Untitled

You were barely conscious when you felt something poking your butt.

You try to blink awake, immediately blinded by the sunlight filtering in through the blinds. For a second, you think you’re still in Los Angeles with the California heat making your clothes stick to your back, working on a kidnapping case, which means you need to get up and get ready fast.

However, someone stirs behind you, and you realize you’re not in California. You’re home, in your bed, and being spooned by Aaron.

You try not to sigh in relief so as not to disturb him. He needs the rest, obviously, based on the fact that Aaron tends to get up like clockwork at 8 in the morning, even on his days off. You crane your neck to check the clock on your bedside table. Nearly 9:30 in the morning.

You’re almost tempted to wake him up, knowing that Aaron will be secretly annoyed and feeling like he slept the day away, but then you remember how late it was when you got in last night. The team just got done with a case in a Los Angeles suburb and decided to fly back home despite how late it was, which meant that it was really late when you finally made it back home. You distantly remember leaning on Aaron’s shoulder, trying not to fall asleep standing up, and him grunting for everyone to take the following day off and hearing everyone let out a tired cheer. You weren’t able to sleep on the jet, envious at everyone else’s ability to take a nap as soon as they closed their eyes, and kept Aaron company while he finished his notes.

You remember sitting across from him, the glow of the reading light shining on him with his head ducked over his files. He was clearly exhausted just like everyone else, evident by the bags underneath his eyes and the way he attempted to hide his yawn every couple of minutes, but you know that he always makes an effort to try and finish the paperwork the same day while the case was still fresh on his mind.

You had a book open in front of you, long forgotten, as you rested your chin in your palm and stared at your boyfriend.

He glances up at you every now and then and shakes his head to himself, smile on his face, when you make no move to stop staring almost dreamily. It’s not your fault he’s so handsome, even when he’s running on 4 hours of sleep.

“Ridiculous,” he had muttered, feigning annoyance, however you felt him knock his feet against yours underneath the table. Something warm settles in your chest at that.

You remember stumbling into Aaron’s apartment, through the living room, and falling face first into the bed. You hadn’t even bothered to change into your pajamas, but you were just too tired to care, evident by passing out as soon as your face hit the pillow.

It didn’t matter now, however, as you felt Aaron’s body pressed up against yours, so warm it was nearing unbearable. You felt his soft exhales against the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine, and the beginning line of his morning wood poking your ass. You felt the soft comforter brush against your bare legs and realize that Aaron must have changed you in your sleep, leaving you in your panties and a tank top.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling utter want tugging at the bottom of your stomach. It had been a couple of days since you guys had done anything, even with the shared hotel room. Working on a kidnapping case in a shitty hotel with thin walls didn’t really set the mood, no matter what anyone said. Sure, you and Aaron were able to sneak in some heated kisses and touches, but never more than that before both of you were falling asleep with case files and medical reports at the foot of the bed.

You carefully pushed your hips back against him, feeling his cock twitch against you. Aaron shifted, throwing his arm over your waist, however his breathing was still deep and heavy. He was usually a light sleeper, a result of the job, so him not waking up from that must mean he was more tired than he let on.

You’re still groggy, but an idea slowly forms in your head. Of course, you two didn’t get the chance to discuss this last night, but you distantly remember a conversation several weeks ago where you told Aaron you wouldn’t mind too much if he woke you up by touching you or going down on you and whether he would be interested in you doing the same to him.

He had given you a look so dark, pupils blown and a smirk slowly forming on his mouth, that you wanted to drop to your knees right there in the kitchen.

Instead, he leaned forward to press a kiss to the side of your head and mutter a “Some other time, dirty girl.”

Now seems like the perfect time.

You move your hips back again, relishing in the way you can feel Aaron’s cock grow bigger, harder. You wiggle and let out a breathy sigh when you feel him migrate to between your ass cheeks. It’s not enough and definitely not close enough to where you really want him, but it feels good. Dirty, just like Aaron had said.

You move up on the bed a little more, careful not to stir too much, lifting your hips from the bed a bit until his clothed cock was between your thighs and pressed right against your pussy.

You moan at that, clenching your thighs when you feel that familiar throbbing in your cunt, wishing he was already inside of you.

But this feels good too. Two layers of clothes between Aaron’s thick cock and your wet pussy. You start to move your hips against him, breathless at the way the head of his cock barely grazes your clit. You can feel the wet spot undoubtedly forming on your panties, your wetness helping his cock glide against you.

You feel yourself get carried away, chasing the small sparks of pleasure running up your spine just from feeling the girth of his cock against your hole, when you feel Aaron’s arm that’s draped over you move.

You freeze, though you’re not sure why, it’s not like you’re doing anything wrong, when you feel his hand come up to grope at your breast over your top.

You hear him hum, still breathing warm air against your neck, and feel him somehow press closer against you. You wait for him to say something, either teasing you for being so horny and rubbing up against him or wordlessly tugging his briefs down to press his cock against where you need him, but there’s nothing.

He’s still asleep.

You exhale in relief, ignoring the nagging thought in your brain saying why are you into this, you freak, but then Aaron’s hand on your breast starts moving, just barely groping.

You’ve known that Aaron has always been a touchy guy behind closed doors, always hungry and wanting to be close to you wherever he got a chance. He’s said it’s because he loves your body and not being able to touch you at work drives him crazy, and you can tell he’s telling the truth from the way his jaw clenches when you lean over his desk to hand him a file or the look he gives you when you cross your legs sitting across from him on the jet and your skirt rides up.

At home, you let him have his fill. He’s constantly groping your tits, pinching at your nipples. He’s grabbing a handful of your ass, squeezing, and grabbing your hips so hard he leaves bruises. He has a hand on the back of your neck and pushing your face into the mattress or wrapping his large hand at the base of your throat, putting light pressure as if a reminder of who you belong to. He loves touching you and you clearly don’t mind, however you’re seriously wondering how obsessed he is with your body if he can touch and grope you in his sleep.

He's squeezing your breast and canting his own hips against you. You feel his cock twitch again and the wet spot he must be leaving through his briefs drags against you and your thigh. You bite your lip at that, unsure whether Aaron was about to wake up or not.

You feel his hand move from your breast to your abdomen, fingers just barely brushing over your nipple, making you almost jump, and wrap his arm around your middle. You hear him grunt, something masculine and deep that makes you want to lose your mind, and feel him thrust into you, rutting into you like he can’t control himself.

You whimper at the feeling of being constricted, imagining Aaron’s veins popping out of his forearms. Not caring whether he’ll wake up, you reach down to pull at his briefs just enough so his cock pops free. You sigh at the feeling of hot flesh against your thigh and your mouth waters when you feel precum leaking down the head of his cock, smearing on your panties and thighs.

You wait and strain your ears to listen to Aaron’s breathing. Somehow, it’s still steady.

You’re starting to get impatient, just about to throw this all away and wake him up to sink down on him, but then you feel his bare cock press against your hole through your panties and it just feels so good. You know that if Aaron wakes up, he’s going to want to fuck you fast and hard and honestly, you’re having a lot of fun teasing yourself.

He stops humping into you, the arm around your middle relaxing, and he grumbles a bit and presses his face against the nape of your neck. His breath tickles you.

You start moving your own hips again, just barely, enough to feel the slow drag of his cock against your clit through your panties. They must be absolutely soaked through right now and you desperately wish you could just take them off without waking Aaron up and press the head of him into you, stretching you out. A sweat starts to break out on your back and on your neck and Aaron’s body heat, naturally running warmer than you, isn’t helping but you don’t care.

You hear a sharp inhale, a particular deep thrust against your pussy, and then a “What do you think you’re doing?”

You freeze, feeling like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar and not like you were humping desperately against your boyfriend like a teenager. “Uhm.”

His left arm moves up from where he was still wrapped around you, brushing purposefully against your nipples and making you whine, to wrap his hand around the base of your throat. He doesn’t put any pressure, but just the weight of his hand is enough to make your eyes roll into the back of your head.

“I said,” he whispers, exhaling against your ear. He thrusts his hips once against you, making his cock slide against you better in a way you could never replicate. “What are you doing?”

You swallow, unsure on how you want to play this. The low deep rasp of his voice this early in the morning always sends you reeling. “Nothing.”

Aaron hums and the grip he has on you tightens just a bit before he’s trailing down your chest. This time, he flicks your left nipple, making you jump and bite your lip at the same time, and moving down past your stomach and to your pussy. “This doesn’t feel like nothing, honey.”

His hand traces the waistband of your panties and the curve of your hips. The callouses on his fingers are rough, but familiar, making you squirm against him. Aaron hisses at that and it’s like he finally snaps as he reaches between your legs and roughly pulls your panties to the side to thrust his cock against your bare cunt, hips slamming into yours.

“In fact, it feels like you’re being a dirty girl, rubbing up on me like you can’t help yourself.”

Your gasp morphs into a moan when you feel the head of his cock finally brushing your swollen clit, no clothes in the way. Now you can feel how sopping wet you are, making the glide of his throbbing cock against your pussy smooth and perfect. This whole thing feels dirty, like you’re trying to take what you can get before you can get caught even though there’s no one else home with Jack being at a sleepover. The thrusting of his hips against yours to rub against your wet folds just makes you think about him fucking you into the mattress until you’re a whining mess. “Aaron…”

 “What do you want, baby?” Aaron murmurs, starting to press soft kisses behind your ear. Hearing his early morning voice again makes your insides turn into a puddle. The warmth of his body and his cologne from yesterday still barely detectable is intoxicating, making you spread your legs a little so his cock nestles deeper against your wetness. You start to move your own hips to meet his and the lewd sound of your pussy and his hips slamming into yours is so so hot.

“Please…” you whine, the words dying in your throat because your head is swimming, and you don’t know exactly what to say. You secretly hope he knows what you want—what you need.

Aaron suddenly gets up to sit on his knees and moves you with a hand on your hip so you’re laying flat on your front, face pressed into your pillow. You nearly cry at the loss of pressure against your clit, but he quickly puts a hand on the back of your head to shove your face into the pillow. He straddles your thighs, roughly moves your panties aside again to insert a thick finger inside of you.

You moan wantonly at the feeling of finally being filled, the sound muffled against the pillow. His finger goes in easily due to how wet you were, but the feeling of being stretched even just a little bit make you feel drunk.

“Is this what you want, pretty girl?” He moves his finger in and out of you fast, almost rough, but it’s still something and it can still make you come if you try really hard since you’ve been playing with yourself for what feels like hours.

You already start to feel the beginning pressure at the pit of your stomach, clenching and unclenching around just one finger. Your clit is barely getting anything out rubbing against the sheets, but you don’t even care, having been on edge for days. “Yes, yes—Aaron…”

Aaron hums casually from behind you, as if you guys were talking about the weather. “Are you going to come for me?”

You nod furiously into the pillow, moving your face to the side so you can breathe more easily. “Yes, yes, please—”

Suddenly he takes his finger out of you with a loud and vulgar noise, nearly making you scream in frustration. You’re about to yell at him, maybe even turn around and smack him on the shoulder, until you feel your panties being quickly tugged down your legs, the head of his cock up against your hole, and then pressing in.

“Oh…,” you moan, nearly sighing in the familiar feeling of being properly filled. There’s a slight burn from that stretch you secretly love. The hand he had pressed against the back of your head migrates to the back of your neck, grabbing a hold of you so possessively it makes you squirm.

Aaron leans over you until his face is next to yours, his soft moans like music to your ears as he bottoms out. “Fuck, baby, you’re still so tight…”

You try to crane your neck to look at him, desperate to see his face. He has his eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration, most likely trying to resist immediately fucking into you. His hair is almost artfully mussed, fluffy and falling into his face. Yesterday’s stress is gone and instead is replaced with absolute desire. His other arm is pressing into the mattress so he can hold himself over you and you nearly start to drool at his bicep bulging out, the veins in his thick forearms prominent.

And as if he can feel your eyes on him, his eyes open. They’re dark and piercing, pupils nearly blown out. There’s a hint of that damn smugness in the corner of his mouth, but it smooths out into something softer around the edges when he leans in to press a closed-mouthed kiss against yours. He knows how much you hate morning breath.

The tender action makes something clench in your chest and you wonder again how you got so lucky.

All sweet thoughts fly out the window when Aaron pulls out slowly until just the head of his cock is in you. You moan at the sudden loss and squirm, knowing how much he likes seeing your hips move.

Just like you predicted, he growls and slams back into you, pressing his hips against the flesh of your ass. “So needy.”

“Aaron, please…” you beg, moving your arms from underneath you to behind you in an attempt to touch him, feel him, something.

Because Aaron is Aaron and somehow can read your mind, you feel him grab both of your wrists together in one hand to press against your back. You have no leverage now and can breathe a little easier now that he’s not pressing down on your neck, instead his other hand gripping onto your hip.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give what my dirty girl needs,” Aaron coos, almost mockingly in the way that makes your heart stutter, and then he starts fucking you so hard the breath gets knocked out of you.

He’s relentless, no more teasing and rubbing up against his cock. The grip of his fingers on your hip and wrists are tight, hopefully enough to leave bruises, as he essentially pulls you on and off his cock. He fills you out so good, hitting that spot inside of your pussy that sends sparks up your spine, making you feel like your brain is short circuiting. It’s like you can’t even think anymore, which is a normal occurrence when Aaron fucks you like this, and all you can hear is the wet sounds of your pussy, his hips slamming against yours, and moans that he’s not bothering to hide anymore.

You distantly can hear yourself begging to come, nearly screaming yourself hoarse. You’re sensitive, nearly overstimulated with the way Aaron is pounding into you, and you just want to come already. The sheets are wrapped around your thighs, barely rubbing against your clit, and it’s not enough and you arch your back the way he likes, move your hips in an effort to tell him to touch you. “Fuck, oh my God, Aaron.”

“You need me to touch you, baby?” Aaron says, breathlessly, and you know he’s close too, probably holding off until you come first because you know that’s something he likes.

He must be just as impatient as you are because he’s immediately releasing his hold on your wrists to wriggle a hand underneath you and rub your clit in a way that was delicious but almost rough, almost painful enough that it sends you over the edge.

You choke on your moan as you feel your pussy clench on his hard cock, squeezing your thighs together. Your hands find purchase clawing at the sheets underneath you, wrists tingling from where he held onto you. Your mind blanks out, empty besides the sheer bliss wracking your body. Aaron keeps fucking you, keeps flicking your clit, groaning your name and it just adds to your orgasm, nearly making you roll your eyes back into your head.

You feel him fuck you faster, harder, and you had just begun floating down from your orgasm when Aaron comes inside you with a deep and guttural moan. You’ve always loved hearing the noises he makes; how manly he sounds, how deep his voice can get, and the way he whispers your name like a prayer. The noise he makes when he comes, however, is definitely in your top 3.

“Fuck, you take my cock so well,” Aaron grunts, thrusting into you one last time. The hold he has on your hip is nearly painful, definitely bruising. You moan unabashedly at that and the feeling of his warm come inside of you, filling you up. You clench down on him one last time, milking him for all he’s worth, and you hear Aaron’s choked laugh behind you.

He slips out of you, and you feel his eyes on your pussy; probably swollen and absolutely a soaking mess with your wetness smeared all over your inner thighs. He hums, finally satisfied, at the sight of his come dripping out of your cunt, dripping down your slit and onto the sheets. You feel his thumb come and trace your hole, gentle, but making you squirm nonetheless at how sensitive you are and sending a shock through you. His hand is on your hip again, squeezing in a warning, silently telling you to take it.

And you do, keening softly when you feel the rough pad on his thumb brush your clit, smearing his come around. You always had an inkling that Aaron was dirty, with his domineering voice and the way he so easily takes control of a room when he walks in, but you were in for a rude awakening when you both finally stopped dancing around each other.

You hear Aaron inhale sharply when you clench and unclench, probably pushing more wetness out onto the sheets, and you almost brace yourself for his cock to press against your hole again when you feel the bed dip and Aaron getting up to the bathroom to help clean you up. You’re only slightly disappointed, but then remember it’s not even noon and you got the rest of the day left. You bring your arms to cross and rest your head on them while you wait, smiling to yourself as the languid relaxation seeps into your bones the way only getting fucked out of your mind does.

Aaron is tender and gentle while he cleans you up. Underneath all the stoic and cold demeanor, Aaron has always been a huge softie and loves taking care of you, no matter the occurrence. You feel that care when there’s large hands and a towel, warm on your thighs, your hips, your ass as he presses his lips to the bottom of your spine. You feel the barely there scratch of his stubble and hum.

When he’s done, he crawls up the mattress to his spot and settles down with a huff. He immediately is wrapping around you, flinging his arm and leg over you to pull you in closer as you laugh. Your face is pressed against his chest, flushed pink, and you impulsively press a kiss there against the wiry hair. You feel him kiss the top of your head, no doubt smiling because he secretly loves the attention you give him.

“You okay?” Aaron asks, so soft in a way that makes you want to wiggle further into him.

Instead, you push back a bit to look up at him where he’s already watching you, eyes affectionate. Your legs are tangled with his, hips pressed against each other’s despite knowing how sweaty he is. His mouth, usually in that straight line, has softened, and the sight of his bedhead and relaxed brow makes you want to spend the next week touching him all over. His cock pressed against your thigh, half-hard, tells you that may be possible.

“Perfect,” you say, and then you push at his shoulder until he flops on his back, gazing up at you almost reverently as you climb on top of him to straddle his hips.

