All I can say is that: med school sucks lol and that I'm really sorry for the delay. You guys can tell that I couldn't keep the smut fridays but I will try as soon as I have more time, don't hate me forever or think that I will give up on hotchniss bc well, I never will ahaha. Also, you will find out that I couldn't decide so there's plot twist AND sexy times.
Thanks to Hannah for the beta! I love you lots :3
NEEDLESS TO SAY, DON'T READ IF NOT SUITABLE!
(or do, who am I to stop you anyway?)
"There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights."
- Bram Stoker
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{III}
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"What are you doing here?"
"I saw you"
"You did?"
"I did."
"And what the fuck were doing in my – our - office? Or at the BAU even? What were you thinking? You shouldn't have…"
"I was thinking of you."
"Shut up"
"Emily, you are drunk"
"I did not even have a sip. I am not drunk, the glass was full"
"It was empty."
"Are you calling me insane?"
"No."
"Like hell! Can you at least answer my first question?"
"I am doing the same as you are"
"What?"
"I am here because I miss you, I made that clear when we talked on the phone"
"No, you did not, you said you couldn't come back because you were- are happy giving Jack a regular childhood for once"
"Not quite everything I said"
"So fine fuck, you said Jack misses me. Great! What about you?"
"And you said you love Jack, what about me?"
"How can you possibly know that?"
"You know the answer"
"Who- What? No. No, no. No, fuck no."
It's still the third week, and accidents indeed happened – just not the ones she's been anticipating.
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III
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Now it's the third week, an infernal loop of finite time.
Her head is aching, there's probably a bandage there and it takes her some minutes to realize what is going on. The lights are strong and she wonders if she's dead – but then that cold, dark remembrance haunts her, shuts down her every theory. She blinks once, twice, three times before her weary doe eyes flutter open.
Wheels up, wheels up. It's a silent plea to herself when her lids unhood those deep irises.
Emily shifts, moves slightly just in order to check on the integrity of her body – her legs, her arms, but especially her legs. That's when she finds him. Yes, him, his hand warming up hers like a bolt of hope that has been lacking for so damn long. His eyes are still hazel, shimmering and dark and smolder as though he's the perfect blend of her downfall and her salvation.
Masculine fingers entwine with hers, squeezing in a quiet plea for her to wake up. It's no good to sleep after a concussion; he knows the statistics – thanks to Reid – of not emerging from the slumber. But they sedated her, forced her into this for her body had weakened in ways he never quite watched afore.
She inquires him, questions how she ended up in that hospital bed with an access ripping her veins to allow the influx of so much needed medicine. Parts of her want to cry, to unwire herself from that hell and run out with the faded remembrance of how she begged for morphine not a month ago.
But he's there, he's real now, and his lips press to her forehead in a way that elicits a soft yelp from her dry throat. It burns her skin, boils her heart with that unwavering flame of hope that had been lacking. Her tears stream down her high cheekbones out of their own volition, the grip she instinctively keeps onto his shirt tightening whilst the brunette male whispers to her the only thing capable to soothe the Unit Chief.
"Wheels up, Emily".
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IV
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The fourth week, there's still a bandage there.
Her bangs manage to hide it properly, the younger Prentiss notices shortly after, a random morning in which she combs her damp dark strands, pulls them into a ponytail. Brown eyes drown in the reflection of hazel eyes, dazed along with two mugs of flaming caffeine.
She shouldn't be in Vermont – despite the fact that she wants to, from somewhere within. Hotch has another life now, Jack too, and it's bordering selfish the way she easily obliges when he basically coaxes her into coming with him. There's no turning back now, not anymore, and perhaps there never had one in the first place.
Slender fingers wrap around the cup's handle, bringing the content to her mouth, ignoring the strong stab to her tongue that is quickly bathed with the hot liquid. Emily does not even flinch, licking her bottom lip under his firm gaze. Vulnerable, self-conscious, and it sounds so much like that late night in which she left him behind, speechless in his polished shoes – when she made her way into his life and into the team.
His sandy-haired boy is at school, that void left in his rather small flat almost unbearable as he ravishes her without even closing the gap between them. The vicious grip he holds on the cup is unsettling, the desperate film of worry clouding his sight – and hers in extent.
