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summary: your first attendance of a huge feast is bothersome, alone and inexperienced as you are. until the eyes of a certain prince won't stop following you.
pairing: oberyn martell x f!reader
word count: 4.5k
warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n; virginity/innocence kink; implied age gap (oberyn is in his early 40s, reader early 20s); fingering; unprotected p in v; creampie; some biting
a/n: another fic from last summer, hope you enjoy! ; headers & dividers by @/saradika-graphics
follow @palioomfics & turn on notifs for future updates
• masterlist •
Oberyn had been watching her all night already, his dark eyes following the shape of her wherever she went. Between the bustle of the people, her bright orange glowing dress like the sun, rising and settling as she appeared and disappeared, standing around like she didn’t know what to do with herself.
It was adorable, a smirk gracing his features as he watched her wring her hands, smiling sheepishly when someone approached her.
So innocent.
He could see the nervousness on her face from where he sat, the uncertainty, clearly not used to people approaching her.
He could see the heavy rise and fall of her chest, exposed by the deep cut of her garments.
Taking another sip of his wine, Oberyn stood, deciding now was his time.
The festivities had been going on for a while, and even though he had planned on celebrating with a group of people in his bedchambers later, she had thrown those plans into the wind the second he set sight on her.
Something just intrigued him, maybe it was the innocence she seemed to harbour, maybe it was her beauty.
Whatever it was, he had to know more, waiving away another woman that approached him with a polite smile, then walking over to the mysterious woman.
She looked around nervously, playing with the rings on her hands as people passed by her, some stopping to talk to her.
Feeling incredibly out of place at this feast, her first big one, she didn't quite know what to do. Her parents were somewhere, as were her siblings.
The lords trying to speak to her made her feel uneasy, knowing she was supposed to find a possible suitor at some point, but wanting nothing more than to flee this place.
In fact, she was thinking about just leaving, when she was approached again.
Tall, dark haired and handsome. The Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell.
She had seen him at his table, stealing a glance every once in a while and looking away when his dark eyes caught hers.
And now he stood in front of her, flashing her a wide smile.
“My Prince.” She said, curtsying as well as she could, perhaps a little clumsily.
Out of everything she had expected to happen today, she did not expect for him to approach her.
“Do you intend to sulk in the shadows all night, my dove?”
She blinked up at him, once again playing with the rings on her fingers.
“I have not been sulking.” A frown graced her face, a slight tremble in her voice. His presence was intimidating, but different from the other people who had approached her. “I have been observing.”
Oberyn chuckled, taking a small step closer to her, watching her step back just a little in return. So close to her, he could practically feel the nervosity radiating off of her, trying to hold eye contact before they moved away again, looking at anything but him.
“Observing by turning down all lords and ladies who approach you?” He said, watching her fingers stop for just a moment, as if she had been caught, before fiddling with her rings again. “I must admit, I have been watching you for a while - you are the only lady not dancing, not talking to anyone. Just standing in your corner, sometimes moving to follow the servants for a drink or something to eat.”
She stayed quiet. Had she been that noticeable? Just by standing around, hoping for a saving grace?
“I assume this to be your first attendance at a feast this big, am I correct, my dove?”
That nickname.
It made her feel warm, a different kind of warmth than the Dornish weather. Running through her in an unfamiliar fashion, her veins like molten metal, a strange feeling moving up her spine..
“Yes, my Prince.” She said, nodding, but not looking at him.
Oberyn noticed how she became more nervous, smirking at the display in front of him.
“My parents have kept me from them for long, I was only ever allowed to attend small ones.” She continued, sighing. “It is quite overwhelming. I am inexperienced in these kinds of things.”
Her words made him inhale sharply through his nose, still smiling.
If she was inexperienced in this, what else was she inexperienced in?
He had wanted her before, but now the desire for her burned even brighter. Oberyn wanted to show her the things her parents have undoubtedly sheltered her from.
To keep their daughter pure for a potential suitor.
“I understand, my dove. Would you perhaps allow me to accompany you to a place more quiet?”
Usually, he did not beat around the bush when it came to a potential partner for the night.
But it was different with her. If he was blunt he would simply chase her away.
She didn’t look at him, thinking about his question.
All the other men and women that had asked before had made her feel uneasy. Unsure why they wanted to whisk her away, promising a better night someplace else.
But the Prince of Dorne? He made her feel different. A heat and a pressure in her abdomen that she never felt before.