One of his hands wander up your thighs until he settles on your hip. His hair falls into his face, his eyes still drowsy but the hunger plain as day. He brings his other arm to rest above his head, against the pillows, in a clear show of his muscles that makes your mouth water. He looks devastatingly handsome and just so hot, it’s really not fair.

“Good morning,” he says, casually, as if you’re not quietly losing your mind.

You give him a devilish grin and push your hips back until you can feel the head of his cock against you, already hard and leaking precum against your ass. Satisfaction curls up your spine when his small smile falters and his jaw clenches. You lean down, knowing that he loves the feeling of your breasts pushing against his chest and nipples dragging, until you’re hanging your lips right above his.

To be honest, you are not sure why you are here - here, of all places, in a bar thick with low murmurs and the clink of glass.

Tomorrow is your first day with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. A fresh start. A career people would kill for. And yet tonight, instead of preparing or sleeping or doing anything remotely sensible, you’re sitting beneath warm amber light with a drink in your hand.

Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s the uncertainty curling in your stomach every time you think about tomorrow. Maybe you just needed one last night of being no one important yet.

At least you chose well.

The bar has the kind of charm that can’t be fabricated. Age settled into the dark wood panels and worn floorboards, into the brass fixtures dulled by time, into every nick and scratch left behind by years of strangers passing through. It feels lived in, familiar, like a place that has seen a thousand stories and kept every one of them.

The lighting is low and golden, casting everything in softness. It catches on framed photographs lining the walls, on polished bottles behind the counter, on the edges of glasses raised in quiet toasts.

And the varied crowd reflects just that. A few play darts with quiet intensity, while others linger at the bar, absorbed in conversation that hums rather than roars.

Behind the counter, the bartender moves, pouring drinks with careful precision. Ice knocks softly against glass, laughter rises and fades, and the room vibrates with the easy comfort of a place suspended somewhere between celebration and escape.

A quiet sigh slips from your lips as you study the depths of your glass, where the scotch rests in a pool of amber fire, gathering and releasing the low light of the room. It was a good choice. It’s something warm, expensive enough to feel indulgent, strong enough to quiet the edges of your thoughts.

The tumbler sits heavy in your hand, its weight oddly reassuring, as though anchoring you in the sea of uncertainty that you’re afloat in.

When you tilt the glass, the liquid clings for a moment to the crystal walls before slipping downwards in thin golden rivulets. You watch them with more attention than they deserve, grateful for the distraction, however brief, from the shape of tomorrow waiting just beyond midnight.

“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be here alone.”

The voice arrives like a stone through still water, disturbing the fragile calm you had so carefully constructed around yourself.

You lift your gaze to find a man standing beside you, perhaps near your own age. His eyes are a washed and uncertain blue, curious in a manner that feels less charming than practised. Angular features are softened by an uneven stubble, and brown hair falls untidily to his ears. 

He is not unattractive…only uninteresting. Too young, too eager, and possessed of that particular energy, you have no patience to entertain tonight.

You offer him the kind of smile civility demands and nothing more.

“Sometimes being alone is rather nice,” you reply evenly. “Besides, I’m not alone.”

Demonstratively, you lift your glass a bit - the whiskey is your company.

He grins, entirely untroubled by your refusal, “Fair enough. Mind if I join you? The night’s still young, and good company is hard to find.”

For a moment, you let the silence linger between you, hoping it might accomplish what politeness had not.

“I appreciate the offer,” you say at last, measured and clear, “but I was rather enjoying some time to myself.”

You hate men who just don’t get it. How broad should the hint be, you ask yourself.

His expression does not so much as flicker. With the confidence of a man long accustomed to mistaking persistence for charm, he draws the empty stool beside you and settles onto it as though invited.

“No harm in a little company, is there? Name’s Sean, by the way.”

You give your own name with a restrained inclination of the head, the sort of courtesy you extend to strangers and endures.

“Nice to meet you, Sean.”

It is, in fact, not.

Jesus, you’re not in the mood to deal with someone like him today. 

Sean continues on, filling the air with the easy, thoughtless chatter of someone entirely content to occupy more space than he has been given. You scarcely hear the words. Your attention has already turned elsewhere, your gaze moving over the room in quiet calculation, searching the dim corners and crowded tables for some means of escape from the tedious siege of unwanted conversation.

And then you see him. Dark, serious, and older.

He takes a seat at the counter with the quiet assurance of a man who never needs to announce himself. One hand settles around a glass of amber liquor, the other resting loose beside it, every movement economical, precise. There is nothing ostentatious about him, and yet the room seems to bend, almost imperceptibly, around his presence. He is magnetic, drawing you in and captivating you. 

Dark eyes, brown, you think, though the light keeps their true colour half-concealed, view the room from beneath a stern, thoughtful brow. There is intelligence there, sharp and watchful, the kind that misses very little and forgives even less. 

His hair is black, neatly kept, touched by the faintest suggestion of silver at the temples. It frames a face cut in decisive lines: strong jaw, straight nose, a mouth made severe by habit rather than nature.

His dress shirt is charcoal, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, collar open just enough to suggest the night has coaxed some small concession from discipline. Broad shoulders strain the fabric in a way almost indecently distracting. Everything about him speaks of control - careful, practised, absolute.

He is all sharp lines and silent strength. 

His gaze rests now on you and Sean with calm, unblinking attention. Not intrusive. Not idle. Merely observant. But there is a flicker in those unreadable eyes. Interest, perhaps, or disapproval, or the private consideration of a man already deciding what to do next.

You decide to use a subtle diversion tactic, seizing the opportunity, offering Sean a polite smile, “I appreciate the conversation, Sean, but I’ve just spotted someone I need to catch up with. Perhaps another time?”

Before Sean can gather himself enough to object, you slip from the stool, leaving him in a brief and well-earned silence.

You cross the short distance to the stranger and offer him a small smile.

“Mind if I join you?” The mysterious stranger glances towards the empty stool beside him and gestures to it with a quiet inclination of his hand.

As you settle onto the chair your initial impression is confirmed: He is, indeed, remarkably handsome. 

The dark dress shirt fits almost too well, stretching lightly across broad shoulders. 

Your gaze lingers on his hands; large, capable hands. The fingers are long and precise, the nails neatly kept, each detail suggesting a man who values order, control, and competence. Yet there is nothing delicate about them. They look built for command.

Your eyes trail upwards, and you can’t help but notice the soft shadow that graces his cheeks and chin. You wonder whether you would feel the gentle prickle of stubble if your fingers were to trace the contours of his face? 

And then there are his eyes.

Exactly as you suspected: dark brown, deep-set and observant. Yet up close, they are warmer than expected, touched by an intelligence that feels almost tangible. They hold yours with calm steadiness, and in their depths a warmth that draws you in.

You’re interrupted when Sean returns a moment later, his expression sharpened by annoyance, as though your leaving had been less a choice than a personal affront. 

“It’s not very nice to just walk away, you know,” he remarks, his tone laced with irritation. A cringe creeps over you at the edge in his voice, but before you can respond, the man beside you speaks first. 

“Walk away, Sean.”

His voice is deep and level, not raised in the slightest, yet it cuts cleanly through the room and through Sean’s indignation with equal ease.

Sean lets out a humourless laugh. “Oh, fuck off, Aaron. Stay out of it. I wasn’t talking to you.” 

Wait, they know each other?  They seem so different: Sean all noise and entitlement, this man all restraint and consequence.

Aaron.

The name suits him. You turn it over once in your mind and find you like the sound of it far too much. 

Sean, determined to prove himself a fool in every possible manner, places a hand upon your shoulder as though to reclaim the conversation. Irritation flares hot and immediate. You knock his hand away without hesitation. 

Before he can speak again, Aaron repeats himself.

“Walk away, Sean.”

This time, the words arrive colder. A warning stripped to its essentials. His expression scarcely changes, yet the faint furrow between his brows deepens, and the air about him seems suddenly sharper, charged by something carefully leashed.

Sean scoffs, though less convincingly than before.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Aaron? She doesn’t need you fighting her battles.”

Aaron turns his gaze fully upon him then, and it is remarkable how much force can exist in stillness.

“She doesn’t need anyone harassing her either.” He pauses only a beat. “Walk away.”

Aaron’s words, a silent warning, hang in the air. 

You feel both discomfort and an undeniable relief, as though someone has finally spoken aloud what should have been obvious from the start.

“I’m not taking orders from you,” Sean says, but the bravado has thinned. Uncertainty frays the edges of his voice.

Aaron’s reply is calm, almost courteous, which somehow makes it more threatening.

“You should. It would be in your best interest.”

Silence stretches between them. Then, with the sulky resentment of a man who knows he has lost but cannot bear to admit it, Sean steps back.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

He casts you one final bitter glance before disappearing into the shifting dimness of the bar.

Aaron’s gaze turns back to you once Sean has vanished into the crowd, and with the shift comes a subtle but unmistakable change. The severity that had sharpened his features moments ago eases; the hard line of his mouth softens, the tension at his brow loosens. It is as though some private switch has been thrown; the man who had stood like a blade now becoming something quieter, steadier.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

The question is simple, but there is nothing careless in it. His attention settles on you fully, deliberate and searching, as though he intends to make certain of the answer rather than merely hear it.

You nod, still feeling the remnants of adrenaline fluttering beneath your ribs.

“Yes,” you say, then with greater sincerity, “Thanks to you.”

For a moment, he only inclines his head, accepting the gratitude without ceremony.

“No problem.” His glance flicks briefly towards the direction Sean disappeared. “Some people require a clearer message.” A pause, almost dryly amused. “My brother especially.”

You blink. “Your brother?”

Something like resignation passes over his face before he sighs, “Unfortunately, yes. Younger brother.”

The revelation rearranges the scene in your mind: The hostility, the familiarity, the confidence with which he had intervened. 

“Well,” you say slowly, “family dynamics can be... complicated.”

A low sound escapes him, half breath, half laugh. He leans back against the counter then, one elbow resting on the polished wood, glass turning idly between long fingers.

“Complicated is one word for it,” he says. “Sean has a talent for finding trouble wherever he goes.” His eyes lift to yours. “And  I have a talent for getting him out of it.”

You laugh despite yourself, the image too fitting not to.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

The answer comes at once, dry and honest enough to surprise another laugh from you. A faint smile touches his mouth in response, brief as light on water.

“But I’d rather not spend the evening discussing my family’s flaws.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you now with that same measured attentiveness. “What brings you here tonight?”

The question turns the light back onto you, and under his gaze, you find yourself answering more openly than you intended. You tell him about tomorrow: Your first day at your new job, the weight of beginnings and expectations pressing against your thoughts. You speak of wanting one quiet evening before life becomes something faster, louder, and more demanding.

Aaron listens without interruption. His eyes remain on you, dark and steady, reflecting understanding without pity, interest without intrusion. 

When you finish, he glances around the room - the clatter of glasses, the murmuring crowd, the dartboard thudding softly in the distance.

“Well,” he says at last, voice touched with dry humour, “you chose an interesting space for peace and quiet.”

You laugh aloud, genuinely this time, and the sound appears to please him more than he lets on.

Then he smiles.

It changes him.

Until now, you had admired the stern architecture. But a smile dismantles all of it in an instant. Warmth spills suddenly through features once guarded. The lines of tension vanish from his brow; his eyes brighten, revealing a softness you would not have thought possible in them.

There are dimples, faint but unmistakable, appearing at the corners of a mouth that seems built more for command than delight. They lend him an almost dangerous charm, because they humanise what was already striking.

You stare a moment longer than politeness allows.

He notices, surely. A man like this notices everything. Yet he says nothing. And somewhere, with startling clarity, a thought forms.

You want to see that smile again.

Even want to be the cause of it. You want to peel back every careful layer of restraint he wears so elegantly and discover what lies beneath the discipline, beneath the severity, beneath the immaculate control.

All in all you want, quite suddenly and quite seriously, to be the making of his undoing.

You chat a little longer, conversation flowing with surprising ease over the slow passage of drinks and borrowed glances. There is something effortless in it now, the earlier reserve worn away until words pass between you as naturally as breath. 

After a while, you excuse yourself to the restroom.

As you slip from the stool, your phone happens to fall from your hand, striking the floor with a sharp little sound. You bend to retrieve it, slowly, deliberately, so that the hem of your skirt rises just enough to flash more of your thigh and ass than appropriate. You linger there longer than necessary, arching your back a touch more. 

From above comes the low, rough sound of a man losing patience with restraint. 

You glance back only briefly, catching the dark heat in Aaron’s eyes, and give your hips the faintest sway as you straighten. Then, with a look of playful innocence that fools neither of you, you turn and make your way towards the corridor. 

Footsteps follow behind you - swift, purposeful, leaving no doubt as to their owner. Then strong hands find your waist, firm and certain, turning you in one smooth motion until your back meets the wall and Aaron stands before you.

He is close enough now to feel rather than simply see. The breadth of him blocks the narrow hall, his body a wall of warmth and solid strength, every line of him commanding space with effortless authority. His chest rises beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, close enough that you feel the heat of it through your own clothes. His thighs, thick and unyielding, bracket yours, making escape impossible even if you wanted it.

His eyes hold yours, dark and intent, searching your face for something deeper than permission.

“I’ll stop,” he says quietly, voice lowered to a gravelled murmur, his breath warm on your lips, “if you don’t want this.”

But you just smile, tilting your head up in invitation. 

It is all he needs.

He crashes his mouth to yours, hard and demanding, his full lips claiming you with a force that steals your breath. His tongue pushes past your teeth, stroking deep, tasting you like he’s starved. 

One massive hand cups the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to angle you just right, while the other slides down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, tracing the broad expanse, and he responds by pressing his hips forward, letting you feel how hard he’s getting. His hand dips lower, cupping your ass and lifting you slightly against the wall, his thigh wedging more between your legs to rub against your aching pussy. 

The friction makes you moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, kissing you like he never wants to stop, his stoic mask shattered by the raw need in his eyes.

You tease him by grinding your hips forward, feeling the thick length of his cock strain harder against his jeans, rubbing right along your thigh. He groans low into the kiss, his big hand squeezing your ass tighter, fingers digging in to pull you closer, while his other palm slides up to cup your breast fully, thumb circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it peaks stiff and sensitive.

He breaks the kiss just enough to nip at your jaw, whispering hot against your skin, “You like that, don’t you? Getting all worked up in a hallway where anyone could walk by.” 

You whimper in response when he captures your lips once more. His touch turns bolder, hand slipping under your skirt to trace the edge of your panties, fingertips brushing your damp pussy, making you whine and buck against him.

But then it hits you- the distant hum of voices from the bar, the risk of someone rounding the corner. You’re in public, exposed in this dimly lit hallway of a busy bar, and the thrill mixes with a sharp jolt of reality. You pull back, breathless, your lips swollen and tingling from his assault. 

“Not here,” you murmur, eyes locking on his darkened gaze. You’re almost surprised how strongly you’re reacting to him, but can’t find it in yourself to care, so the next words tumble our breathlessly, “My place.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then Aaron gives a single nod, sharp and decisive. Desire has coloured the stern planes of his face, though discipline still holds him in check by sheer force of habit. A fleeting smile touches his mouth, rare enough to feel like a private reward, before he reaches to smooth the hem of your skirt back into place with a touch that is both practical and unmistakably possessive.

He grabs your hand, enveloping it completely and leads you back through the crowd. 

When you near the counter to settle your tab, Sean notices at once.

He is leaning against the bar with the sullen posture of a man still nursing his humiliation, and the sight of you beside Aaron sharpens something ugly in his expression.

“Well, look at that,” he drawls. “Guess playing hero worked out for you after all.”

A few nearby heads turn, sensing conflict with the vulgar instinct of crowds everywhere.

Aaron does not so much as glance at him at first. He sets payment on the bar, calm and precise, as though Sean were no more than background noise. Yet the line of his jaw tightens.

Sean mistakes silence for permission once again.

“What was it this time, huh?” he continues, bitterness creeping into each word. “Flash the badge, give the big speech, scare everyone into line?”

Aaron turns then. Slowly.

“You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one night,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Don’t continue.”

Sean scoffs, but there is uncertainty beneath it now. “You always think you know best.”

“No,” Aaron replies evenly. “I usually just happen to be right.”

You cannot help the small laugh that escapes you. Sean hears it, flushes, and glares.

Aaron merely offers him one final look. Cold, steady, final enough to end the matter without another word. Then he takes your hand again and guides you toward the door.

Outside, the night air cools your heated skin as you hail a cab. It pulls up quickly, and you both slide into the back seat, Aaron’s massive frame taking up half the space, his arm immediately draping around your shoulders to tug you close. 

The driver glances in the rearview, muttering about the address as you rattle it off, but you barely register. The second the cab lurches forward, Aaron’s mouth is on yours again, kissing you fierce and unyielding, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours.

You tease him relentlessly, straddling his lap despite the cramped space, your skirt bunching up as you rock against the hard bulge tenting his jeans. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, while you suck on his lower lip, then trail bites down his neck, feeling his pulse thunder under your teeth. 

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasps, voice rough, one hand shoving up your top to palm your bare breast, pinching the nipple until you gasp.

You grind down harder, the friction against your soaked pussy making you slicker through your panties, and he thrusts up to meet you, the cab’s motion adding to the rhythm.

The driver clears his throat loudly, eyes flicking to the mirror with clear irritation. “Hey, folks, keep it PG back there! This ain’t a motel on wheels.” 

But you ignore him, moaning softly as Aaron’s fingers dip between your legs, rubbing your clit in firm circles over the fabric. He kisses you deeper, swallowing your sounds, his free hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back for better access. 

The cab swerves a bit, driver’s dismay obvious in his grumbled curses, but neither of you cares, lost in the building heat, Aaron’s cock throbbing insistently against you as the city lights blur past.