It takes a beat to realize that his mouth is on hers, soft and tender and slightly parted against that supple piece of her. One of his hands covers her slim waist, draws her closer therefore they can play that game once more – therefore they can rely on the warmness emanating from their skins.
The older man breaks the kiss, looks into her eyes to find that so dreaded darkness flaring everywhere. She missed him, he missed her. And when he cups her cheek, grabs hold of her cup to make quick work of leaving it upon the wooden dresser right behind her. Along with his, beside his, just like he's been craving them to be for God knows how long.
Panting and gasping and eventually stumbling, Hotch manages to take her to his bed, to lay her down and cover her with his body, to slip his thigh between her legs because he goddamn knows she needs the friction. She needs it to be real. And that's what he gives her – that's all he can give her.
Himself. Wholly, completely, fully.
Emily lies there, undressed and exposed to his very eyes as soon as he manages to. There's a sense of trust and reliability that she can't quite pinpoint, for the surge to shield herself from him is inexistent in the simple concept of it.
He's seen all of her. For better or for worse. For better and for worse. He's seen her skin when only the black ink stained it; he's seen the brands and scars also. He's seen the bruises from accidents, from Cyrus' bare fists.
And she's seen him too. It's evident by the instant the dark haired man slips out of his shirt, uncovers his tall frame under her heated gaze. The scars all sit the same. Nine lines with one standing right between them from that damn surgery to repair the mess caused by the others. Scar tissue, war gifts, brands from the battles they've battled every single day in the past – and the ones they will still have for the future.
Masculine lips press to her right calf, the grip he has on her ankle is steady as his hazel orbs never leave her flushed features. He trails open-mouthed kisses up to her lips, averts the only place she wants him to bring into his hot mouth. Their tongues tangle, explore every crevasse, every recess. Tentative, slowly and wet and it feels as much as the first time.
Wrapping her legs around his waist, Emily makes the first move of hers ever since they met in middle. A moan leaves her throat, vibrates into his heated cave and he just dwells the response with a baritone groan of his. He's cocked against her, heavy and ready and drenched with her arousal that coats him with every lazy swivel from her hips.
Then he's inside of her, pushing slowly as he disappears between her legs with one long thrust. He hits bottom, sheathes within only to look down at her face and find her eyes lost on him. She's beautiful, so much more beautiful than any woman he's ever met. And he loves her, has loved her for so long that it's almost painful now.
Short nails skim the hem of hairs on the nape of his neck, lean legs locking around him as her tight channel clamps down with what the brunette female classifies as a fucking need for him. It's stupid, that slight buck from her hips causing her clit to brush against his pubic bone and her back to arch. But he's so tightly pressed, so closely bound to her.
She needs more, asks for more with her body because words are quite impossible to escape her right now. Despite the conditions, despite the feelings he's sunken down for her and her for him, he makes love to her. It's the only way he knows how to take her, the only way he's ever been capable to let go of all his personal – and professional, mainly professional – rules and throw caution through the window.
Pounding into her, the father of one lowers his head to her neck, nuzzles her jaw until he finds her earlobe. And murmurs – to her, and her only – how much he fucking loves her, how much he missed her, how many times he was in bed alone and his only thought was when he'd be able to pull her into his arms and claim her as his.
Because he's doing it as he speaks, easing his length and girth into her cunt as he drives them closer to the edge with every thrust he oh so skillfully performs. It does not take long, all the bottled up emotions, pent up musings, exploding as a hundred different colors behind their lids as she comes apart around him, clenching then fluttering in a way that drags him deeper into her and straight to that white wave of his high, while he paints her depths with his seed.
He does not slip out of her, doesn't even move – he can't; she can't either. His breath is ragged in the crook of her neck, hers matching his while she keeps her face the closer available to his.
Then he tells her.
Explains fracture by fracture of how she fell in her bathroom – passed out -, hit her forehead on the counter and surfaced from her pain to fish her phone upon the nightstand, just right outside. Aaron Hotchner. Alphabetical order suddenly saving her because, matter-of-factly, he would be the only one to gather what her empty line meant.
Wheels up, wheels up. That's how he knew.
Tell me your thoughts, please! I hope you enjoyed this part. The next chapter might be the last one, but I'm still not sure, stay tuned and sooner or later you will find out (I hope sooner bc I don't wanna leave you guys hanging lol)
See you next update!