She knew of the rumours, that he took many partners, for whatever they did. Yet, as he stood in front of her, charming smile and good looks, she felt herself drawn to him.
Oberyn reached out, placing a finger under her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “I asked you a question, my dove.”
His fingers on her chin made her still, just looking up at him with her big eyes, lips slightly parted. The touch made that pressure worse, breath hitching in her throat.
“My Prince, I’m-” She stumbled over her words, unsure what to answer.
He just chuckled, a sigh leaving him. “You are quite easily flustered, my dove. Come with me, please.”
Holding out his arm for her to take, he hoped she would. Such an innocent, pretty thing. There was something so endearing about the way she was behaving.
She swallowed hard, looking from his face to his arm, hesitating for a moment. Something drew her to him, and after another moment, she hooked her arm into his with a nervous smile.
Oberyn walked her away from the feast, the noises dying down behind them as they walked the long corridors.
“What did the other lords and ladies ask of you, my dove?”
She sighed, glad to be away from the bustle in the halls, but feeling uncertain now, a throbbing at the apex of her thighs distracting her.
“They wished to take me away for some fun. I’m unsure what they meant exactly.” She didn’t look at him, too nervous to meet his dark, piercing eyes.
It was intimidating, she had never been in the presence of a man other than her father or her brothers alone. She knew how to behave, for the most part, but nonetheless was it a little scary.
Oberyn smirked, looking down to her, seeing how she only stared at the floor or ahead of them.
“You did not know what they were implying?” He asked, a bit amused but genuinely curious. “My little dove, you must be younger than I thought or your parents simply were too careless with your education.”
She remained quiet, her cheeks growing hot.
A sense of shame washed over her, that he thought she was too young. It was as if her friends were with her, giggling and whispering because of something she didn’t understand.
And when she asked, they never explained, finding it too amusing to laugh and belittle her.
There was something she was missing out on, and she hated not knowing what.
“My dove, you do not have to be ashamed.” He said, his other hand coming to gently rest on hers. “If you wish, I could show you.”
He had been right about the assumptions of her being a virgin, too innocent for her own good.
Walking next to her, he felt something else besides the desire for her, a need to protect.
As if he was the only one allowed to show her, that anyone else would simply take advantage of this fact.
Now her eyes met his, brows furrowed.
“Show me?” She echoed his words. “How? What exactly?”
Oberyn just smiled, eyes leaving hers to look at the guards standing by the door of his chambers.
He stopped, not too far away from the door, looking back at her.
“Do you wish for me to show you, my dove?” He asked, brushing back a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. “If not, I understand.”
She should be wary. Despite him being the Prince of Dorne, she should think about this. But she was curious, so curious about what this thing was that she had been missing out on.
And there was still that feeling inside of her.
“Yes, my Prince.” She said with a small nod. “I am curious, please.”
He chuckled, his knuckles brushing over her cheek. “Please, call me Oberyn, my dove.”
Moving along, the guards allowed them to enter, the heavy door falling shut behind them. Oberyn let go of her arm, walking over to a table to pour himself some wine, then offering her a cup.
She took it with a small nod, taking in his quarters. They were richly decorated, the bed massive.
Just how she would imagine it, if she had ever spent time on that before meeting him.
Taking a sip of her wine, Oberyn laid a hand on her waist with a gentle smile, pulling her closer to him.
“Most people stare when they first come here.” He said, his hand wandering up and down her side. “Don’t be nervous, little dove.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. That was easier said than done, the heat inside her becoming unbearable at this point.
His hand on her side felt like it was burning her, even through the thin fabric of her gown. Like it was hot coals placed on her.
“Have you ever been kissed, my dove?” He asked suddenly, eyes searching hers. Pulling her just a little closer to him.
She shook her head no, slowly. Heart beating in her throat, he was so close to her.
She could feel the warmth of him, twirling the cup of wine in her hand.
“Would you allow me to?”
There was some hesitation inside her, her hands stilling. Should she allow him to? She wanted to, somehow.
Often had she imagined what it felt like, kissing someone.
Her answer came in the form of a nod, her head barely moving.
Oberyn smiled, his hand coming up to cup her cheek.
“Oh, my little dove.”
Despite his growing desire, he moved gently, bending down to place his lips onto hers. The small gasp that left her made him chuckle, his other hand coming to rest on her hip and pull her hips flush against his.