It screeches to a halt outside your building, the driver’s final grumble fading as the door swings open. Aaron’s hand is already fumbling for his wallet, tossing bills onto the front seat without breaking eye contact with you. His gaze is dark and predatory, promising everything you’ve been building toward. 

“Keep the change,” he mutters to the driver, who shakes his head in disbelief but doesn’t say anything anymore.

Before you can slide out on your own, Aaron’s grip clamps around your wrist, strong fingers wrapping like a vice as he hauls you from the back seat. He almost drags you across the sidewalk, your heels scraping the pavement, his other arm snaking around your waist to steady you or maybe just to claim you outright. 

The cool night breeze does nothing to temper the fire raging between you; your thighs are slick with arousal, panties soaked from the ride, and his cock presses insistently against your hip as he pulls you close to his side. 

“Inside. Now,” he growls low, voice gravelly with restraint barely holding. You don’t even register the cab driving off with screeching tyres. 

You fumble with your keys at the front door, fingers trembling from the adrenaline and his proximity. His massive frame looming behind you, chest brushing your back, one hand splayed possessively over your stomach while the other cages you against the doorframe. 

He teases you mercilessly, lips grazing your ear as he whispers, “Look at you, shaking already. Bet that pussy’s dripping for me, isn’t it? Been thinking about how tight you’ll feel clenching around my cock since that hallway.” 

His free hand dips lower, thumb pressing just above your cunt through your skirt, circling slow and firm enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, keys jingling as you finally slot the right one in, twisting the lock with a click that echoes like permission.

The door swings open, and you barely cross the threshold before Aaron kicks it shut behind you, the sound sharp and final. He spins you around in one fluid motion, his shoulders blocking out the dim hallway light as he shoves you back against the door. 

Solid wood meets your spine with a thud. His body crashes into yours, pinning you there, those muscular arms bracketing your head, biceps flexing under his shirt sleeves. Up close, his stoic mask is shattered; sweat beads along his jaw, dimples flashing in a wicked half-smile as his hips grind forward, letting you feel every inch of his thick erection straining against his zipper, right up against your belly

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this since you bent over in that skirt,” he rasps, voice dropping to a dangerous timbre, his breath hot on your neck as he nuzzles in, teeth scraping your pulse point. 

One hand fists your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat, while the other yanks your top up in a rough tug, exposing your tits to the cool air. His mouth descends immediately, latching onto one nipple, sucking hard and wet, tongue flicking the peak until it throbs. 

You arch into him, moaning, but he doesn’t let up. His free hand shoves your skirt higher, fingers hooking into your panties teasingly.

He straightens just enough to meet your eyes, his own burning with raw intent, that captivating smile twisting into something feral. 

“I’m gonna take you apart, piece by fucking piece,” he promises, voice thick and commanding, his thumb tracing your lower lip before pushing inside your mouth for you to suck. 

His hand slides between your thighs now, two fingers plunging into your slick cunt without warning, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. He pumps them slowly and deliberately, thumb grinding your clit, while his mouth claims yours in a bruising kiss, tongue fucking in rhythm.

“You’ll cum on my fingers first, then my mouth, then my dick…over and over until your voice is hoarse and your body’s shaking. I won’t stop until you’re ruined for anyone else, dripping with my cum, marked everywhere.” 

He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, his palm slapping lightly against your pussy with each thrust, the wet sounds filling the entryway. His cock twitches against you, desperate for release, but he holds back, eyes locked on yours, watching every gasp and shudder as he edges you closer. “Say it. Tell me you want it. Want me to fuck you senseless right now…”

Your moans spill out uncontrollably, body arching into his touch as his fingers drive you wild, that relentless rhythm building the pressure inside you until you’re teetering on the edge. But his words hang there, demanding a response, and in the haze of pleasure, you can’t form the words fast enough. Just more whimpers, your lips parting around his thumb earlier, now gasping against his mouth.

He pulls his fingers free with a slick pop, the sudden emptiness making you whine in protest. Before you can catch your breath, his hand comes down in a sharp, light slap against your soaked pussy, the sting sending a jolt straight to your core. 

You yelp, thighs clenching, but it only makes you wetter, heat flooding your cheeks as his eyes darken with approval. “Already speechless, huh?” he growls, voice low and mocking, his free hand gripping your jaw to force your gaze to his. “That’s fine for now, but listen up: When I ask you something, you answer. Clear and quick, or I’ll make you wait even longer for what you need. Understand?”

You nod frantically, biting your lip, the lesson sinking in amid the throbbing ache between your legs. He smirks, satisfied, and without another word, he yanks you away from the door by your wrist, his grip iron-tight as he drags you down the hall. 

He doesn’t hesitate, kicking open the first door he finds. Your bedroom, like he already knows the layout of your life, and hauls you inside, slamming it shut behind him.

The room spins for a second before his mouth crashes back onto yours, rough and demanding, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as he backs you towards the bed. His tongue invades, while his hands roam possessively, squeezing your ass, pinning your arms when you reach for him. He’s in complete control, growling into the kiss when you try to touch him too freely, batting your hands away. 

“Not yet,” he murmurs against your lips, voice gravelly. “This is about you learning to take what I give.”

He breaks the kiss just long enough to shove you down onto the mattress, your body bouncing once before he follows, caging you beneath his weight. His hands are everywhere now, rough and impatient as he tears at your clothes. Yanking your top over your head in one swift motion. He doesn’t waste time, palming one roughly while his mouth descends on the other, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. 

“Fuck, these tits are mine now,” he rasps, biting down just enough to leave a faint mark, his tongue soothing the sting before he switches sides. “Gonna suck bruises into them, bite you until everyone knows you belong to me.”

Your skirt gets hiked up and ripped away next, his fingers hooking into the fabric and tearing it with a sharp rip that echoes in the room. He doesn’t bother with finesse, shoving your panties aside before stripping them off completely, leaving you exposed under his hungry stare. 

“Look at you, all spread out and dripping for me,” he says, voice thick with lust as he kneels between your thighs, forcing your legs wider with his knees. His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. “I’m gonna mark every inch. Hickeys on your neck, handprints on this ass, my cum leaking out of your pussy so you feel me for days.”

He leans down, capturing your mouth again in a bruising kiss, his cock, still confined in his pants, grinding against your thigh, hard and insistent. You buck up instinctively, but he pins you harder, breaking away to trail bites down your neck, sucking dark spots into the sensitive skin. 

“Say it now,” he demands between nips, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his dominance. “Tell me you want me to mark you, to fuck you until you’re covered in me.”

“Yes, Aaron, mark me, fuck me…please, make me yours,” you gasp out, your voice trembling with raw need as his hand tightens just enough around your throat, his eyes burning into yours with that feral intensity.

A low growl rumbles from his chest, satisfaction flashing across his face. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, releasing your throat to shove himself up from the bed. 

He stands there for a moment, towering over you, his shirt already half-unbuttoned from the frenzy at the door. With quick, impatient yanks, he strips it off, revealing his body. Lean and powerful, the kind of trained dad bod that’s all honed muscle under a layer of soft give, his arms thick and corded from years of lifting and holding control. His chest rises and falls heavily, a light sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin. 

He kicks off his boots, then shoves his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, his cock springing free. Hard and thick, veins bulging along its length, the head already slick with pre-cum.

You can’t tear your eyes away, your breath hitching at the sight of him, so ready to claim you. He steps closer, grabbing his discarded belt from the floor with a deliberate snap that makes you flinch in anticipation. 

“Hands up,” he orders, his voice like gravel. You obey instantly, lifting your arms towards the headboard, wrists together. He loops the belt around them, threading it through the sturdy wooden post and pulling it tight. Not enough to cut circulation, but firm, unyielding, pinning you in place. 

The leather bites into your skin just right, a constant reminder that you’re his to use, spread out and helpless on the bed.

“There,” he says, testing the bind with a tug that jerks your arms higher. “Now you take every fucking inch of what I give you. No escaping, no hiding.” 

He climbs back onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs, his strong hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. His cock brushes against your inner thigh, hot and heavy, but he doesn’t enter you yet. Instead, he slides one hand down, his fingers finding your soaked pussy without hesitation.

He pushes two fingers inside you roughly, no teasing warmup, just a deep thrust that stretches your walls and hits that spot that makes your back arch. 

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he grunts, curling his fingers to drag against your inner walls, pumping in and out with a brutal rhythm. His thumb circles your clit, pressing hard, building the pressure fast and relentlessly. 

You moan, your bound hands straining against the belt as pleasure coils tight in you. He watches your face, his expression dark and focused, adding a third finger to scissor inside you, stretching you wider, his pace unyielding.

But just as the edge rushes up, your body tensing and breaths coming in sharp pants, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing. 

“Not yet,” he says, smirking at your whine of protest. 

He slaps your pussy lightly once again, the sting sending a jolt through you, mixing pain with the ache of denial. Then he’s back in, fingers plunging deeper, faster, his free hand pinning your thigh down to keep you from bucking too wildly. He edges you again and again. Thrusting hard until you’re right there, sobbing with need, then withdrawing, spanking your slick cunt to heighten the torment.

“Please, Aaron,” you beg finally, your voice breaking as he works you towards that peak once more, his fingers relentless inside you. “I need to cum…please, let me cum on your fingers. I’ll be good, I swear, just... fuck, please!” The words tumble out desperate and raw, your hips grinding against his hand.

He chuckles darkly, leaning down to bite at your collarbone. “Cum for me, then. Soak my hand like the needy slut you are.”  His fingers slam home one last time, thumb grinding your clit, and the orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clamps down hard around him, waves of heat pulsing through you as you cry out, body shaking against the restraints

As the aftershocks ripple, he doesn’t let up. 

Instead, he yanks his fingers free and brings his hand down in a sharp spank right on your throbbing cunt. The slap echoes, fresh sting blooming across your sensitive skin, making you yelp and twitch. 

“That’s for making such a mess,” he says, his voice laced with approval, already positioning himself closer, his thick cock nudging at your entrance. “But we’re just getting started.”

He drags the thick head of his dick along your slick pussy, pressing just inside your entrance before pulling back out, repeating the torment a few more times. Each shallow thrust leaves you aching, your hips bucking up desperately to chase the fullness you crave. A pathetic whimper escapes your lips, your bound hands straining against the belt looped around the bedposts.

Aaron tsks, his dark eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as he withdraws completely, his cock bobbing heavy and glistening with your arousal. “Not desperate enough yet, huh? I can see it in those pretty eyes…you need to beg like the filthy little whore you are before I’ll fuck this greedy pussy.”

He shifts up your body, his rough palms cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples before pinching them hard enough to make you gasp. He leans in, sucking one into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive bud while his stubble scrapes against your skin, sending sharp tingles racing down your spine. His other hand kneads your flesh roughly, twisting and tugging until your back arches off the bed.

“Remember what I promised?” he murmurs against your tit, his hot breath fanning over the wet skin. “An orgasm with my mouth. Time to deliver.” 

He releases your nipple with a pop and trails his lips downwards, nipping at your ribs, your stomach, until he settles between your spread thighs. His strong hands grip your hips, pinning you in place as his mouth descends on your soaked pussy. 

His tongue lashes out flat and broad, lapping up your juices in long, firm strokes that make your clit throb. He doesn’t hold back. Sucking it into his mouth, nibbling the swollen lips with just enough edge to sting, his stubble rasping against your inner thighs and the tender skin around your cunt like coarse sandpaper, heightening every sensation.

You moan, the roughness of his face grinding into you as he devours your pussy, his tongue plunging deep to fuck you with wet, insistent thrusts. 

“You taste like sin,” he growls against your flesh, the vibrations humming through your core. “Dripping all over my face…such a perfect, needy hole for me to ruin.” He slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot again, pumping in and out with brutal precision while his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard.

The pressure builds fast, your body coiling tight as his fingers stretch and stroke your walls. You’re teetering on the edge when he presses his thumb against your asshole, circling the tight ring before pushing in knuckle-deep. 

The sudden intrusion overwhelms you. Fullness in both holes, his stubble scraping, tongue flicking relentlessly. “Come on, cum for me now,” he demands, voice muffled but commanding. “Milk my fingers with that tight ass and pussy. Show me how much you love being my dirty fucktoy.”

It hits you like a freight train, somehow more intense than the first. Your orgasm rips through, pussy clenching around his fingers, ass fluttering against his thumb as waves of ecstasy crash over you. You scream, body convulsing, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity, every nerve alight as you gush against his mouth. He doesn’t stop, lapping up your release greedily, drawing out the shudders until you’re a trembling mess.

Finally, he pulls back, lips shiny with your cum, a smug grin splitting his face. “That’s my girl. So fucking responsive. But don’t think we’re done. Your ass is next, and I’m gonna make you scream even louder.”

Your body is still quaking from the orgasm, every muscle twitching uncontrollably as overstimulation sets in, your nerves raw and firing on edge. 

Aaron’s fingers remain buried deep in your pussy, and he starts scissoring them wide, stretching your slick walls with deliberate, ruthless pulls and twists that make your hips jerk involuntarily. At the same time, his thumb rotates inside your ass, circling the tight ring with firm pressure, grinding against the sensitive inner walls and sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain shooting up your spine.

You thrash against the belt that’s binding your wrists to the bedposts, the leather biting into your skin as you yank desperately, your back arching off the mattress in a futile bid to escape the overwhelming sensations. 

Whimpers spill from your lips. High-pitched, broken sounds that mix with your shaking breaths. Your thighs are trembling around his hand, pussy is fluttering erratically around his invading fingers.

“Look at you, thrashing like a wild thing,” Aaron growls, his voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on your face as he watches every twitch and gasp. “Already overstimulated and shaking like a leaf, but your holes are sucking me in deeper. You love this, don’t you? Having both your pussy and ass filled up, clenching so greedily around my fingers and thumb,” He scissors harder, spreading you open wider, the wet squelch of your arousal filling the room, while his thumb twists deeper into your ass, rotating with unyielding insistence.

You whimper louder, tears streaking down your cheeks from the intensity, your body a live wire of too much, too soon. But he shows no mercy, his free hand pinning your hip down to keep you from bucking away. 

“Oh no, baby, I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot. You’re gonna take everything I give until you’re begging for my cock in every hole. See how your body’s betraying you? Fuck, it’s a shame I don’t have two cocks to pound this pussy and ass at the same time…stretch you out proper, make you scream until you can’t think straight. But don’t worry, I’ll fill you up anyway. Gonna wreck you with what I’ve got until you’re ruined for anyone else.”

Aaron’s eyes gleam with wicked intent as he pauses his relentless assault on your holes, his gaze flicking towards the bedside table. On a hunch, he reaches over and yanks open the drawer, rummaging briefly until his fingers close around the smooth length of your vibrator. He pulls it out, holding it up with a slow, predatory smile curling his lips, the toy’s silicone shaft glinting under the dim bedroom light.

He withdraws his fingers from your pussy and thumb from your ass in one slick motion, the sudden emptiness making your holes flutter desperately, clenching around nothing as a fresh wave of need cramps through your core. A soft whimper escapes your throat, your body still trembling from the overstimulation, hips twitching in protest at the loss.

He wraps his hand around the vibrator’s base, stroking it slowly from tip to hilt as if it were his own throbbing cock, the motion deliberate and teasing. His real dick twitches visibly against his thigh, hardening further at the sight, pre-cum beading at the slit as he watches you squirm.

“Open your mouth, slut,” he commands, his voice rough and unyielding, leaning in close enough that his stubble scrapes your cheek. “Get this ready for your greedy little cunt. I want it dripping before I fuck you with it.’

You part your lips obediently, and he pushes the vibrator past them, sliding the thick head over your tongue and deep into your mouth. You whimper around the intrusion, the silicone filling your mouth with its unyielding girth, your saliva coating it as he rocks it gently in and out. 

All the while, his free hand roams your body. Fingers tracing your hardened nipples, pinching them sharply to draw out more muffled cries, then dipping lower to stroke your inner thighs, brushing feather-light over your fluttering pussy lips without giving you the pressure you crave. 

“That’s it, suck on it like you wish it was my cock,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a filthy girl, aren’t you? Tied up and whimpering for more, even after I’ve already made you cum so hard. Bet you’ve used this toy thinking about a man like me ruining you.”

After a few teasing thrusts that make your jaw ache, and your whimpers vibrate along the shaft, he pulls the vibrator free with a wet pop, strings of your spit trailing from your lips. He drags the slick toy down your body deliberately. 

Over your chin, between your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebble tighter, then lower across your quivering stomach, teasing the sensitive skin just above your pussy.

Finally, he positions the tip at your entrance, rubbing it up and down your soaked cunt to coat it further in your arousal. “Time to fill that needy pussy,” he growls, and with a firm push, he drives the vibrator deep into your cunt, the vibrations coming to life on a low setting as it stretches you wide, buzzing against your overstimulated walls and sending shockwaves through your bound body.

The vibrator hums steadily inside you, its girth splitting your slick walls as Aaron grips the base and starts thrusting it in and out with deliberate, shallow pumps. 

You’re already so overwhelmed. The orgasms have left your pussy raw and throbbing, every nerve ending screaming from the overload, but he doesn’t stop. He leans over you, his free hand pinning your thigh wide open, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck, look at how that toy stretches your greedy little cunt,” he rasps, his voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on where the vibrator disappears into you. “Gonna fuck you with it slow, make sure it’s soaked through. Can’t have my second cock going in dry…needs to be dripping with your slutty juices so it glides right in later.” 

