera can feel the way her body trembles against her own. She kisses her, tugs at Leliana’s lower lip with her teeth, murmurs against her mouth. “What do you want now?” “More.” The request is barely a sigh against her lips. She slips her fingers from Leliana, adds another to tease through the slick of her. Pauses at her clit and circles it with her fingertips, slow and steady, until Leliana moans low in her throat. “Like this?” Sera finds her cunt again and presses three fingertips into her, only just. “Yes—“ Leliana nods once, bites at Sera’s lower lip when she kisses her, and Sera slides the full length of her fingers into her. “Yes.” Leliana is tight around her, each movement bringing a flutter of muscle that hugs her fingers. “Merde—“ The swear is nearly a growl, and Leliana hitches her hips toward her. Leliana’s eyelids flutter, even as Sera withdraws her fingers, so she thrusts again, and the wet sounds she is rewarded with make her grin. This time Leliana gasps and grips against Sera’s shoulder, so she does it again. And again. Sera loses herself in the movement, burying her fingers with each push of their bodies together, loses herself in the wet heat of Leliana, the salt of her skin against her mouth, the way she digs her fingernails against her shoulder blades. There’s something religious to it for her. Not in a way the Chantry would ever preach, but she feels it, no matter. Wonders if Leliana feels it too. She is breathless, grips tight in Sera’s hair in a way that makes her eyes water, but she doesn’t mind. This time when Leliana comes, it’s no surprise. Sera can feel it in the tremble of her thighs, the way the tension builds and coils within her, can hear it in the hitch of her breathing around every moan and sigh. She bares her teeth to Leliana’s throat, no matter the mark it may leave, because when she does it Leliana’s hips jerk hungrily. “Oh, I—” Leliana’s palm smacks flat against the headboard of the bed just behind Sera’s ear, steady, just before her body goes taut—she comes hard, tensing and flexing around Sera’s fingers with a ferocity that surprises her. Sera smiles into the curve of her neck, drags the blunt of her fingernails up the shape of Leliana’s spine. She presses lingering kisses along her throat, her collarbone, coaxing out what remaining pleasure she can with her fingers. Leliana sinks against her, seeks out her lips with a satisfied hum—she kisses her like before, consuming, hot, but slower now, more measured. When they part, Leliana slinks from Sera’s lap to flop down onto the bed with a drawn out sigh. “Mm, tell me why we didn’t do this sooner?” “Oh, right, because you're easy to read.” Sera makes a disbelieving sound, and Leliana snickers. Leliana skims her fingertips over the top of Sera’s thigh, through the wet that escaped and dripped onto her skin while she was straddling her lap. “Did you not receive my notes?” Sera just blinks at her. They rarely exchanged notes. A few times she used Leliana’s messengers to ask her for things—black market sort of things, things she knew no one else would understand. “Delightful, even more so when warmed and wet. Curious to try with a partner.” “You did—“ Sera feels her cheeks go hot, a flush that trickles down to her core. She once asked for toys, the adult kind, and received a tattered-looking catalogue instead. ‘Too personal to assume. Let me know. - L’ was on a notecard tucked inside the front cover. The rest of the pages were littered with handwritten notes in the margins—reviews, almost, personal takes on the items, and some detailed to a degree that Sera referenced them later, alone, with just her thoughts and her bed. “You know that I used some of those to… well, you—“ “I did too.” Leliana looks delighted, almost smug. “Do you enjoy morning sex?” “What?” Sera’s barely recovered from the first question, let alone prepared for this. “Perhaps you’d like to stay the night, and I can wake you properly in the morning? I feel I can hardly move, thanks to you.” Leliana’s wit is as quick as ever, but there’s a laziness to her manner of speaking that is new to Sera; evidence of her exhaustion, apparently. It’s cute. It’s Sera’s turn to look smug. “Did I wear you out?” “Quite completely.” Leliana smiles at her, and the plainness of the admission strikes Sera in a way she doesn’t expect. There’s a warmth settling in her chest, a fondness for this easy banter, the satisfying sex. “But I don’t intend to be a selfish lover.” Sera chuckles and moves to lay beside Leliana, instinctively draping her arm over her stomach. She freezes for a moment, thinks maybe she should have asked first, but Leliana interrupts her thoughts with a happy sound, presses closer to her and reaches to lay her hand over Sera’s arm. “I’d love to stay, yeah?” Leliana’s smile goes wide, and she closes her eyes. “Mm, you are very cute.” She nuzzles into the space just below Sera’s jaw, presses a kiss there and murmurs against her skin. “Sweet dreams, chérie. I can hardly wait to taste you.” Sera blinks her eyes open in surprise, but Leliana doesn’t stir. She shakes her head with a smirk, and hugs Leliana closer. “Sweet dreams, Peaches.”

#sera #leliana #dragon age #femslash #fanfiction #mine #nightingbee #smut #it's been a long time #have some shameless smutifc

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