She stiffened beneath his touch, liking the way his lips felt on hers, surprisingly soft, while his beard and moustache tickled her skin. Holding onto her cup tightly, she closed her eyes, humming when he deepened the kiss and she tried to match his movements, clumsy and inexperienced.
When he parted from her, she chased after him, opening her eyes when she couldn’t. Oberyn laughed at that, staying close to her, his thumb brushing over her cheek.
She looked adorable, the way she greedily breathed in air, lips slightly parted. Still too nervous, too stiff.
“What do you think, my dove?” He asked, leaning closer again so their noses were almost touching. “Would you like for me to show you more? There is quite an array of things I could assist you with.”
His fingers curled into her hip, and when she nodded, he only smiled wider.
“I promise to be gentle, my dove. A beauty such as you needs to be handled with care.”
She didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t matter, because as soon as he kissed her again, more eager this time, her mind went blank.
His hand briefly left her hip to take the cup from her hands, placing it on the table next to them, before it was back, pulling her against his chest and making her gasp.
Letting his tongue glide against hers at the opportunity, Oberyn heard her muffled moan, relishing in the sweet sound.
The way she tried to kiss him back was delightful, so tender and new, trying to keep up with him.
Slowly he manoeuvred her back towards the bed, having to hold onto her waist as her steps became unsure, stumbling backwards once, her cheeks glowing even hotter.
The throbbing only became more intense, and when they reached the bed and he gently pushed her to sit at the foot of it, she squeezed her thighs together, looking for relief.
There was a wetness now that felt foreign to her.
Oberyn noticed, amused at the display.
“Are you aching, my dove?” He asked, his hands coming to the belt tied around his waist.
Aching.
It did hurt, but in a different way. Not like a bruise or a cut.
She nodded. “A little. My Prince- Oberyn, what- I don’t understand what is happening.”
Poor thing. Her parents had done a horrible job to prepare their daughter.
To leave her in the dark at such an age.
She watched him undo his belt, letting it fall to the floor before motioning for her to move further back to the middle of the bed.
“You’re aroused, my dove. You feel the need for cock.” He explained, shedding his robe, then crawling over her. “Have you seen a cock before, little dove?”
Her mouth went dry as she watched him undress, now only clad in a dark orange tunic and his breeches.
Aroused.
Of course. But was she really aroused by him? In need of his cock?
She nodded, and she could see a flash of surprise grace his features.
“In the bathhouses, yes.” She tried to hold his gaze, now hovering over her and letting his hand glide down her side. “From afar.”
He chuckled, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then her neck, hearing the breathy moan spill from her lips, feeling her back arch slightly.
“In the bathhouses…” He repeated in a whisper, still some amusement in his voice. “Yet you don’t know a thing about this… about desire and fucking.”
The word felt vulgar, so close to her ear.
And she felt embarrassed again. That she didn’t know more, that she didn’t understand she was aroused just by him being near her, by him kissing her, by him hovering over her.
“Do you want me to show you, my dove? The thrill of desire?” He asked, still mouthing along her neck, gently, just feeling her as she squirmed, her own hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. “How to fuck?”
Her breath hitched in her throat when he sucked at the junction of her neck and shoulder, a throaty moan leaving her.
“I- I do not know, Oberyn.” She stammered, fingers digging into his shoulders. The throbbing and the pressure were distracting her, just needing relief. “It hurts, it really hurts.”
His hand moved lower, down her side and to her thigh, gathering her skirts before it dipped below them.
“I can help you, my dove.” His hand wandered between her thighs, finding her dripping already, a soft sound escaping him at the feeling. “Oh, my dove. Wet and gushing like a waterfall and I have barely touched you.”
He sounded pitying almost, his fingers slipping between her folds, raising his head to watch her face when he found her clit.
A hiss left her, looking at him with wide eyes at the foreign feeling. It felt good, strange but good.
“Have you never touched yourself before? Brought yourself to the peak of pleasure?” He asked, drawing slow circles into her clit, with featherlight touches.
She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes open, her legs opening further.
“Never, I didn’t know-”
“You poor thing.” He cooed, kissing her.
When his fingers left her again, she whined in protest, one of her hands reaching out to grab his wrist.
She didn’t even really know what was happening, simply that his touch felt good and that she wanted more.
Needed more.
The burning sensation inside her was so consuming and overwhelming while also hurting her.