He twists the base slightly on one thrust, angling it to grind against that swollen spot deep inside, and a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shoots up your spine, your back arching off the bed as you gasp and clench around it.

He pulls it back almost all the way out, the tip catching on your entrance before plunging in again, deeper this time, the hum intensifying the stretch as it bottoms out. Your walls flutter helplessly, trying to adjust, but the overstimulation has you trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the relentless buzz against your clit indirectly through the pressure.

“That’s it, squeeze it like you mean it,” Aaron growls, pumping it faster now in short, teasing strokes that keep you hovering on the edge without mercy. “Feel how it’s buzzing right up against those overworked nerves? You’re gonna beg for it to stop, but I know you won’t. Not when it’s prepping that tight hole for more.”

Sweat beads on your skin, your breath coming in ragged whimpers as the toy fucks into you rhythmically, coating itself thoroughly in your arousal with each wet slide. He reaches down with his thumb, pressing it firmly against your clit in slow circles that sync with the thrusts, amplifying the vibrations until your thighs quake and your bound hands yank at the belt. The build-up coils tight in your belly, heat flooding your limbs, but just as you’re teetering on the brink, he yanks the vibrator free with a slick sound, leaving your pussy clenching around nothing, aching and denied.

“Nope,” he chuckles darkly, holding the glistening toy up so you can see how it’s drenched, strings of your cream clinging to its length. “We’re just getting started. Your ass is next, and I want it ready to take us both.” He trails the buzzing tip along your inner thigh, teasing the puckered ring of your asshole without entering, watching you squirm and whine from the denied release, your body a quivering mess of need.

Aaron’s cock throbs heavily between his legs, bobbing with each shift of his hips as he kneels between your spread thighs, the thick shaft veined and leaking pre-cum from the tip. 

He circles the tight ring of your asshole with the rounded head again, pressing just enough to make the sensitive pucker twitch and flutter under the teasing pressure. Your body jerks from the overstimulation, pussy clenching emptily after the denial, every nerve fried and begging for relief that he won’t grant.

“Has this virgin ass ever had anything shoved inside it?” he demands, his voice a rough command laced with hunger, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he rubs the vibrating tip insistently against your hole, coating it in the remnants of your pussy juices for lubrication. The vibrations send unwelcome sparks through the untouched entrance, making your hips twitch away instinctively, but his free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you steady.

You're too far gone to form words right away. Your mind is a haze of buzzing need, breaths heaving as the toy’s hum echoes in your core, your clit pulsing from the earlier denial. 

The question hangs, unanswered, and Aaron’s jaw tightens. Without warning, his hand cracks down on your soaked pussy with a sharp smack, the wet slap echoing in the room as pain blooms hot and sharp across your swollen folds, jolting you back to focus with a cry, reminding you that you are to answer his questions.

“Speak up, slut,” he growls, rubbing the sting in roughly with his palm before pulling back. “Answer me: Has anyone ever fucked this tight little backdoor?”

“N-no,” you gasp out finally, voice breaking on a whimper, the smack leaving your cunt throbbing anew, heat flooding the abused flesh. “I’ve never... never had anything back there.”

A wicked grin splits his face, dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he notches the vibrator’s tip right at your resistant entrance. 

“Good girl. Means I get to break it in first.” He pushes forward steadily, the buzzing length breaching your asshole with a slow, unyielding pressure that makes the ring stretch and burn around the invading girth. Inch by inch, it sinks in, the vibrations rattling deep into your untouched ass, forcing your walls to yield as they clamp down in protest.

You whine high and desperate, the fullness overwhelming. Your ass is so tight and unaccustomed, every buzz amplifying the stretch until tears spill down your cheeks. Aaron pulls it back out halfway with a slick drag, your hole gaping slightly before he thrusts it in again, deeper this time, twisting to work it around and loosen the clenching muscles. 

“Fuck, feel that? Your poor neglected hole’s gripping it like a vice,” he rasps, pumping the toy in shallow strokes now, in and out, the wet sounds mixing with the hum as he coats your inner walls with the lube from your pussy. “Gotta prepare you right…stretch this virgin ass wide so it can take my cock later. Can’t have you tearing when I split you open.”

His free hand wraps around his bobbing cock, stroking himself lazily as he watches the vibrator fuck into your ass, the sight making his length twitch and harden further. 

The dual sensations, the toy’s relentless buzz stretches you from behind while your overstimulated pussy aches, untouched, have you thrashing against the belt restraints, body a trembling wreck of denied pleasure and building intensity. He doesn’t let up, driving the vibrator deeper with each pass, rotating it slightly to widen you, his dirty words pouring out like gravel. “That’s it, take it deeper for me. Your ass is gonna be ruined for anyone else after tonight…gaping and hungry for cock, just like your sloppy cunt.”

Aaron eases the vibrator out of your ass with a deliberate slowness, the buzzing toy dragging against your clenching walls until it pops free, leaving your hole stretched and gaping slightly in its wake. A raw, puckered ring that twitches and winks open, exposed and vulnerable under his hungry gaze. 

The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, your body shuddering from the lingering vibrations that echo through your core, your ass muscles fluttering helplessly as cool air kisses the abused entrance.

“Fuck, look at that,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust, his eyes locked on the way your hole refuses to close fully, quivering from the preparation. “Can’t wait any longer. Gonna bury my cock in that dripping cunt now. Been teasing you long enough.”

He sets the slick vibrator aside on the bed, the toy still humming faintly, and grips his throbbing shaft at the base, the thick length heavy and flushed, veins pulsing as he lines it up with your soaked folds. The broad head nudges your entrance, parting the swollen lips with a teasing rub, smearing your arousal along the underside before he presses forward.

He doesn’t rush it. Oh no, Aaron savours the stretch, inching his bare cock inside you with controlled pressure that makes your pussy walls yield around the invading girth. You’re so wet from the earlier torment, but the fullness hits like a shock, his thickness splitting you open as he sinks deeper, the bare skin of his shaft gliding against your sensitive inner flesh without any barrier. 

“Feel how you’re sucking me in? This greedy little pussy’s been begging for it,” he growls, hips rolling in a shallow grind to work himself further, the head bumping your cervix with a jolt that has you arching off the bed. 

He teases you, pulling back just enough to let the ridge of his dick catch on your entrance before thrusting in again, stretching you wider with each pass, your body trembling as it adjusts to the raw, unyielding intrusion.

Once he’s fully seated, balls-deep and grinding against your clit, he starts thrusting. Hard, deliberate strokes that punch into you, his hips snapping forward to fill you completely. The rhythm builds quickly, his cock pistoning in and out with wet, obscene slaps, your pussy clenching around him in desperate pulls. 

It doesn’t take long; the overstimulation from before has you teetering on the edge, and after just a few deep, punishing thrusts, the coil snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, walls spasming wildly around his buried length, milking him as waves of heat rip through your core, a broken cry tearing from your throat.

“Tsk, tsk,” Aaron chides, his voice a low rumble even as he doesn’t stop, pounding through your climax with unrelenting force. “Cumming already? I didn’t give you permission, did I?” 

But there’s a dark thrill in his tone, and as your body convulses around him, mind fracturing into a haze of white-hot bliss, thoughts scattering like ash, he reaches down with one hand, snatching up the abandoned vibrator. You’re still lost in the throes, barely registering the world beyond the pounding in your pussy, when he angles it back toward your ass.

The tip presses against your gaping hole without mercy, and he shoves it in deep in one firm push, the buzzing girth reclaiming the stretched passage while his cock continues to fuck your cunt. 

The dual penetration hits like lightning: the immense stretch overwhelming, your ass walls clamping down on the invading toy even as they burn from the renewed fullness, vibrations rattling through the thin barrier separating it from his thrusting shaft. 

It feels impossible, too much, your body locked in a vice of sensation as he holds the vibrator buried to the hilt, twisting it slightly to amplify the buzz against your most sensitive spots. You gasp incoherently, hips bucking wildly against the restraints, the combined assault dragging out your orgasm into something endless and shattering, every nerve screaming from the intensity while Aaron’s grin widens.

He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you back onto his shaft with every thrust, the dual invasion making your walls flutter and spasm around both the thick toy and his bare length. 

“That’s it, take it all,” he snarls, voice rough and commanding, leaning over you to pin you down further against the mattress, his weight pressing you into the sheets as he rutted like an animal. The vibrator stays lodged deep, its base flush against your skin, and he twists it occasionally with his free hand, grinding it against your inner walls to heighten the vibrations that rattle your core, making your ass burn and pulse around the intrusion.

He teases you through the haze of your shattered mind, slowing his pace just enough to drag his cock out to the tip before ramming back in, the head battering your cervix with each punishing stroke. 

“Look at you, so fucking wrecked already. Pussy squeezing me like it never wants me to stop, even with your ass stuffed full.” His words drip with dominance, a low chuckle escaping as he feels you tremble beneath him, your bound wrists straining against the belt, body arching involuntarily into the relentless pounding. 

Sweat slicks his chest, dripping onto your skin as he picks up speed again, thrusts turning erratic and savage, balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks that echo the obscene squelch of your soaked cunt gripping him.

The pressure builds unbearably, the vibrator’s merciless hum amplifying every slide of his cock along your sensitive nerves, pushing you toward the edge once more despite the exhaustion ripping through your limbs. 

You’re a mess of gasps and whimpers, mind blank and floating in a sea of sensation, every nerve ending raw from the onslaught. Aaron senses it, growls low in his throat, and redoubles his efforts: fucking you harder, deeper, the friction between the toy and his shaft creating a friction that has you seeing stars. 

“Cum for me again, slut. Milk my cock while I fill you up.” His command shatters the last of your control, and your fifth orgasm rips through you like fire, pussy convulsing violently around him, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that drag a guttural moan from his lips.

He doesn’t stop, pounding through your climax with savage grunts, the way your body seizes around him tipping him over. 

His cock swells inside you, thrusts stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding against your clit. Hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, thick ropes painting your inner walls as he roars his release, holding the vibrator steady to prolong the torment. You feel every pulse, the warmth spreading deep as he empties himself, your wrecked body quaking from the aftershocks, ass still clenching around the buzzing toy while his seed leaks out around his softening shaft.

Finally, he stills, breathing ragged, but doesn’t pull out yet, but rather lets you lie there utterly spent, limbs limp and trembling, mind fractured into pieces from the endless pleasure. Your pussy throbs around his cock, ass stretched and vibrating faintly, every inch of you marked and claimed, completely wrecked.

Aaron’s breaths slow from ragged pants to steady draws, his body finally easing off the frantic rhythm as the haze of his orgasm clears. He shifts his weight carefully, one hand still resting on your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the red marks he’s left there. 

“Shh, easy now,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a low, soothing rumble, all traces of the snarling dominance gone, replaced by a gentle tenderness that surprises even in the afterglow.

He reaches back first, fingers wrapping around the base of the vibrator still humming faintly in your ass. With deliberate slowness, he eases it out inch by inch, the toy slick with your arousal, popping free with a wet, obscene squelch that makes your oversensitive nerves twitch. 

Your ass clenches instinctively at the sudden emptiness, the ring of muscle gaping slightly, raw and fluttering from the prolonged stretch, a dull ache throbbing in its wake. You whimper high and broken, body jerking faintly against the restraints, the overstimulation hitting like a wave now that the relentless buzz is gone.

Aaron hushes you softly, “I’ve got you, just breathe,” as he sets the vibrator aside on the nightstand with a quiet click. 

Then, he grips the base of his cock, still half-hard and slick with your combined fluids, and pulls out gradually, dragging along your swollen walls until the head slips free. The withdrawal drags a lewd, sucking sound from your pussy, followed by a thick gush of his cum spilling out, warm and viscous, dripping down your folds and over your ass to pool on the sheets beneath you. 

Your pussy gapes too, stretched wide and pulsing, the inner lips puffy and red from the rough fucking, every tiny movement sending sparks of sharp pleasure-pain through your core.

You’re a trembling mess, whimpers turning to soft whines as the dual emptiness leaves you feeling exposed and achingly hollow, your body too wrecked to do more than quiver under his gaze. Tears prick at your eyes from the intensity, limbs heavy and boneless, mind foggy with the overload of sensations that won’t quite fade.

He unties the belt from your wrists with careful fingers, gently rubbing circulation back into them, then gathers you against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady. “There you go, sweetheart, you’re safe,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to your temple and forehead, his free hand stroking down your back in slow, reassuring circles. 

He shifts you both slightly, pulling a blanket over your cooling skin, his touch light and protective now, letting you sink into the warmth of his body as the whines quiet to shaky breaths.

Your breaths even out gradually, the whines fading into soft sighs as Aaron’s steady presence anchors you, his hand still tracing lazy patterns along your spine. The overstimulation lingers like a low hum in your veins, every nerve ending raw and tingling, but the exhaustion creeps in heavier now, pulling your eyelids down despite the ache between your thighs. You’re drifting, words too far away to grasp, body limp and heavy in his arms.

After a few quiet minutes, Aaron presses one last kiss to your hair and carefully disentangles himself, easing your head back onto the pillow with a murmured, “Stay right there, I’ll be quick.” The bed dips as he rises, his footsteps soft on the floor as he pads to the bathroom. 

The sound of running water filtering through the door. Moments later, he returns carrying a small ceramic bowl steaming faintly with warm water and a soft white washcloth draped over his arm. His expression is calm, attentive, all sharp edges softened in the dim light.

Kneeling beside the bed, he dips the cloth into the water, wringing it out with careful squeezes until droplets cease falling. Starting at your face, he dabs lightly over your cheeks and forehead, wiping away the streaks of dried tears and sweat with feather-light strokes that make you sigh. “Good girl, just relax,” he says softly, his voice a low anchor. 

You manage a faint hum, too sleepy to form anything more, your eyes fluttering half-closed as the cloth moves down your neck, tracing the curve of your collarbone with feather-light pressure. He avoids the tender spots at first, dipping the cloth back into the water to refresh it, then works lower, cleaning the sweat and spit from your breasts, circling each nipple with careful swipes that make you twitch faintly from the sensitivity.

He works methodically lower, parting your thighs with gentle hands to access the mess between your legs. The cloth presses tenderly against your inner thighs first, cleaning the sticky trails of arousal and cum that have cooled there. 

You flinch slightly at the initial contact, your nerves still raw and buzzing, but he pauses, blowing a cool breath over the area before resuming, the warmth seeping in to ease the hypersensitivity. He folds the cloth to a fresh side and wipes along your swollen folds, careful not to press too hard on your puffy clit, though the mere brush sends a faint echo of pleasure sparking through you.

He dips it just inside to scoop out the thick globs that linger, each pass drawing a soft whimper from your lips. Your pussy twitches under the attention, gaping slightly as he works, but his touch remains patient, thorough, without overwhelming. He shifts to your ass next, lifting your hips with one steady hand while the other guides the cloth over the tender ring, washing away the slickness with slow circles that make your muscles flutter in response.

You squirm a little, too worn out to protest, just a soft whine escaping as sleep tugs harder at you.

Once satisfied, he rinses the cloth in the bowl and repeats the process, ensuring every inch is tended to until your skin feels clean and refreshed.

“All done, sweetheart,” he whispers once you’re fresh and the bowl’s water is murky, setting everything aside and drying you off with a soft towel from the bathroom. He tucks the blanket back around you, pulling it up to your chin, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. You barely register him standing, your mind already slipping into that fuzzy space between wakefulness and dreams.

The shower starts up in the bathroom, a quick rush of water that lasts only a few minutes. Enough for him to rinse off the sweat and scents of your encounter. When it shuts off, he emerges, skin damp and towel slung low around his hips, the air carrying a faint clean scent. 

He dries off swiftly, then slides into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you back against his warm chest, his breath steady and even against your neck. “Sleep now,” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder, and you do, sinking into the safety of his hold as darkness claims you.

You sleep dreamlessly and utterly exhausted when morning comes softly.

At first it’s just light slipping through the curtains and stretching across the bed in quiet lines. It brushes over your closed eyelids, warm and insistent, until you stir.

You’re aware of him before you even open your eyes.

The weight of his arm is still draped over your waist, heavier now in sleep. His chest is solid against your back, rising and falling in a slow rhythm that feels almost grounding. One of his legs is hooked loosely over yours, keeping you there without effort, like even unconscious he hasn’t quite let you go.

You shift the smallest amount.

Behind you, he makes a low sound, half breath, half murmur, still lost to sleep, merely reacting to the disturbance. His arm tightens instinctively, drawing you nearer by an inch.

The movement sends a dull ache through your body.

Right. Last night.

Your muscles protest in tender places. Your skin feels strangely sensitive, as though it remembers every touch with greater clarity than your mind yet does. There is a lingering heaviness low in your body that sends embarrassment and something softer, deeper, curling together through your stomach.

You open your eyes fully and lie still for a moment.

The room is quiet, washed in the pale morning light that slips through the curtains in narrow bands. Dust drifts lazily in it. Somewhere outside, traffic murmurs at a distance, softened by glass and height. Inside the room, there is only the warmth of tangled sheets, the faint scent of sleep and skin, and the steady presence of the man behind you.

It is almost strange how peaceful it feels.

Not awkward. Not hurried. Not like a mistake waiting to be regretted or an encounter from which one ought to make a graceful escape before daylight can expose it. Merely quiet. Merely still.

Carefully, you tilt your head enough to glance back at him.

His face is relaxed in sleep, all sharp edges softened. Hair messy, a little damp at the ends. There’s something unexpectedly gentle about him like this, nothing like the version of him from last night.

Your chest tightens, just a little.