“Oberyn, please, continue.” She said, guiding his hand back down but he escaped her grasp.
“Do you know anything about this, my dove? About fucking, the feeling of something stretching you open? Feeling somebody’s naked skin against yours?”
Stretching her open? It sounded painful, she couldn’t imagine how anything could do that, and where.
But she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to embarrass herself further.
She shook her head again. “No, I don’t.”
He chuckled, his hand coming up to tug one of the straps of her gown down her shoulder, then further down her arm, exposing her breast.
“My little dove, so innocent, so pure.” A sigh left him, watching her face as he touched her breast, just lightly brushing over the hardened nipple. Nothing could have prepared him for just how much her innocence spurred him on. “I will take care of you, just allow me to do so.”
“Please, please, Oberyn.” She whined, desperate. His hand felt good on her, back arching off the bed and into his touch, her head thrown back as she closed her eyes.
This was what she had missed out on, something so good and intense. If only he could touch her again.
Slowly Oberyn undressed her, slipping the garment down her body and kissing each inch of newly uncovered skin. Taking in how she whined and moaned, took in a sharp breath or hissed at the sensation.
She felt exposed, once he sat back and pulled the gown down her legs, his dark eyes raking over her naked form as she laid before him, resisting the urge to cover herself.
So sweet and pure. And he would be the one to ruin her, to taint her beautiful body.
Thank the Gods it was him and not someone else.
“So pretty.” He said, a hand gliding up and down her thigh, the other working open his tunic. “My little dove, all for me to enjoy. I shall show you the heights of pleasure.”
She watched as he shed the garment, exposing his toned torso, the muscles under his skin moving. She was mesmerized, despite having seen this so many times at the bathhouses, when she came to find her siblings or her parents.
His hands moved down to his breeches, opening them just as slowly as he had done with the rest of his clothing.
“It seems as if my little dove has found something she likes.” He chuckled, shedding the last piece of clothing, kneeling between her spread legs, just as exposed as she was.
Cock heavy and throbbing, her eyes were fixed on it.
It was bigger than what she had seen before. But she didn’t know if she should mind that.
“Don’t be scared, my dove.” Oberyn said, moving to hover over her again, one hand on her thigh, his cock brushing against her stomach. “I’ll prepare you to take me.”
“Take me?” She asked, gasping when his hand found that sweet spot again, applying more pressure this time and leaving her breathless.
He hummed against her neck, kissing and sucking on her skin, taking in her sweet sounds.
So adorable, needing to be taught. Not knowing what pleasures awaited her.
His hand moved lower and he felt how she stiffened when one finger pressed against her hole.
“Don’t be scared…” He repeated, slowly pushing a single digit in, groaning when he felt her squeeze around him, her nails digging into his shoulders with a whine.
It felt strange, his thick finger inside of her, moving in and out slowly. Yet it also felt good, her hips rolling on their own, legs opening wider.
“Oberyn-” She moaned, voice breaking, the pressure inside her easing just a little.
His mouth found hers again, continuing to move his finger slowly, his cock twitching at the thought of burying himself inside her soon.
“Tell me how it feels, little dove. You might be ready for another finger soon.”
She whined, concentrating on the foreign feeling, the stretch when he pushed a second finger in.
“It feels good, my Prince- Oberyn.” She breathed, her mind feeling as if it was floating on a cloud, hissing when he scissored his fingers inside of her. “It hurts a little, but it feels good.”
He chuckled, kissing her cheek and down to her jaw, then down her neck again.
“My dove, you feel splendid, gripping my fingers so tight with your sweet cunt.”
Something inside her built, blood hot like molten metal as it rushed through her, building her higher and higher until he took his fingers from her again.
A noise of protest died in her throat, his teeth softly sinking into her shoulder.
He grinned at that, lifting his head to look at her, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep hum.
“Finer than any wine.” Oberyn said, positioning himself so his cock was lined up with her. “My dove, I promise to be gentle. It may sting nonetheless.”
She nodded, drowsy and wanting nothing more than this ache to end. He said his cock would help, and so she wished for nothing more than him to enter her where his fingers just had been.
“Please, help me relieve this ache.” She said, feeling him against her, so much thicker than his fingers.
Oberyn watched as he entered her, grunting at how tight she still was, seeing her eyes squeeze shut and take a sharp breath.
It stung, he hadn’t lied about that, his lips finding hers as he pushed in further, muffling her whimpers while he buried inch after inch inside of her.
All the way until he was fully sheathed inside of her, hips flush against hers, one of his hands coming to rest on her thigh, squeezing it gently.
“It hurts, Oberyn.” She breathed when he broke from her, looking back at him, his lips on her cheek again.
“I know, my dove. You will feel better soon, don’t you worry.”
It was so new, the sensation of being filled, of him inside of her and stretching her out just as he had said.
Overwhelming, someone being so close to her, inside of her, his hot skin against hers, his soft lips on her cheeks.
The pain slowly fading into a need, the throbbing returning, as did the pressure.
Her hips moving on their own, making him chuckle, the sound vibrating against her chest.
“Are you sure you wish to continue already, my dove?” He asked, kissing a spot just below her ear that sent a shiver through her. “I cannot stop myself if we do, your cunt is simply too tight and inviting.”
She nodded, whispering a silent please.
So he slowly pulled back, setting a lazy rhythm of shallow thrusts, her dragged out moans like music to his ears, a little symphony written just for him as he drove back into her over and over again.
“You feel perfect, my dove, what an honour to teach you about the pleasures of the flesh.” Oberyn groaned, his hands grabbing her legs and wrapping them around his hips, making her whimper loudly. “You won’t find a nicer cunt than that of this little virgin dove.”
She let him move, rolling her hips, trying to meet his thrusts, that something inside her building again, becoming stronger this time.
If this really was what she had been missing out on, what she had been ridiculed for, she never wanted it to stop now that she had it.
The feeling pleasant as the ache became less and less present.
Oberyn had to hold back to not just drive into her with his entire force, losing himself in how good she felt, but still wanting this to be something good for her, as much as he desired her.
Already knowing he would seek her out again and again, her innocence far from gone, her sounds so sweet in his ears, her hands so soft as they grabbed at him, trying to find purchase on his body.
“My dove, you are close, I can feel you.” He rasped, his movements becoming sloppier, lips dancing over her skin. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
“Close to what?” She asked, words catching on her breath, feeling something but unsure if it was what he meant.
Gods, she was so adorable.
“Oh, you will see, my dove.”
His hand moved between them, finding her clit.
And with just a few movements, something snapped inside of her so suddenly and with such force that all breath left her, a strangled noise catching in her chest as her veins burned, the pressure in her abdomen released.
She was trembling, holding him against her tightly as he kept moving, thrusts harsher now.
“There you are, my little dove, isn’t that wonderful? The heights, the peak?”
It was a pretty sight, her face contorted in bliss and pleasure but also so shocked by what was happening to her, by these new feelings.
She could only whine, falling silent when she heard him grunt deeply into her ear, stilling above her.
Spilling himself deep inside of her before rolling off of her, not separating but rolling her with him so she came to rest on top of him.
She felt exhausted suddenly, the euphoric feelings still coursing through her veins.
And he felt solid beneath her body, catching his breath just as she did, his hands carding through her hair.
“Now, my dove, how do you feel?” He asked, watching her face as she rested on him. “Are you satisfied?”
If anyone had told her just a few hours ago that she would land in the bed of the Prince of Dorne, she would have laughed at them.
But now, it seemed quite nice.
She nodded. “I feel exhausted, but I am very grateful for what you showed me.”
A smile stretched her lips wide, he liked it. She seemed to be less nervous.
He chuckled, one hand wandering down to smooth over her back. Normally he would be far from done, already planning another round of pleasure.
But she truly seemed too exhausted by this. After all, she hadn’t even known about any of this until now.
Her eyes drifted shut, but she was still awake, listening to his heartbeat.
“Oh, my dove.” He said quietly, kissing the top of her head. “There is so much more to show you, I am far from done with you.”
She felt warm at the idea, curious what else there was to discover. Her eyes felt too heavy to open them again, slowly drifting off into sleep on top of him.
Oberyn simply smiled, sighing deeply.
Yes, he was far from done.
There was so much to learn, so much to discover.
And he couldn’t wait to see her face once he began to truly teach his little dove.
Summary: You moved to Dorne to forget your past. Keep your head down, follow the rules of the bathhouse you just started a new job at, make enough coin to survive. Easy - until a certain prince decides you have “magic hands” and himself having absolutely no self-control around temptation.