Then you glance toward the bedside table and your eyes lock onto the clock. Your eyes widen at once. Panic strikes so suddenly it feels physical. You jerk upright too fast, a sharp breath catching in your throat as every part of your body objects to the abrupt movement. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to no one in particular, already clawing your way out of sheets that seem determined to hold you hostage.

Behind you, he stirs properly this time.

“…what?” His voice is roughened by sleep, deep and disoriented, dragged reluctantly into consciousness.

“I’m late,” you blurt, pushing hair from your face as you scan the room in mounting horror. “I’m…I have my first day today, I..”

Words abandon you. You reach for your shirt from the floor, snatching it up with frantic hands.

There is a brief pause behind you. Then the mattress shifts with his weight. A hand closes gently around your wrist. Not hard. Not restraining. Simply enough to stop the frantic motion for a moment.

“Hey.”

You turn, breath still uneven. Aaron is sitting up now, sheets low around his waist, eyes half-lidded with sleep yet already focused, already gathering himself into alertness with that unnerving speed some people possess.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice quieter now, steadier. “What time do you start?”

“Nine,” you answer, the word coming out thinner than you intended. 

Aaron shifts slightly beside you, leaning toward the bedside clock with the lingering heaviness of someone only recently dragged from sleep. He narrows his eyes at the display for a moment before speaking, voice still roughened by sleep and entirely too calm for the crisis you had just convinced yourself was unfolding.

“It’s eight ten.”

You stare at him.

For a second, your mind refuses the information outright, as though it has already committed itself so thoroughly to catastrophe that reason can no longer gain entry. Then, slowly, reality catches up. You are not late. You had never been late. You had simply panicked yourself into believing it.

The realisation moves through you all at once. The rigid tension in your shoulders collapses, leaving behind a dizzy mixture of relief, embarrassment, and the near-hysterical urge to laugh at your own foolishness.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, dragging a hand down over your face. “I thought - I genuinely thought it was nearly nine.”

“Clearly,” he murmurs.

There is amusement in his voice now, though it is subtle, restrained by the same natural control that seems stitched into every part of him.

You sink back onto the edge of the bed, your heart still pounding from the rush of alarm, clutching your shirt in one hand as though it were evidence in some private case against your dignity. Morning light spills across the sheets, across the floor scattered with clothing, across the broad line of Aaron’s shoulders where he sits half-turned toward you.

Then you feel it.

His hand, warm and fully awake now, settling lightly at the small of your back. The touch is gentle enough to surprise you.

“You okay?” he asks.

It is such a simple question, asked without teasing, without smugness, without any attempt to make light of your brief unraveling. He is not laughing at you. He is only checking.

You glance at him, momentarily thrown by the sincerity of it.

“Yes,” you say after a pause, softer now. “Just… first day nerves, apparently mixed with temporary insanity.”

He gives a small nod, as though that explanation accounts for everything. Perhaps, to him, it does.

“Come here.”

The words are quiet, lacking any of the command they might have carried the night before. There is no force in them now, only invitation.

You hesitate for scarcely a heartbeat before shifting back toward him.

His arm slips around you once more, slower this time, deliberate in a way that feels almost careful. He draws you against him - not tightly, not with the consuming urgency of last night, but just enough that you settle easily beside him, your shoulder against his chest, your temple brushing the warm line of him.

“You’ve got time,” he murmurs near your hair.

Your body still aches in small, lingering ways, every muscle aware of the night behind you, yet held like this the soreness feels less sharp, less startling. It becomes something softer. Something grounded.

You allow yourself to remain there for longer than you probably should, listening to the measured rhythm of his breathing, feeling the quiet steadiness of him beneath your cheek.

Eventually, reality returns in the practical form of needing to get ready, and the two of you move around one another in that peculiar space shared by strangers who are no longer strangers, but not yet anything clearly defined either. There is a slight awkwardness to it, though not an unpleasant one. Something intimate and uncertain at once.

The bathroom mirror fogs as you wash your face, and when you glance at your reflection, you scarcely recognise the woman looking back. Your hair is unruly, your mouth still faintly swollen, your cheeks touched with leftover colour. There is a softness to you that had not been there yesterday.

When you step back into the bedroom, Aaron is pulling on his shirt. He does so with easy, efficient movements, fastening buttons as though mornings after unexpected nights are either common enough not to trouble him, or rare enough that he has learned not to show it.

“Coffee?” he asks, glancing over.

You nod at once. “Please.”

The kitchen is small, the sort of space that was never meant for two people moving through it, and yet the quiet between you remains strangely comfortable. He moves with competence there too, finding mugs, measuring grounds, setting water to boil with the calm assurance of a man who prefers order wherever he can create it.

A minute later he hands you a mug. Your fingers brush as you take it, and a faint spark passes between skin and skin, something of last night returning in gentler form.

You lean against opposite counters, sipping in companionable silence for a while. It is not awkward. It is merely new.

“So,” you say at last, blowing lightly across the surface of your coffee, “is this how your mornings after usually go?”

He lets out a low breath that might almost be called a laugh and shakes his head.

“No.”

You look up.

He is already looking at you.

“This isn’t really my thing,” he adds after a moment, voice quieter now. Then, as if unwilling to let the confession grow too serious, he reaches into his pocket. “But.”

He steps closer and sets his mug aside. From his pocket, he produces a receipt and a pen, scribbling something quickly before taking your hand and pressing the folded paper into your palm.

You unfold it. His number.

When you look back up, he is wearing the faintest crooked smile. It transforms him again, softening the severe lines of his face into something unexpectedly warm.

“I’d like to take you out properly,” he says. “Somewhere that isn’t your bedroom.”

Your lips curve despite yourself.

“Properly?”

“Yes,” he says, and there is something in the steadiness of the word that makes your chest tighten. “Properly.”

A pause settles between you, though this one feels different from the earlier uncertainties. It is not tense or awkward. It feels open, as though something has quietly begun without either of you naming it.

He glances toward the door, then back to you.

“I should head back. Need to change before work.”

“Okay,” you reply.

Neither of you moves immediately.

Then he steps nearer one final time, lifting a hand to brush an errant strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so small, so ordinary, and yet it lands with surprising force.

“Good luck today,” he says softly.

“Thank you.”

He leans in then, pressing a brief kiss to your lips, gentle, warm, and far more affecting than the fiercer ones that came before it.

And then he is gone.

The door closes with a quiet click, leaving the apartment still once more.

You remain where you are for a moment, coffee warm between your hands, his number folded in your fingers. Outside waits your first day, your new life, the sharp unknown of everything ahead.

After a long breath, you set the mug down and begin to move. The day, after all, is waiting.

You arrive at the building with a curious mixture of anticipation and unease, around ten minutes later. 

The structure itself rises with an austere authority, all clean lines and guarded entrances, as though it were less a place of work and more a vessel for serious, unspoken things.

Inside, the air is cool, almost clinical. Your footsteps echo faintly against polished floors as you are directed forward, deeper into the heart of it.

You find her soon enough.

Erin Strauss stands waiting her posture impeccable, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She greets you briskly, her words precise, and without delay begins to guide you through the corridors. As you walk, she speaks of procedures, of expectations, of names that pass you by too quickly to properly anchor themselves in your mind.

You try to listen. You truly do. But there is something about the place, a quiet tension beneath its order, that unsettles your focus.

At last, she leads you into a wide, open office.

Desks stand arranged with a peculiar neatness, papers stacked, screens dark or idling. Yet the room feels… absent. As though its occupants have only just departed, leaving behind the faint impression of movement and thought.

“There you go,” Strauss says, gesturing with a measured hand. “This is the BAU.”

Her voice carries easily in the stillness.

She turns slightly, indicating a door at the far end of the room - closed, yet not entirely concealed. The blinds are open, and through them, a figure may be glimpsed.

“And this,” she continues, “is where your Unit Chief, SSA Hotchner’s office is. I’ll get him for you.”

Your attention, already drifting, settles fully upon that door. There is something almost involuntary in the way your gaze lingers.

Inside, you see him.

A man, tall even in repose, seated behind his desk, his form bent slightly forward in concentration. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. The quiet intensity of someone wholly absorbed in his work. Papers are spread before him, and though you cannot hear him, you can almost imagine the faint scratch of pen against page, the steady rhythm of thought made visible.

There is something strikingly familiar  about him. In the stillness he seems to command, as though the room itself conforms to his presence.

Strauss moves away from you, her heels marking a deliberate path across the floor. She knocks. The man looks up and rises.

You look away then, perhaps too quickly, your attention shifting across the empty desks, searching for signs of the rest of the team Strauss had mentioned. It is a small, instinctive act, an attempt to steady yourself, though you cannot quite say why.

Fragments of the morning return unbidden: tangled sheets warmed by sunlight, the pressure of an arm around your waist, the low roughness of a sleep-heavy voice, the brush of fingers against yours over a mug of coffee. The softness that had followed the storm of the night before.

You push the memories aside with some effort.Not quickly enough.

You do not hear the office door open. You do not notice footsteps crossing the floor. But you are aware only of a subtle change in the air beside you. A presence close enough to alter the space itself.

You turn.

And in that instant, the world seems to contract violently around a single, impossible fact.

Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.

Your mouth goes dry.

Because you know him.

Not as a superior waiting to be introduced. Not as a stranger glimpsed through office glass.

But as the man whose hands had been on you only hours ago. The man who had kissed you goodbye this morning. The man who had fucked you within an inch of your life, who had stood half-dressed in your kitchen making coffee as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The man who had pressed his number into your palm and said, with quiet certainty, that he wished to see you again.

Aaron.

Only now -

Aaron Hotchner.

He stands before you immaculate in a dark suit, every trace of the night before hidden beneath the severe authority of his position. The shirt is crisp, the tie exact, his expression composed to the point of austerity. He looks every inch the unit chief people speak of in lowered voices.

If he feels even a fraction of the shock that you have just gone through, he does not show it.

Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his gaze betrays that he, too, is affected.

He extends his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The words are smooth, measured, impeccably professional.

As though nothing at all has passed between you.

It was a lie. He’d spent enough time around you to know you wouldn’t have a stash of cocaine hidden in the walls. On the other hand, he wouldn’t mind if you wanted handcuffs and—

Shit.

Why did his mind keep going there? You would be his undoing; after years of dealing with the worst kind of people, it would be you—a strangely charismatic woman—who drove him mad.

"Are you coming in or not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Aaron had obviously caught glimpses of your apartment before, but actually being inside and taking it all in was a different experience. He couldn't help but discreetly observe the room. It was just as organized as he’d imagined, of course, but he definitely hadn't expected a living room decorated with such detail—a potted plant in every corner and a sofa piled high with cushions.

The living room was a curious contrast to what he was used to seeing in the hallway; yet, the decor was so… you.

Aaron had never been the prying type, but he found himself wanting to explore the other rooms.

Was every room decorated to reflect a different facet of your personality? Like a fragmented whole?

Or did you simply not bother decorating the rest, leaving it all a uniform icy white? Did you paint the pictures on the wall yourself, or buy them at a store?

It was striking; no matter how much insight he gained into who you were, it was never enough.

"So…" Aaron began in a low voice. "If it wasn't drugs, what were you offering?"

"Breakfast," you replied simply, setting your bag on the table and gently slipping off your tulle poncho.

It took his brain a few seconds to process that, as he took in how good black looked on you. "Sorry, did you say breakfast?"

"Yes," you said, walking past him to grab a package from the freezer and turning to switch on the oven. "When I was a kid and had a bad day, my mom would tell me to start the day over, so dinner would be breakfast."

Aaron pondered for a moment, watching you line up the rolls in the pan. “Interesting method.”

You gave him a small smile as you put them in the oven. “It’s odd, but it works.”

Aaron let his gaze wander around the room as you finished preparing the rolls. There were small paintings hanging next to the front door, they were smaller than the ones you had in the room.

The frames held children's drawings.

He glanced your way. You were too focused on spreading the cream over the cupcakes to notice. Aaron approached, observing discreetly.

In the first, three stick figures smiled in front of a crooked house, small hearts decorated the grass, as if they were flowers. In the next, a park occupied almost the entire page, with lots of trees in different shades of green. Three dolls appeared again, but they were different from the first. Two tall dolls and one smaller, with a blue shirt, spiky hair and a bicycle at their side.

Jack.

You looked up over your shoulder, following the direction of his gaze. “Where is Jack, by the way?”

Aaron turned his attention away from the drawings and walked to the bench, stopping next to him. “He went with Jessica to visit his grandfather.” He rested one hand on the back of a chair, watching you pick up the plates. “Let’s say we don’t have a good relationship, it’s… complicated.”

You handed him the plates, before pulling two glasses from the cupboard. “Relax, I understand complicated family dynamics.”

He took them, arching an eyebrow as he looked at his hand. “Wine for breakfast?

“It’s a hypothetical breakfast,” you reminded him. “Besides, somewhere in the world it’s already midnight.”

Aaron laughed through his nose, “That’s what some alcoholic would say.”

“I would be a wise alcoholic.”

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“Favorite band.”

Aaron didn’t answer right away. Back in college, he used to like going to the record store when he had time—sometimes he’d even catch a few shows—but now? When was the last time he’d actually stopped to listen to music?

“I’m not sure I have one.”

“Nah,” you scoffed, pouring a little more wine into your own glass. “Liar.”

He held his glass out toward you. “I really don’t.”

“Aaron…”

“I listen to whatever’s playing in the car.”

“Ouch,” you winced as you topped off his glass. “What a sad life.”

Aaron let out a low laugh. “Right, I guess it’s the Beatles.”

“Good choice,” you murmured. “Besides running, what else do you do to relax?”

“I read,” he took a sip, wondering when the last time was that he’d had time to read a whole book. “Sometimes I go fishing.”

You nodded. “Quiet hobbies.”

He grabbed another bite-sized snack, setting his glass aside to lean back against the sofa. “And you?”

“I like reading too; sometimes I like to cook.”

Aaron nodded, finishing his bite. “You’re good at it.”

You looked up, resting your head against the back of the sofa so you could see him better. “Thanks.”

For a moment, silence settled between you. It wasn’t awkward; it was… comfortable.

Aaron absentmindedly twirled his glass between his fingers before setting it on the coffee table. Then he mimicked you, leaning his head back against the sofa and staring at the ceiling. “You know…”

You murmured a questioning “hm?” to encourage him to go on, all while keeping your eyes on him.

“It’s nice to have a conversation that doesn’t involve suspects or a race against the clock.” He let out a soft sigh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

Aaron turned just enough to meet your gaze.

“Thank you.” You held his gaze in silence for a few seconds before giving him a small smile. “I think we both needed this.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a small smile.

Silence returned; there was no urgency to fill it.

Beep, beep, beep.

You jumped up from the sofa.

"Shit," you muttered, setting your glass on the table before sinking back down with a hand over your heart.

Oh, crap.

You’d forgotten to turn off the oven timer.

The comfortable silence between you lasted less than a second before Aaron started laughing.

Not his usual understated half-smile, but a genuine laugh—the kind that makes his shoulders shake.

You glanced at him sideways, torn between indignation and surprise. "Stop laughing!" you murmured, amused, before tossing a cushion his way; it hit his chest before landing in his lap.

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Aaron grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on while you searched for your apartment keys for the second time that morning.

“Do you always lose your keys, or is it just me?” he asked with amusement, finishing his cup of coffee.

You scoffed, setting your bag on the table before patting down your coat and trouser pockets. “Look who’s talking—until last night, you were homeless.”

“Touché.”

He fell silent for a moment, waiting for you to finish locking the door. “So… are you busy tonight?”

You called the elevator, glancing over at him. “No, why?”

“I was thinking…” Aaron paused briefly. “I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner tonight.”

You gave a half-smile. “Aaron, if this is about yesterday, you really don’t have to. I enjoyed the company. I wasn’t expecting a thank-you.”

“It’s not a thank-you.” He gestured for you to step into the elevator first before turning to face you. “I’m asking you out because I want to. Don’t take this as a thank-you; it’s a date.”

Oh my god

“A date?” you asked, slightly confused, hoping your ears had deceived you.

“Yes,” he replied promptly, without hesitation. “Is seven o’clock good for you?”

A date?

Oh God, a date.

It was a simple word, but it seemed strangely huge now that it was coming from his lips.

You have a date with Aaron.

“Seven o’clock is great,” you managed to say after a moment.

A smile—surprisingly big compared to the ones you were used to getting—spread across his face. It was almost… relieved. As if he hadn’t been sure what your answer would be until that very moment.

“I’ll come pick you up.”

You simply nodded, unable to hide the small smile that kept tugging at your lips. It still felt strange to think about it. A date. With Aaron.

He took a step back, as if he were about to say something else, but changed his mind at the last second.

“So… see you later.”

“See you later.”

You caught glimpses of Hotch, his distinct cologne mingling with the warehouse's musty air. He was agonizingly close yet not close enough to touch. The unsub's footsteps were barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Only three cases in, and it seemed the universe was conspiring to reroute your career choice.

Frantically, you attempted to wipe your face on your shirt as the footsteps ceased before you and Hotch. The man was a ghastly figure, burns cutting from one side of his face to the other. You couldn't breathe.

"What a day to have feds come knocking." His voice was hoarse, fingers absently playing with a lighter.

"You know, they say the most intelligent criminals are the ones who don't get caught, yet here we are," Hotch said, his chin defiantly up, words sharp and calculated.

Suddenly, the unsub was right there, his disfigured face uncomfortably close, the heat from the lighter singeing your skin. His breath was a hot, sticky assault, and you fought the instinct to flinch.

"Smart men don't leave witnesses, and I intend to be very smart about this."

The foundations of your training flitted across your consciousness, the methodologies for keeping control of the situation, but they sifted through your fingers like said, rendering you paralyzed.

"Take her then. She's new, inexperienced. Probably more trouble than she's worth." Hotch's voice was cold, jarring like a slap to the face, his expression empty of emotion.

You strained to keep your face impassive, your eyes darting to Hotch, pleading for his attention. Your breaths were shallow, scarcely there. He had to be bluffing. You felt sick. The unsub shifted his weight, scrutinizing you both, edging closer to hotch, no doubt with suspicion.

The unsub laughed, a cold and calculating sound as he circled around Hotch. "You expect me to believe you'd turn on your own that quickly? I'm not a fool."

"Look at her and tell me what her worth is to me." Hotch's voice was even, almost bored. "She's a liability. Too emotional, too soft." 

His words were flung carelessly, yet they landed with precision, straight into your chest. Your teeth punished the inside of your cheek.

The remarks were like sharp barbs to your chest, instilling a hollow feeling as you attempted to convince yourself that the wetness on your lashes was anything but tears. His assessment was not unfounded. Your empathy, your sensitivity, traits deemed too tender for the harsher realities of your job, were now being used against you. Hotch had always been an exception, until now.

"Well, I could see her worth in other ways." The man's words oozed contempt, his gaze crawling over you in a way that threatened to turn your stomach. "I bet that's how she got the job in the first place, huh?"

"What do you think?" Hotch's laugh was a sinister match to the unsub's. He tilted his head in your direction. "Look at her. That's all she's been good for."

Your breath caught in your throat, your body turning as much as the ties would permit in Hotch's direction. You could almost hear your heart shattering, could feel it in Hotch's inability to face you. Was this a plan or had he truly discarded you?

You never deluded yourself into thinking you were Hotch's favorite, his reserved interactions with you made that abundantly clear. In fact, you were probably his least favorite. He had kept you at an arm's length, while seemingly forging bonds with the others that didn't seem to extend to you.

This was all within reason, given your inexperience and younger age, but the disdain lacing his words was unexpected, shredding through any pretense of professional detachment.

Hotch had never wanted you on the team, it was Rossi who had vouched for you. And now, look where that got you both.

Maybe this was all deserved.

"Then you won't mind if I try her out for myself?" The unsub's insinuation felt like a perverse validation of Hotch's doubts. 

A low hum escaped the unsub as he closed the distance, his gaze predatory. You stilled, breath caught as he produced a knife from his pocket, skimming your cheek just shy of cutting. You were scared and you were scared to show it. Desperately, you looked to Hotch, the blade now hovering precariously close to your sternum.

Hotch wouldn't look at you. You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, but that was all shoved to the bottom of your throat as the unsub sliced down the middle of your shirt, exposing your chest and compelling your gaze to it. Tears of humiliation prickled your eyes. How could Hotch let this happen to you?

The unsub's clammy grip clung to your waist, your lips trembling as you prepared for the worst. You closed your eyes, escaping to your house in your mind — tea brewing, fireplace going — anywhere but here.

A sudden splatter to your face jolted you back, eyes opening in alarm you saw Hotch's eyes, not the unsub's.

"You're okay, you're okay," Hotch murmurs. 

The words did little to comfort you, his hands moving blindly to release the binds at your wrist and ankles. Looking down, you see the unsub, knife through his back, blood pooling around him. Hotch's hands are on your wrists, his thumbs massaging away the sting. 

When your hand touches your face, you feel the splatter from earlier, coming back away with a smear of blood on your fingertips. 

Your voice felt like it was a prisoner inside yourself, words and sounds slipping past you like ghosts. A persistent ringing in your ears muffled all but the pungent scent of the warehouse, which clawed at your senses. 

You felt the jostle of hands, the motion of being lifted, a sensation so distant it barely registered. The world was a smear of lights and faces — the team showing up, the paramedics — until it slowly came into focus. 

You barely registered that Hotch was speaking to you, his words indistinct and muffled.

"What?" you asked, your speech slow to form and blurred at the edges.

You had a jacket over the front of you, his jacket, covering your exposed chest.

Hotch's eyes were pools of worry as he grasped at your hand. It was weird, the feeling of his hand in yours. You realized that was the first time you had felt it. 

"More water?"

You could only nod, and he promptly fetched a bottle, twisting it open and placing it in your hand. You took a small sip. 

"It's too loud," you mumbled, you were aware you weren't making sense.  You shifted to face him, your knee grazing his thigh. "Did you mean those things you said?"

"Of course I didn't mean it," Hotch replied quickly, his gaze intense. "You thought I meant that?"

Your gaze dropped to your lap, voice faltering. "I don't know... I wasn't sure, I mean, no, but I just... I don't feel very useful, and this whole mess, it's because of me and I —,"

Tears interrupted you, your hands fumbling to hide them. Hotch reached out, gently turning your face to his, thumb brushing away the tears. 

"Hey, look at me. Don't say that. This isn't your fault. Nothing I said back there was true. I needed to distract him, had to make him concentrate on you."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying like this," you stammered between sobs. 

"You don't have to apologize. You're crying because you've been through a lot. Just breathe, take your time."

You managed a wobbly smile. "You hit the nail on the head with the too emotional part," you sniffled.

Hotch gave a small chuckle. "Your compassion, your sensitivity, it's what sets you apart as an agent, in fact, it makes you an outstanding one."

You were close now, your gaze inadvertently drawn to his lips. You could kiss him if you wanted. Not that you were in the right headspace or that it was appropriate. But you could've.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so glad you're okay!" You were barreled into a hug, the familiar voice and blur of color of Penelope enveloping your senses.

Hotch cautioned, "Watch her head." 

With Penelope's hands around you, you found yourself looking over her shoulder, locking eyes with Hotch. His gaze held a new light, a recognition that maybe, just maybe you weren't Hotch's least favorite agent after all.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme

He doesn't act on it that night. He eats alone, clears the table, goes through the motions of an evening that was supposed to have you in it. He'd had a reservation. He'd thought about what you'd order. He'd been looking forward to it in the quiet, private way he allows himself to look forward to things now—carefully, without broadcasting it, the way a person cups a small flame against the wind. He puts the reservation out of his head and notices the shape of the cancellations instead, because he can't help it. The way the first one had been apologetic and detailed—so sorry, work's been a nightmare, can we do Sunday? The second, a little vaguer. This one stripped down to almost nothing, a message constructed to communicate as little as possible while still technically communicating. He knows that particular economy of language. He uses it himself when he doesn't want anyone to ask too many questions.

He gives it until the next evening.

You don't answer your phone. It rings out to voicemail, and he listens to your recorded voice tell him to leave a message, and the familiarity of it—the warmth in it, the slight lilt you have at the end of your name—does something uncomfortable to his chest. He doesn't leave one. He picks up his keys instead.

The drive to your flat isn't long—fifteen minutes, maybe twenty with evening traffic—and he makes it on autopilot, the city sliding past the windows in amber and grey. He's not sure what he expects to find. Something manageable, probably. You on the sofa with a hot water bottle and a film on, tired and pale but fundamentally okay, mildly irritated that he's shown up without warning. He rehearses a version of himself that says I just wanted to check on you without it sounding like an accusation. He rehearses keeping his face neutral when you open the door. He's good at neutral.

He knocks twice. Then again, a little harder.

The pause before you open the door is too long.

And then there you are, and everything he'd rehearsed becomes immediately irrelevant.

You're in your pyjamas, and your face has the particular greyish-white cast of someone who's been fighting their own body for days—not the soft pink of ordinary tiredness, but the drained, wrung-out pallor of real illness, the kind that comes from inside and works its way out. There's a faint sheen of sweat at your hairline, a brightness in your eyes that isn't health. You're holding the door frame in a way that might pass for casual if he didn't know better, if he hadn't spent years learning the difference between leaning on something and bracing against it.

"Aaron." Your voice is careful. "You didn't have to—"

"I know." He steps inside, not asking. "When did it start?"

You blink at him, a flicker of something—surprise, relief, the particular expression of someone who's been white-knuckling it alone and has suddenly had someone else show up. You step back to let him in, and he notices the way you move: slowly, precisely, conserving energy the way people do when they've learned that every unnecessary movement is a tax they can't afford right now.

He turns to look at you properly once the door is closed, and cataloguing is not something he decides to do—it's something he simply does, automatic and thorough, the same instinct that's kept him alive and kept other people alive for twenty years now. And what he sees makes his jaw tighten, fractionally.

"It's just a flare," you say. The word just doing a lot of heavy lifting.

"Okay." He keeps his voice even. "When did it start?"

"I was going to call my GI on Monday if it wasn't better."

"It's Thursday."

"I know what day it is, Aaron."

"So tell me when it started."

A pause. The small, tired defeat of it.

"Saturday mornging, if I'm being honest."

He doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't trust himself to, quite yet—not because he's angry at you, but because the anger is looking for somewhere to land and he doesn't want it to land anywhere near you. He looks around the flat instead. The abandoned mug on the coffee table, cold, forgotten. The blanket in a heap on the sofa like it had been thrown off in a hurry. The kitchen dark and untouched, no evidence of cooking, no evidence of eating. The particular stillness of a space that hasn't been properly inhabited in days—just endured. Just survived.

"Come and sit down," he says.

"I'm fine standing—"

You shift your weight to demonstrate, and your face does something—a flicker, a tightening around the eyes and the corners of your mouth, there and gone in less than a second—but he catches it the way he catches everything, and he's already moving. One hand finds the small of your back before the moment has fully registered, warm and firm and careful.

"Sit down," he says again, softer this time. Not a suggestion.

You sit.

He crouches in front of you, elbows on his knees, and looks at you—really looks at you, the way he doesn't always let himself, the way he allows himself now, because he's long past pretending he isn't in love with you. He thinks about the word flare and what he knows about your condition, which is not nothing. He'd read about ulcerative colitis in the same quiet, methodical way he approaches anything he cares about understanding: the inflammation, the ulcers forming in the lining of the colon, the way a flare can escalate from uncomfortable to dangerous with very little warning. He'd read about the blood. He'd read about the cramping and the urgency and the exhaustion that accumulates like interest, compounding daily.

"How bad's the pain?" he asks.

"Manageable."

"That's not a number."

You look at him for a moment, and he watches something in you waver—the particular exhaustion of having maintained a performance for too long, of having kept the mask on for days and days in an empty flat with no one to perform for except yourself.

"Six," you say. "Sometimes seven. It spikes."

"And the blood?"

Your eyes drop to your hands.

That's answer enough.

He stands up, and there's a decision settling in him, solid and without question, the way decisions do when they're already made and the deliberation is just the mind catching up with the body. "I'm taking you to hospital."

"Aaron—"

"You've been bleeding for five days."

"It's—"

"Manageable. Yeah." His voice doesn't rise, but it doesn't need to. It gets very, very quiet instead. "You're grey. You're bracing against the door frame in your own flat. You haven't been eating—" he glances toward the dark kitchen, the empty hob, the absence of anything that suggests a meal has happened here recently "—and you've been doing this alone for nearly a week waiting to see if it got better on its own." He pauses. "How's that plan working out?"

You look up at him. And then your face does something that breaks something in him—it crumbles, just slightly, just at the edges, the careful composure coming undone like a seam that's been held together by hand. You look exhausted in a way that goes deeper than tired. You look relieved—quietly, almost guiltily relieved—that someone else is here. You look like you've been holding this alone for days because you couldn't bear the thought of being a problem to anyone.

"I didn't want to make a fuss," you say, very quietly.

He exhales. Something in him goes unbearably tender.

"I know," he says. He reaches out and tucks a piece of hair back from your face, his fingers brushing your temple, the shell of your ear. "I know you didn't. But you're not making a fuss. You're sick, and I want to take care of you." He holds your gaze for a moment. "Let me."

Something shifts in your expression. The last of the resistance.

"I just need to get my bag," you say.

"Tell me where it is."

He gets it for you.

The drive to A&E is quiet, and Aaron keeps one hand on the wheel and one eye on you—a split attention he's comfortable with, practised at, though the context has never sat this close to his chest before. You're in the passenger seat with your head tipped back against the headrest and your eyes half-closed, and you're bracing without seeming to realise you're doing it: one hand pressed low against your abdomen, the other gripping the door handle in the loose, involuntary way of someone who's learned to disperse pain by pushing it outward into whatever surface is nearby. Your breathing is careful. Measured. The breathing of someone managing something.

He reaches across and rests his hand on your knee. Just that—warm, steady, there.

You put your hand over his without opening your eyes.

"You really didn't have to come," you say about halfway there, your voice thin and strained, still doing the work of minimising. "I would've been okay."

"I know you would've," he says, because he does—you're one of the most capable people he knows, and that's precisely the problem. "I'm not doing this because I think you can't manage. I'm doing this because I didn't want you to have to."

You don't say anything after that. But your hand tightens slightly over his, and he takes it for what it is.

The A&E is neither quiet nor quick, but Aaron is patient in the particular way of someone who's learned that patience is not the absence of urgency but the ability to hold it without letting it make you less useful. He speaks to the triage nurse with the quiet, even authority of someone who doesn't need to perform a crisis to convey that one exists. He gives your history accurately and concisely—the flare, the duration, the bleeding, the pain level, the fact that you've barely been eating, the low fever he clocked when he touched the back of his hand to your forehead in the car—and he watches the nurse's face as she takes it in. He doesn't sit down until he's certain you're being prioritised.

When you finally get a bay—curtain on three sides, a window showing a square of dark evening sky, the antiseptic hum of the ward going on around you—Aaron pulls his chair close and doesn't move it.

The doctor who comes is thorough. She explains what she's seeing: severe inflammation in your colon, the lining of it angry and compromised, bleeding that hasn't slowed because the disease isn't giving it the chance to. Significant dehydration—you've been losing fluid and electrolytes and not replacing them, too nauseous to eat, too exhausted to care. A low-grade fever, which means your body is in active battle. She says IV fluids and corticosteroids and we want to monitor your response over the next forty-eight hours, and Aaron listens with the same concentrated stillness he brings to briefings—absorbing, cataloguing, looking for the gaps between what's being said and what's being implied.

He watches your face while she speaks. You're listening, but there's a quality to it that he recognises: the glazed, effortful attention of someone who's too exhausted and overwhelmed to fully metabolise what they're hearing. You're getting the shape of it without the substance. He's seen that look before, on witnesses, on families, on people who are in the middle of something too large for their brain to fully land on.

You need someone to hold this information for you.

So he does.

"What does a strong early response to the steroids typically look like?" he asks, when the doctor pauses. "And what would concern you over the next twenty-four hours?"

The doctor looks at him—an assessing look, not unfriendly—and then answers him directly, which he appreciates. He takes out his phone and types notes, quiet and unobtrusive. He asks about the medication dosage, about what the inflammation markers look like, about what diet is appropriate once you can manage food again. The doctor is patient with him. Some people bristle at this kind of engagement, read it as a challenge; this one seems to understand that he's not questioning her expertise, he's building a map.

When she goes, you look at him.

"You wrote notes," you say.

"I did."

"On your phone."

"Yes."

A faint, tired smile crosses your face—the first one he's seen all evening, small and crooked and it does something to his ribs. "You're ridiculous," you say, fondly.

"You can tell me that later," he says, "when you feel better."

The nurse comes to place the IV, and Aaron watches your face go tight when she feels for the vein, tapping at the inside of your arm—you're dehydrated enough that it takes her two tries, and he sees your jaw clench, sees you press your lips together and stare very fixedly at the ceiling. Without thinking, he reaches across and takes your free hand, his fingers wrapping around yours, his thumb settling into the slow back-and-forth motion it always finds when he's holding your hand. Back and forth. Steady. Back and forth.

You exhale.

"Okay," the nurse says, and the worst of it is past, and Aaron watches the tension drain fractionally from your shoulders.

"Good," he says, quietly, just for you. "That's it."

And then, after a moment, softly:

"I'm sorry."

He looks at you. "For what?"

"For being—" you glance down at the IV line, at the hospital bracelet on your wrist, at all of it "—a burden. Dragging you here on a Thursday night."

The anger arrives so quickly he almost doesn't catch it. Not at you—never at you—but a deep, burning anger directed somewhere formless: at the disease, at the days you'd spent alone and hurting before he'd shown up, at whatever in you learned to apologise for needing things. It moves through him like a wave against a seawall and he breathes it out through his nose and lets it recede, because right now you need steadiness, not his fury on your behalf.

"You're not a burden," he says. His voice is very quiet and very even, the way it gets when he means something completely. "Don't say that to me."

"Aaron—"

"You're not." He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his face level with yours. "You've been ill for almost a week. You've been managing it alone, in pain, not eating, because you didn't want to inconvenience anyone." He holds your gaze. "That's not being a burden. That's you doing what you always do—taking care of everyone except yourself." A pause. "I'm asking you not to do that with me. I need you not to do that with me."

You're quiet for a long moment. The IV drips. The ward makes its soft, constant noise beyond the curtain.

"It's hard," you say, finally. "Not feeling like this is too much."

"I know it is." He turns your hand over in his, pressing his lips briefly to your knuckles—a quiet thing, unhurried, a small declaration. "But it isn't. You could never be too much." He meets your eyes again. "Not for me."

Something in your expression does what it does—that slow, private softening that he's learned to look for, the one that tells him he's got through. You look at him for a long moment.

"Okay," you say, finally.

"Okay," he echoes. His thumb doesn't stop moving.