Warnings: steamy smut with a very flirty prince, oily massage touches, a lot of flirting, kinda... dry humping, fingering, oral (f!recieving), unprotected p in v (don't do that), no use of y/n
A/N: i might have escaped winter's cold touch and went to a hamam... i might have gotten inspired by that... unfortunately no Oberyn anywhere near me though... and thanks to all the cuties looking forward to this steamy one-shot. Hope you relax 🤍
wc: 10k (sorryyy... but the heat rises quickly!)
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
Dorne was so different from your homelands. That, in truth, had been the very reason you had chosen it as your refuge. A place where no one asked questions, where no one cared for your name or the stories behind the shadows in your eyes. A place far south enough that the heat alone seemed to burn away the past.
But gods, that heat.
You were still trying to make peace with it. Your summers had once meant mild breezes drifting over soft hills, fields humming with bees and crickets, warm days that never turned cruel. Here, the sun was a merciless sovereign. Its glare swallowed the sky, its touch scorched sand and stone alike, and stepping outside for even a few breaths drenched your clothes in sweat. Nothing in your old life had prepared you for the way the Dornish sun claimed the land.
Yet, ironically, it made what you found next all the more welcome.
The public bathhouse - the sudhalla, as the locals called it - was a sanctuary of another kind of warmth: softer, more languid. When you entered for the first time, the rush of moist air had been an unexpected, almost tender embrace. Steam curled in gentle ribbons around the low pillars. Cool stone glistened beneath your fingertips as you trailed after the woman who owned the place, an older matron with strong features and a voice like smooth gravel. You had expected the spaces of Dorne to be harsh, sun-bleached, unforgiving. Instead, the bathhouse was dim and fragrant, with amber lamps casting honey-colored light across mosaics of seashell hues and curling vines.
Here, you could breathe.
“This hall,” the woman said, her tone brisk but not unkind, “is where we keep the heat.” She gestured toward a chamber where the air shimmered with rising steam, the scent of heated herbs and orange-blossom clinging to the walls. You glimpsed bodies reclining on stone benches - men and women wrapped in linen, skin slick with moisture, their souls unwinding into the haze. “They come to sweat out illness, strain, sorrow… whatever the desert sun has baked into their bones.”
You nodded, taking it in. The steam room’s atmosphere was thick, comforting. Quiet. A place where the world seemed to soften its edges.
“And over here,” she continued, leading you past an archway worked with cobalt tiles, “is the cooling pool. For when the heat becomes too bold.”
The pool lay half-hidden beneath a lattice of carved stone that scattered soft patches of light across its surface. Water lapped gently against its edge - inviting, jade-colored, promising a reprieve from the suffocating desert heat.
You paused for a breath, letting yourself look. In your homeland, the healing center you once worked at had been all sharp angles and plain wood, built for practicality above all else. You had never minded it. It had been enough, because healing had been your calling. With your hands, you coaxed tension from muscles, soothed pain with oil and pressure, listened to breath and bone. You had believed that was your purpose.
Until the day the head healer died beneath your hands.
Your chest tightened at the memory - the frantic race of your pulse, the failing breath beneath your palms, the way every remedy you tried slipped uselessly through your fingers. The man had been old, his heart tired, but that mattered little once the whispers began. They said you had killed him. That you wanted his position. That you had used oils to weaken him. Poisoned him. Reached too eagerly for power.
And once a village decided something, truth no longer mattered.
You had fled before the accusations turned to punishment. Fled from the home that had ceased being one long before that day.
Dorne had taken you in without question.
As the scents of heated oils, herbs, and perfumed steam filled your lungs, you wondered - perhaps for the first time - if this place could truly become yours.
“Healer, was it?” the older woman asked suddenly, drawing you back from the depths of memory. You had reached one of the private chambers - smaller, more intimate, curtained with soft fabric dyed in rust and gold tones. A narrow stone bed draped in fresh linens awaited its first visitor of the day.
“Yes, mistress,” you answered, defaulting to a title common enough in these parts. You brushed your fingers over the newly laundered sheets, smoothing an invisible crease. “My work was mostly in the art of hand-healing - pressure paths, muscle loosening, and restorative oil treatments.” Massage felt like too small a word for the craft you had given your life to. “But whatever forms of care you offer here, I can learn swiftly and without complaint.”
To your relief, she smiled - a brief, approving curl of her mouth that softened her stern bearing. Her coloring was odd for Dorne: fair-skinned, hair touched with gold rather than burnt sienna or rich black. Perhaps that was why she looked at you with a kind of knowing sympathy. She, too, must have been an outsider once.