The first night is difficult. Aaron stays in the chair and doesn't consider leaving. The corticosteroids and fluids go in steadily, and he watches the monitors and learns the rhythms of the ward—the handover at ten, the obs checks every two hours, the particular cadence of footsteps that means a nurse is doing a round versus responding to something. He learns them the way he learns everything: without trying, through accumulated attention.

When the pain spikes—and it does, sharply, around one in the morning—you make a sound that is small and involuntary and controlled, the sound of someone trying very hard not to show how bad it is, and Aaron is already leaning forward before it's finished. His free hand comes up to bracket yours between both of his. He dips his head close to yours, close enough that you don't have to go far to hear him.

"Hey." His voice is low. "I've got you. Breathe."

"It's—" Your grip tightens on his hand, knuckles going white. "It's cramping, it's—"

"I know. Breathe through it. I'm right here."

He stays close, his thumb moving in slow circles now on the back of your hand, and he talks you through it in a low, steady voice—breathe in, breathe out, I've got you, I'm right here, you're all right—and it's not enough, it can't be enough, but it's everything he has and he gives it without reservation. After a while—a long while—the worst of it passes, and you go loose against the pillow, exhausted.

"Tell me something," you say, when you can speak again. Your voice is rough. "Anything. I don't care."

So he talks. About Jack, about a story from years ago on a case that ended with Reid somehow locked in a supply closet and Rossi having to explain himself to local law enforcement, and he watches you try to laugh and mostly succeed. He talks about the restaurant he'd been planning to take you to—a small Italian place, a friend recommended it, apparently the pasta is obscene. He talks about a book he's been meaning to start. He talks about nothing in particular, and his voice fills the space around you like something warm, and he watches you drift toward sleep one degree at a time, your grip on his hand going slowly, gradually loose, until he's certain you're under.

He sits in the quiet that follows and looks at you, and the tenderness of it is almost unbearable.

The next morning brings a different doctor for rounds, and Aaron is ready for him—his notes out, his questions organised, the specifics of your medication and response already committed to memory. The doctor—a gastroenterologist, thank God, someone who knows what they're doing—asks Aaron when he was last home, and Aaron says it doesn't matter, and the doctor has the grace to let it go.

You wake up a little more coherent, which is both encouraging and, he realises, a mixed blessing—because now you're awake enough to be embarrassed.

"You look terrible," you tell him, studying his face.

"Good morning to you too."

"Have you slept at all?"

"Some." A lie, mostly. "How's the pain?"

"Better than last night. Still—" you make a face "—there. But better." You look at him again, at the shadows under his eyes, at the fact that he's still in yesterday's clothes. "Aaron. You should go home."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine, you've been in that chair all night—"

"Which is exactly where I intend to stay." He stands up, stretching his back with a quiet wince he can't entirely suppress. "Do you want tea? I saw a machine down the corridor. I can't promise it's good."

You stare at him.

"Tea," he says again, patiently.

"...Yes," you say, after a moment, and something in your face does the soft thing again. "Please."

He comes back with two cups of something that is approximately tea—hot, at least, and pale brown in a way that suggests there's been some involvement of teabag—and he sits back down in his chair and pushes one cup toward you, and you both drink it in the comfortable quiet of two people who don't need to fill silence to feel good in it.

"How are you doing?" you ask, after a while. "Really."

"I'm fine," he says, and then, because it's you: "Worried. But fine."

"You don't need to worry."

"I know I don't need to." He looks at you over the rim of his cup. "Doesn't stop me."

You look at him for a long moment. "When did you—" you stop. Restart. "How long have you been this—"

"Ridiculous?" he offers.

"I was going to say attentive."

"About as long as I've been this in love with you," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like it's a fact he's past being careful about. "Which is a while."

You go quiet. The word hangs in the air between you—warm, settled, not dramatic. Not the declaration of someone who needed the right moment. Just the truth, offered plainly, the way he offers most things.

"I didn't know you were going to say that," you say.

"You should've," he says. "It's not a secret."

You look down at your tea. The smile that crosses your face is private and a little undone. "I love you too," you say, to the cup.

"I know," he says. And he does. He's known for a while. But he likes hearing it, here, in this terrible hospital bay with your IV line and your paper bracelet and yesterday's pyjamas, your hair unbrushed, your face still pale—he likes it more than he would like it anywhere else, because it's unguarded. It's just true.

It's on the second day that the doctors raise the possibility of surgery.

The gastroenterologist is careful about it—measured, clinical in the best way, presenting it as a contingency rather than a verdict. But the word colectomy enters the room and the air pressure changes, the way certain words do; words that arrive not loudly but with a specific weight that rearranges everything they land near. He explains that if your inflammation doesn't respond meaningfully to the corticosteroids within another twenty-four to forty-eight hours, there may be a conversation to have about surgical options. That in severe, refractory cases, removing the colon can be the difference between continued deterioration and a real return to quality of life. That it wouldn't necessarily mean—

Aaron asks two questions, precisely, while the doctor is still talking: what does 'meaningful response' look like on the markers, and what's the timeline before that decision point? The doctor answers them. Aaron types the answers into his notes.

And then the doctor leaves, and it's just the two of you.

You stare at the ceiling.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't offer perspective or silver linings or the kind of brisk reassurance that would make him feel useful at the cost of being honest. He just stays—his chair pulled close to the bed, your hand loosely in his, the ward going on softly around them. He lets the silence be what it is. He's sat with people in difficult silences for his entire career, and he knows the difference between a silence that needs filling and a silence that needs witnessing.

This one needs witnessing.

After a long while, you turn your head on the pillow and look at him.

He looks back.

"I'm scared," you say.

"I know," he says. "That makes complete sense."

"I don't want surgery." A pause. "I don't want to deal with the recovery, and the complications, and—" Your voice catches, slightly. "I just want my body to work properly. I just want it to do what it's supposed to do."

Something in him aches enormously. He reaches out and brushes your hair back from your forehead, slow and deliberate, his hand staying there—palm curved against the side of your head, warm.

"I know," he says. "I know you do."

"What if it doesn't get better?"

"Then we deal with whatever comes next." His thumb moves gently along your hairline. "We. Not you. We."

"Aaron—"

"I'm not going anywhere." He says it simply, with no particular weight, the way you state a fact that doesn't require emphasis to be true. "Whatever the next forty-eight hours look like, whatever the week after looks like. I'm not going anywhere." He holds your gaze. "I need you to know that."

You look at him for a long moment, your eyes bright in a way that is not entirely about the fever. Then you reach up and cover his hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against the side of your face, and you close your eyes.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay," he echoes.

He stays like that until you drift off. Then he pulls his chair a little closer, takes your hand again, and settles in for the night.

It's not a comfortable chair. His back begins to protest around midnight, the familiar ache of accumulated years and too many crime scenes making itself known with a thoroughness that suggests it intends to be ignored at significant cost. He shifts, adjusts, finds a position that is only somewhat worse than the previous one, and ignores it with the ease of long practice.

He's not going anywhere.

The ward dims and quiets around you. Outside the window, the city holds its deep blue vigil, amber lights pressing against the dark, indifferent to this particular room, this particular chair. Aaron watches your chest rise and fall. He thinks about the word manageable, how you'd said it like a shield over and over, how thin it had been by the time he'd gotten to you. He thinks about the empty kitchen and the cold mug and the days you'd spent moving carefully through your own flat, managing the pain and the urgency and the exhaustion alone, not because you had to, but because you'd decided not to bother anyone. Not to be a fuss. Not to be a problem.

He'd built careful walls after Haley—not out of cruelty but out of necessity, the way you board up a window after the glass breaks. He'd become someone who calibrated his proximity to people with great deliberateness. Who cared in measured doses and kept his expectations reasonable and told himself that was wisdom rather than fear. And then you'd happened—gradually, then completely, the way things do when you're not watching closely enough—and the walls had come down not with drama but with the slow, inevitable patience of weather, and now he's sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a hospital bay at half past one in the morning, and he is not calibrated at all. He is entirely open. He is in love with you in the particular, ungovernable way that makes him feel at once incredibly exposed and perfectly, absolutely certain.

You stir—not fully waking, a small, unconscious sound of discomfort—and his hand tightens on yours in the same instant, automatic, a reflex as natural as breathing. Your grip tightens in your sleep, just slightly, just enough, and then you settle again, your breathing deepening, your face going soft.

He watches you.

He thinks about the fact that you'd said I love you too to your terrible cup of tea in your hospital pyjamas, as if it were nothing, as if it were just a fact that had been lying around waiting to be said. He thinks about the fact that this—all of this, the chair and the ache in his back and the ward's fluorescent hum and the fear that lives just behind his sternum—is exactly where he wants to be. Not in spite of the difficulty of it. Because of it. Because you're here and you need him and being needed by you feels like the most important thing he's done with himself in a long time.

The dark outside the window begins, almost imperceptibly, to thin—the deep blue lightening at its edges, the particular dark that precedes morning, which is a different quality entirely from the dark that precedes midnight. A dark that knows it's temporary. Aaron watches it without watching it, his attention elsewhere, on the slow rhythm of your breathing and the weight of your hand in his and the steadiness he can feel building somewhere low in his chest, spreading outward like warmth.

The steroids will work or they won't. The next set of labs will show what they show. There are things outside his control here, which is not a comfortable thing for him to sit with, but he's sitting with it, because you're worth sitting with uncomfortable things for. You've been worth it from the beginning.

He stays as the city outside begins its slow morning recalibration—the distant sound of a lorry, the first grey seeping into the sky, the ward beginning to stir at its edges. He stays as the night shift does its final rounds and the early morning quiet holds like something held in cupped hands, fragile and complete.

He stays because you're here.

He stays because you said I love you like it was the simplest, most obvious thing in the world and it undid something in him that he's not interested in putting back together.

He stays because that's what this is—not a decision he makes each moment, but a fact he's already settled. Somewhere along the way, without announcing itself, staying became the only thing that made sense.

"aaron," you chide. "i'm disappointed. every time i have ever interacted with you, i've wanted nothing more than for you to shut me up with a kiss and fuck me into next week."

the look on his face is priceless as you give him a wink and leave his office.

his large hand stops yours from hitting the elevator button. "you do not get to say something like that and then leave." each word sends chills down your spine. he wraps his fingers around your wrist, turning you towards him. his eyes glance toward the open elevator behind you, weighing his options.

he pulls you towards the stairs, to his office. as soon the door closes, he presses you into it. his long body touches every part of yours. years of tension permeates between the two of you and you're on fire. so many things were in the way of this every happening. his late wife for one.

you hated yourself for wanting a married man. you hated knowing it was more than a harmless work crush, if those could ever even be harmless. he was a "good guy" and you were a "bad guy". he represented everything missing in your life, being surrounded by the worst of the worse. and what's worse than wanting some one else's husband.

your hands are glued to your side, as if actually touching him would wake you up from this dream. in contrast, aaron's hands are cemented on your hips. he brings his forehead to rest on yours. his chest heaves and his face is twisted in anguish.

"you piss me off," he grumbles.

"you love it," you breathe. at this comment, his dark eyes open. his pupils are blown and the want behind them is the biggest turn on.

aaron breathes out. "you know i do." he punctuates the sentence with a kiss, finally bringing his mouth to yours. kissing aaron hotchner is almost as hot as the verbal sparring.

his left hand still has a death grip on your hip, but he brings the right hand to settle at the base of your neck, twisting in your hair. he uses that hand to lightly tilt your face more his. aaron breaks the kiss, moving to assault your neck with slow, teasing kisses.

"are you as dominating in the bedroom as you are in the courtroom, prosecutor?" you ask him. this solicits a groan from deep in his throat. the sound reaches deep in your belly.

he slides his nose up your neck, pausing as his mouth hovers over your ear. "depends on the lady. maybe i am tired of always having to be dominant around you." the comment snaps you to attention. you hands leave your side as if they have a mind of their own. they wrap around his neck, giving you more leverage to press yourself into him. aaron smiles against your skin, and you wish you could see it.

you've never seen a true aaron hotchner smile.

taking charge, you push aaron through his office stopping at the leather couch. "sit." you tell him, your voice taking on the same edge it had when confronting hudson in the interrogation room. aaron raises a brow, a small smirk sitting on his face. he lets himself fall to the couch. he brings his hands to rest behind his head, blatantly checking you out as he does.

the two of you stare as you reach behind to the button on your skirt, letting it fall to reveal your lacy panties. "god," aaron breathes. stepping out of your skirt, you slide onto aaron's lap. you take a minute, running your hands down his chest. aaron looks at you like he's exactly where he wants to be.

"i go first," you tell him, rolling your hips against his erection. aaron's hands fall to your hips, digging his thumbs in. "of course," he acknowledges. his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls to the back of the couch as you grind against him again. you bring your arms around his neck, using him to hold you up as you work yourself against him.

"do you need my help?" he manages to ask. you shake your head. "not this time. i'm just going to take what i want," you tell him against his ear. you're already so close thanks to all the tension built up between you.

"it's yours to take," he sighs, and that does it. you ride out your high, murmuring his name like a love-sick fool. he runs his hands up and down your back as you shudder against him. you turn to look at him, feeling slightly embarrassed he witnessed you so vulnerable. he raises a brow, "good?"

"cocky bastard," you grin as you slide off him. his features fall at your absence, but as you sink to your knees, surprise replaces that sadness. you reach up and fiddle with his belt buckle, silently asking him if he's game. he answers by leaning forward and taking his mouth in yours. he deepens the kiss as you remove his belt and unbutton his slacks. he wastes no time raising his hips to let his pants fall where you need them.

his head falls back against the couch again as you take him into your mouth. "fuck," he curses, jerking his hips. you can't help but feel like a goddess as he falls apart for you. he brings a hand to you hair, but doesn't instruct you with it. it's almost like he just needs to ground himself. "baby, i'm going to cum embarrassingly fast if you keep this up."

"baby?" you say around his cock. he writhes beneath you.

"we can sort out the pet names later, i need you up here," he groans, trying to pull you up. you release him and crawl back to his lap. aaron brings his hands between your legs, pulling your panties to the side. "do i need a condom?" he asks. you shake your head against his neck. "been on the pill for years." aaron lightly curses again. you're one hundred percent used to his profanity when it comes to you. but its usually in frustration, anger, or annoyance. hearing it as a form of reverence is something entirely different.

aaron lets you take the lead, letting you situate yourself around him. as you sink onto him, the two of you moan in unison. you let your forehead fall to his. "i've never rendered you this speechless before, agent." he chuckles, "no, but i figured you'd be the only one able to."

"you've thought about this, hotchner?" when he contemplates too long, you pause your ministrations. he picks up where you left off, lightly jerking his hips upward. the amount of pleasure coursing through your body makes it hard to form words.

"now it's me who's got you speechless," he smirks. "i figured you'd be the only one able to," you use his own words against him.

"touche'," he responds. you begin moving your hips, halting his movements. you both soak in the bliss before you speak up again. "i've thought about it, you know. i've got this one fantasy where you bend me over the witness stand."

"you talk a lot," he marvels.

"then shut me up, aaron." you've never called him by his first name alone and this is something he absolutely notices. he slams his mouth against yours, those kisses urgent and pleading. pleading for you to shut up and enjoy what's happening. his hands find home on your hips, helping you against his penis. he pulls back just a hair, "i'm going to cum," he breathes against your mouth. you work kisses along his jawline and down his neck, letting him take over again. his hips jerk more wildly. the groan that leaves his mouth as he finishes, calling out your name, is something you'll hear for the remainder of your days.

the two of you are completely spent. aaron places the sweetest kiss against your cheek, before helping you back to your feet. he reaches over to the side table grabbing a few tissues, then runs it along your inner thighs. he picks up your skirt, gesturing for you to step in. aaron guides the fabric along your legs and up over your hips and buttons it back for you. "hmmm," he murmurs appreciatively, running those hands along your clothed thighs.

you step back, allowing him room to stand and situate himself. he picks up your bag and holds it out to you. you take it from him, letting your hand pause in his. he uses this moment to pull you back into him. the bag drops between the two of you as you fully embrace him. his hands run down your back and over your ass, then he hoists you up around his waist.

"we cannot have sex in this office again," he manages to say.

"oh, but i've got many fantasies to fulfill in here." he laughs. a genuine laugh with a genuine smile. you stare at him in awe, matching that smile.

"what?" he asks.

"i've never seen you smile before," you marvel.

aaron places you back on your feet, but keeps his arms around you. "sure you have. i know i smiled when i kicked your ass in the courtroom," he says.

rolling your eyes, you pick up your bag. you glance at his desk, at his suitcase packed and ready to go. "you coming?" you gesture toward the door.

he gives you that smile again. "yeah, i'm right behind you."

as you step out of his office, movement in the bullpen catches your eye. derek morgan sits at his desk, leaning back in his chair.

"oh, morgan, i didn't know you were still here," aaron says. he wasn't there when you left for the elevator the first time. derek shrugs, "i didn't realize the two of you were still here, either."

hotch tips his head in a goodbye ignoring his comment and begins toward the elevator. you hang back, taking derek in. turning on your heel, you move to follow aaron.

"oh, by the way, the new answer to your question is, yes they have," you call over your shoulder.

a/n: okay, my first time writing smut!!! if you hate it, please don't tell me. *hides behind hands*

Lottie's been asleep for nearly forty minutes, sprawled starfish-like in her travel cot in the spare room, one chubby hand still loosely curled around Bunny's ear. Her breathing's even and slow over the monitor, a background rhythm that settles your nerves more than silence ever could. Every so often, you glance toward it—just to be sure—but your body is relaxed, your cane leaned within easy reach, and your hips have finally stopped aching after the earlier walk back from the corner shop. It wasn't far, but you took it slow. Lottie rode happily in her pushchair, gripping Bunny in one fist and pointing at every passing dog with great enthusiasm, babbling, "Doggy woof," in her sweet, high little voice. She'd fallen asleep on the way home, head lolling to one side, cheeks flushed from the sun.