“We shall see,” she said. “Your hands will speak for you soon enough. But first - our ways. There are rules, and they must be held.” She straightened, tapping a finger in the air for emphasis. “Payment is always given before the work begins. You state the treatments you offer, they choose, they pay, then you lay hands. We’ve had too many fools trying to charm their way out of coin.”
She pointed to a small alcove carved into the wall, where a silver bowl rested - its surface etched with serpents and vines.
You inclined your head. “Understood.”
“Good. Now the next.” Her expression hardened, her voice a shade deeper. “This house is one of clean purpose. We mend bodies and spirits. We do not offer the comforts sought in the dockside dollhouses.” She studied you closely, weighing your reaction. “If any patron asks more of you than your craft allows, you refuse. Always.”
You nodded at once. You had never once considered straying from that rule. After everything you’d escaped, the idea of selling your body - even in desperation - felt like another life entirely. You had been gifted a second chance here; you wanted to honor it.
“And lastly,” she said, folding her arms, “should any man - or woman - grow too bold, too rough, too demanding… you remove yourself. Tell them you fetch more oil. Then fetch one of my boys instead.” Her chin lifted. “No healer under my roof is made to suffer disrespect.”
Gratitude warmed you unexpectedly. “I will not disappoint you,” you promised, offering another small smile.
Her sternness did not fade, but something gentle flickered behind her eyes. “We shall see, child.” Then she motioned to the chamber. “Prepare your space. Your first patron will not tarry.”
When she left, the quiet returned.
You stood alone in your new little room. It was simple, but beautiful in its way - stone walls softened by woven cloth, shelves lined with jars of scented oils and salves, a narrow low table displaying heated stones and folded linens. The lamp in the corner cast a warm, amber light that danced along the mosaics embedded in the floor: swirling patterns of the sun, curling waves, desert flowers. No luxury - nothing grand like the noble houses - but undeniably cared for.
To the right, half-set into the floor, lay a shallow stone basin fed by a thin stream of cool water trickling from a carved spout shaped like a sand viper. Its soft, continuous murmur filled the chamber like a quiet breath. The little pool was meant for cleansing - your hands between treatments, your tools after use - and for guests who wished to wash away the oils once your work was done. A set of smooth clay bowls and delicate copper cups rested on a ledge beside it, ready to pour fresh water over shoulders, rinse hair scented with herbal soaps, or cradle a patron’s head while you worked your fingers gently across their scalp.
The surface shimmered faintly in the low light, a promise of cool relief in a land where heat ruled everything.
You began arranging the oils, feeling their smooth clay jars beneath your fingertips. You uncorked one - myrrh, sharp and warm - then another, a blend of citrus and herbs, bright as morning. You breathed them in, grounding yourself.
Then you gathered your hair, tying it back neatly. Straightened your simple robes. Smoothed the folds and orderly placed the oils before you.
You were ready.
And you did not have to wait long.
A single knock - sharp, confident, not at all seeking permission - landed on the door before it swung open. You barely had time to set the small clay flask of oil back on the shelf before footsteps crossed the threshold.
“Welcome to The House of Waves,” you began softly, smoothing your voice to match the tranquility of the chamber. You lifted your gaze -
- and stopped breathing.
The man who entered was not what you expected for your first customer. He was dressed well, but carelessly so, like someone accustomed to comfort rather than ceremony. Loose Dornish silks the color of sunburned copper draped over a lean, strong frame; bracelets clinked on one forearm; a thin gold chain winked at his throat. His hair, dark as desert stone, curled back from a face both elegant and wickedly handsome.
And he smiled at you as if he already knew every secret you had ever tried to bury.
“Sire…” you said, but the word left you with more breath than sound.
His lips curved - knowingly - as he let his gaze travel the room. “Pleasant greeting,” he murmured, voice warm as spiced wine. “Pleasant place.” His attention drifted back to you. “And a very pleasant welcome.”
He stepped further inside, uninvited yet entirely at home. You straightened your posture, clasping your hands in front of you.
“What treatments may I offer you today?” you asked, keeping your tone even, professional.
He hummed low in his throat, strolling leisurely as if inspecting a private chamber he already owned. His gaze swept over the shelves, the table, the pool, the heated stones - then back to you. Unapologetic. Assessing. Far too amused.