You're giving yourself a moment to rest now, and the stillness settles into your bones like warmth into tea. You stretch your legs beneath the table, ankles crossed, and breathe deeply. Your joints thank you for the stillness, your muscles unwinding bit by bit. There's a gentle ache low in your back, the sort that reminds you of effort well spent. Your feet are a little sore, but you have your slippers on now, soft and broken-in. A cup of chamomile tea rests beside your elbow, still warm, untouched.

Your art tablet is charging on the kitchen counter, screen dark and still, but the creative itch in your fingers hasn't quieted. It rarely does. Some days you think it's more of a hum than an itch, something that lives just under your skin, waiting. The soft longing to create has been with you for as long as you can remember, like a second pulse. You glance toward the cupboard where you keep your watercolour set—usually tucked away unless you're working on a commission, but lately, you've been thinking about getting it out for Jack. He's always so careful with Lottie's crayons when he visits, precise in that way small children sometimes are when they want to be taken seriously. He colours inside the lines, but not because anyone told him to—because he wants to. Because it matters to him. You love that about him. That quiet determination.

You cross the room slowly and pull open the cupboard door. The box isn't large—wooden, with tiny brass clasps that click softly as you open them. Inside, the watercolours gleam like sweets in the sun: a dozen shimmering pans of rich, saturated colour, the brush nestled beside them worn soft with years of use. The sight of them makes your heart soften in your chest, nostalgia blooming like ink in water. You take a moment to run your fingers over the grooves in the wood before setting the box on the table with a gentle thunk. Then you pull out the thick pad of watercolour paper, already hearing the soft scuffle of Jack sliding off the sofa behind you.

"Can I paint too?" he asks, hopeful and bright, the biscuit forgotten somewhere on the coffee table. His eyes are wide, brimming with excitement already, even though he's still hovering on the edge of the rug like he's not quite sure if he's allowed.

You smile over your shoulder and nod. "I got it out for you, sweetheart. I thought you might like it."

He crosses the room in two big, bouncing steps, the kind that make his socks skid slightly on the floor, and you guide him to one of the kitchen chairs, sliding it out carefully so it doesn't squeal too loud and wake the baby. Your own movements are slower, more measured, and he watches you for a second before sitting, almost like he's checking if you're okay. You brush your hand over the top of his head as you pass, and he leans into it briefly before settling in the seat, legs dangling. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt as he waits for you, buzzing with contained energy.

Jack's already fidgeting with the brush by the time you sit beside him. You lean over and take his hand in yours, gentle but firm, positioning his fingers around the brush the way you would for Lottie with a spoon.

"Like this," you say softly. "Thumb here. Not too tight, yeah? You want it to glide, not dig."

He nods, tongue caught in the corner of his mouth, focus sharpening like a camera lens. His little brow furrows in concentration, and he adjusts his grip just slightly, watching you the entire time to make sure he's doing it right.

You fill a little jar with water and slide it toward him, then take a fresh page from the pad and lay it in front of him. "Let's start with some mixing. See these pans? Each one's a colour, but they get brighter if you add just the right amount of water. Watch."

You dip your brush, swirl it through the blue—cerulean and clear—and sweep it across a corner of the paper. Jack's eyes track the stroke like he's watching magic unfold, and in a way, he is. There's something about watching colour bloom on a clean white page that never loses its wonder. You can see it in his face—the quiet awe, the moment where his whole world shifts just slightly to make room for something new. He leans closer, elbow nearly in the water jar, eyes wide.

"Now you try," you murmur, rinsing your brush and handing it to him.

He dips, hesitates, then moves the brush in slow, careful circles, eyes narrowing slightly with the effort. "Like this?"

"Perfect." You rest your chin in your hand and watch him. "Now rinse your brush before trying a new colour. Don't want to turn everything brown."

He giggles quietly and obeys, dunking the brush with a hand braced on the table as if it might escape. His movements are still learning—but earnest. Thoughtful. You recognise that need in him—that hunger to do something right, to make it beautiful. His little fingers are already stained faintly red from the water.

"I like that red," he says after a minute, dipping into it and blending a little orange with it. "It looks like lava."

"It does," you agree. "Good eye."

"Can I do a fire dragon?"

"Absolutely." You smile. "Fire dragons need the best reds and oranges. Maybe even some gold if we mix a bit of yellow in."

He grins and sets to work, tongue poking out again, little shoulders hunched with concentration. He's quiet for a few minutes after that, painting little abstract shapes in the corners of the paper, mixing colours and whispering their names under his breath like a spell: "Yellow... green... that's turquoise, right?"

"Close. That one's teal."

"Oh. That's a pretty name." He pauses. "I want to name my dragon Teal now."

You chuckle. "Sounds like a very cool dragon."

He hums, then pauses again. "Did you paint when you were little?"

You nod, fingers brushing over the edge of your own page. "All the time. My mum used to stick my drawings on the fridge, even the really terrible ones."

Jack smiles, brushing a thick stroke of purple across his paper. "You're not terrible now."

"Well, thank you. Took a lot of practice to get here."

He turns his face up to you, eyes serious now. "How'd you get good?"

You reach over and straighten the corner of his page, just to keep your hands busy. "By messing up. A lot. Trying things. Getting it wrong. Sometimes spilling water everywhere and crying over smudges. But I just kept going. Every day, a little bit better."

He nods slowly, like he's filing that away somewhere important. Then, thoughtfully: "Do you still mess up now?"

"Oh, all the time," you say, laughing softly. "Sometimes I hate everything I make. Sometimes I start again three or four times before I find something I like."

"But you don't stop?"

"No, baby. I don't stop."

"I'm gonna be good too," he tells you, quiet but certain.

"I don't doubt it," you say, brushing your fingers gently over his curls. "You've already got the most important part."

"What's that?"

"Patience. And a big heart."

He beams, and the light catches on his cheek like a brushstroke of gold.

Behind you, the baby monitor crackles faintly, then settles again. You don't move. The flat is quiet, painted in soft blues and honey-gold light, and Jack dips his brush into the water again, steady and sure. The fire dragon is starting to take shape now, with wild, jagged wings and big, bold eyes. It's glorious, and chaotic, and wonderful.

He glances up. "Do you think Dad will like it?"

"I think he's going to love it," you say. "He'll be so proud of you."

Jack's smile turns shy at the edges, his brush stilling in the water jar. "He always keeps my pictures on the fridge."

"And he'll keep this one too," you promise.

You sit beside him, and you paint. You add a soft wash of sky blue to your page, not really thinking, letting your hand move where it wants. The two of you are quiet, side by side, the air filled only with the soft swoosh of water, the clink of glass, and the occasional rustle of paper. The world outside goes on, but in here—in this little moment—it's just the two of you, and the colours, and the quiet kind of magic that lingers long after the page has dried.

By the time Aaron arrives, the afternoon sun has dipped just enough to cast long stripes of honeyed light across the floorboards. The room still smells faintly of paint and the peach slices Jack had insisted on sharing with Lottie during her snack time. She's toddling around now, Bunny clutched in one hand and a trail of toy blocks scattered in her wake. Her curls bounce with every step as she babbles to herself in a half-sung rhythm, occasionally stopping to stack two blocks together before knocking them down again with a delighted squeal. Every so often, she glances over at you and Jack, her round face splitting into a grin when she sees Jack still seated at the table. You can tell she's trying to stay near, even if she doesn't quite join in.

Jack sits cross-legged at the low coffee table, his painting now propped up carefully on a sheet of kitchen roll to dry. It's still damp in the middle—his proud fire dragon Teal painted in broad strokes of red, orange, and streaks of gold, with a tail that curls dramatically across the paper like a ribbon. He glances at it often, but mostly, he's been watching you. You're putting the finishing touches on something else now—just a little sketch—but it's clearly caught his attention.

He'd caught sight of the tiny cartoon-style portrait you'd sketched of him and Lottie while they were distracted with their snacks, and now he can't stop grinning. His cheeks are slightly pink with pride, and he keeps leaning closer like he can't quite believe it's real. There's something reverent about the way he looks at the paper, the same way he looked at his finished dragon—like art is a kind of magic, and you've just conjured a piece of it out of nowhere, just for him.

In the picture, they're sat together on the carpet, Jack with one arm protectively around Lottie's shoulders, and she's holding Bunny in one hand and reaching toward a star above her head with the other. You hadn't meant to show him, not yet—it's not even inked—but he spotted it the moment you leaned across the table, and his eyes lit up like sparklers.

"That's me!" he'd gasped, tapping his chest, then pointing at the smaller figure. "And Lottie!"

"Mhm." You smiled, tilting the page toward him. "Thought I might turn it into something we could hang up."

His mouth made a soft little O of wonder. "She looks so tiny."

"She is tiny."

He giggled at that, then went quiet for a few moments, just looking. He traced the line of her arm with one finger, careful not to smudge the graphite. "Can we do art day again next week?"

You didn't even have to think. "Of course we can."

He'd beamed then, brighter than the sun, and you'd watched him for a moment—really watched him—taking in how much he's grown in just a few short months. He's taller now, surer of himself, but still so tender, so gentle with Lottie, so eager to please. You don't take it for granted, the trust he's placed in you. The way he looks to you like you're something steady. Safe.

You'd even caught him gently moving a pillow behind your back earlier, without a word, when you leaned against the armchair to sketch. Just a small gesture, but it had lingered with you all afternoon.

The knock at the door is gentle—two quick taps—and Jack jumps to his feet, excitement fizzing through his limbs. "Dad's here!"

Lottie looks up, mouth parted, and then chirps, "Air'n!" before dropping her blocks and toddling to the hallway as fast as her little legs can carry her. Bunny bounces against her side with every step. You follow behind with a hand on your cane, still smiling as Jack flings the door open.

Aaron stands on the threshold, briefcase slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks tired, but not worn down—just end-of-the-day soft, like he's shed the harder parts of himself before walking up the stairs. His eyes soften the moment he sees Jack's face—lit up and bright, holding the damp painting in both hands like it's something sacred.

"Hey, buddy." Aaron crouches to Jack's height immediately, eyebrows rising as he takes in the fire dragon. "Whoa. Did you do that?"

"Yeah, her name is Teal," Jack says proudly, practically vibrating. "She's a fire dragon, and she's really fast, and she's brave, and—Y/N says I can't take it home yet 'cause it's still drying, but I can have it next time."

"You absolutely can," you chime in gently, stepping aside so Aaron can enter. "It's still too wet to travel. She needs another night to set properly."

Aaron meets your eyes over Jack's head, his expression soft and fond. "It's incredible," he says, resting a hand on Jack's back. "Did you two have a good day?"

Jack's already rattling off a list—painting, snack time, the story you read after Lottie's nap, the biscuits you made (very crumbly), and the funny noise Bunny made when Lottie dropped her in the sink. He tells Aaron about the colours he mixed, how you showed him the difference between wet and dry brush strokes, how Lottie got jam on the sofa and you both had to scrub it out before it stained. He even tells him about how you let him pick the background music and he chose something "cool and magical."

Aaron listens with an indulgent smile, nodding at all the right moments, glancing over at you with a quiet sort of reverence in his eyes.

He crouches beside Jack to get a better look at Teal. "Is she breathing fire?"

"Yep," Jack says immediately. "She's protecting a whole treasure cave from robbers."

"That's very brave of her," Aaron says with a nod. "She's got good colours, too."

"I mixed the orange myself."

"I bet she'd scare those robbers off in a second."

Eventually, Jack takes a breath, and Aaron leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. "You're amazing with him."

Your smile doesn't falter, even as heat creeps up your neck. You're still dappled in sunlight and paint smudges—there's a streak of blue across your wrist and a blotch of orange near your elbow—but none of it matters. Not when he says things like that, voice low and full of something that sits deeper than gratitude.

"I'm just lucky enough to love him," you say quietly, brushing your fingers down Jack's hair as he beams up at the both of you.

Aaron's gaze lingers a second longer, like he wants to say more. But then Lottie barrels into his legs with a squeal of, "Air'n hug!" and wraps her arms around his knees, face pressed to his trouser leg. He steadies himself, laughing quietly as he reaches down to stroke her curls.

"Hey, sweet girl," he murmurs. "Did you have a good day?"

Lottie nods, but it's a slow, sleepy motion, her thumb creeping toward her mouth before she remembers Bunny's still in her hand. She offers Aaron a garbled, "Tee-oh," barely above a whisper, her mouth working around the sounds like she's trying very hard to say it just right.

You glance at Aaron with a soft smile. "She heard Jack talking about Teal earlier and got very attached to the name. She was napping when we painted."

Aaron nods, crouching a little as Lottie leans against him. "You dreaming of dragons, sweetheart?" he asks, and she hums—more a sound than a word—before stepping back toward her blocks. Her limbs are heavier now, and you know she'll be ready for bed soon.

Jack turns to you again, tugging lightly at your sleeve. "You won't forget to save Teal, right?"

"Never," you promise, and he grins, satisfied.

You help him gather the things he did bring—his book, the small backpack with his snacks—and hand it off to Aaron at the door. Jack's still bouncing on his toes, eyes darting back toward the table where his dragon dries.

"I'll keep it safe," you say again. "You'll have it next time."

"Next week?"

"If I have any say in it."

Aaron chuckles, ruffling Jack's hair. "We'll make it happen."

As they head out, Jack waves so hard it rocks his whole body. Lottie stands beside you near the door, waving too—floppy and slow, her Bunny hanging upside down in one fist. She leans into your side and rests her head briefly against your leg, murmuring, "Jah go home," like she's letting herself understand it out loud.

Aaron glances back one more time, his hand resting gently on Jack's shoulder. "Thanks again," he says, quietly but sincerely. "For all of it."

You nod, watching them disappear down the hall, Jack chattering away as he skips ahead, dragonless for now but utterly content.

The flat feels quieter after they go, but not empty—just peacefully full of everything they've left behind: damp paper, the scent of peaches, the warmth of connection, and the echo of Jack's laughter still hanging in the corners of the room. You gather up the cups, the crumbs, the half-used sheet of stickers Jack brought in his bag and forgot to use. There's a little bit of green paint on the edge of the table. You leave it for now.

Lottie pads over to you and lifts her arms, thumb in her mouth and eyes already half-lidded. You scoop her up, careful of your hip, and she tucks herself in without a word, warm and soft against your chest. Bunny is squashed between you. She doesn't ask where Jack went—just murmurs, "Night night," against your shoulder, and it's enough.

You carry her down the hallway slowly, pausing to sway in the soft light. Her head sinks against your shoulder, breath warm against your skin. You hum something tuneless as you pass the drying painting, and Teal seems to smile back at you.

𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲_𝐰 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘔𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘉𝘈𝘕𝘈𝘕𝘈 𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘋??? 𝘉𝘙𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘔𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌🍌🍞

-> 𝐞𝐦.𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐡 𝘯𝘰 𝘧𝘳 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 @ 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘺_𝘸

-> 𝐮𝐫.𝐟𝐚𝐯.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. 3 𝘱.𝘮. 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸. 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦🤫@𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘺_𝘸 @𝘦𝘮.𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘩

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 & 𝘺𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘮, 𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘦 🤍

-> 𝐮𝐫.𝐟𝐚𝐯.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘔𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭😽💗 @𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘴

𝐣.𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘬𝘪𝘥. 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶

-> 𝐮𝐫.𝐟𝐚𝐯.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘺, 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘢 𝘫🥺 @𝘫.𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘵

𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤.𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘭 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬

-> 𝐮𝐫.𝐟𝐚𝐯.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘪 𝘴𝘢𝘺, 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘴𝘴 @𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬.𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘯

-> 𝐛.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 *𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 @𝘶𝘳.𝘧𝘢𝘷.𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬

-> 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐨𝐨𝐨.𝐝 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 @𝘣.𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 @𝘶𝘳.𝘧𝘢𝘷.𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬

-> 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝘜 𝘍𝘐𝘕𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘠 𝘈𝘋𝘔𝘐𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘐𝘛 @𝘣.𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬

𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘤, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐𝘔𝘔𝘌𝘋𝘐𝘈𝘛𝘌𝘓𝘠 🌈🍪

-> 𝐮𝐫.𝐟𝐚𝐯.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥 @𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘩𝘢𝘯

_________________________________________________

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐬, 𝐞𝐦.𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐡, 𝐝𝐫_𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲, 𝐣.𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭, 𝐞𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧, 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐬, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤_𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬& 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐲_𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐚 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬’𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘢.𝘬.𝘢. 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘳 !!! 🏠🍕🪩🦈👯

. . . .

𝐛.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 & 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦

𝐛.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦???

-> 𝐝𝐫_𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘸𝘦'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 @𝘣.𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝘱𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦🙄🍕

-> 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤.𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐧 𝘱𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘰😑 @𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘴

𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐨𝐨𝐨.𝐝 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘦 𝘗𝘙𝘖𝘕𝘛𝘖 🍒

-> 𝐯𝐣𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐝𝐢 𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘰, 𝘭𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘰🏃🏽‍♀️💨 @𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘰𝘰𝘰.𝘥

𝐞𝐦.𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐡 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘭𝘺🫵🏼

𝐮𝐫.𝐟𝐚𝐯.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳!!!

-> 𝐛.𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵….. @𝘶𝘳.𝘧𝘢𝘷.𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬

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robby’s pov:

your pov:

robby’s pov:

your pov:

— —

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