“You’re new,” he said. Not a question - an observation sharpened by curiosity. “I know every man and woman who works here. Every pair of hands that’s ever worked on me.” He tilted his head. “I would certainly remember yours.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you kept your chin lifted. “You are correct. I arrived only recently. But I assure you, I can uphold the standards you are used to.” You paused. “Unless you prefer one of your regular attendants - I can have the mistress send for them.”
He halted his casual examination, one hand resting on a carved wooden shelf, his gaze locking onto yours with a glint that warned you you’d said exactly the wrong thing.
Or the right one.
“No,” he said, smile stretching with slow delight. “On the contrary…” He stepped closer. Not invading, but nearing - testing the air between you. “It would be my pleasure,” he continued in a silken tone, “to be your first. Your hands and I… should get to know one another. Thoroughly.”
A pouch appeared in his hand - small, soft leather, tied with a golden cord. He tossed it lightly toward you.
You caught it, startled. It was heavier than expected - too heavy. You loosened the cord to count what was owed, but his quiet click of the tongue made your fingers still.
“Don’t spoil the moment,” he chided lightly. “Consider it an incentive. A little encouragement to make sure I leave here ruined for all other healers.”
You allowed yourself the smallest smile - professional, controlled, but real. Then, without hesitation, you counted only what was required for the treatment, removed it, and gently pressed the pouch back into his hand.
“A fair exchange is tradition, sire,” you replied, your fingertips brushing his just long enough to betray warmth. “But should you desire more time, more services, you’re always welcome to extend the session afterward.”
His brows lifted, impressed, perhaps even amused at being denied the smallest extravagance. You pointed toward the stone bed covered in fresh linens.
“Please disrobe once I step outside,” you instructed gently. “Cover yourself with the cloth provided. I will begin with an assessment of your tensions - your knots, pressure lines, places of strain - and treat them accordingly.”
He opened his mouth - no doubt to coax, tease, or attempt some Dornish charm - but you moved toward the door with a polite, firm bow of the head.
“You can stay,” he offered behind you, voice a lazy purr.
You shook your head without turning. “The privacy of my clients is part of my oath. I will knock. Call for me when you are prepared.”
A beat of silence answered you. Then: a theatrical sigh, like a man denied an indulgence he fully expected.
“Very well,” he conceded. “But do return quickly. I am a man who hates being kept waiting.”
You stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind you, pulse ticking at your throat. Leaning lightly against the cool stone wall, you drew in a steadying breath.
You had asked the gods for work. Not trouble.
But judging by the heat curling low in your stomach, this man might prove to be both.
You only hoped - quietly, fervently - that he would follow your instruction and cover himself properly.
Because with a man like that…
You suspected your resolve would be tested sooner than you wished.
The gods had heard your prayers.
When you knocked and reentered, your customer lay exactly as you had begged him to: on his stomach, face turned to the side, arms relaxed, towel draped perfectly from his hips down to the middle of his strong, sun-warmed thighs. He looked sculpted by desert winds and arrogance alike - the kind of man who expected the world to arrange itself comfortably beneath him.
“Do your magic,” he hummed, pleased with himself already.
You exhaled quietly, gathering your composure. “Any preferred aromas you want me to work with, or shall I choose for you?”
“I am giving myself fully to your services,” he replied, voice muffled by the pillow, but the flirt was unmistakable - rolling off him like heat off sun-baked stone.
You nodded to yourself, trying - failing - not to linger on the breadth of his back. The muscles there held tension like they were trained to carry it: shoulders drawn tight, knots buried deep beneath smooth skin the color of poured bronze. He had a crease between his brows, too - one that told of thinking too much, fighting too much, wanting too much.
A mix of herbs and flowers, then. Something to sharpen and soften at once.
“Tell me if my touch is too cold,” you murmured.
You submerged your hands into the little stone basin - water washing over them, warming them just enough. When you lifted them, the lamplight turned the droplets into sparks, and the oils you chose trailed down your palms like liquid gold.
The first touch made him tense - only a fraction, barely visible - but you felt it. Practiced instinct. Trained sensitivity.
You pressed your hands into the slopes of his shoulders, fingers digging just deep enough to coax rather than command. He made a tiny sound - barely a sigh, barely a release - but unmistakably sweet.
“Heavens,” you breathed softly. “We will definitely spend time here today.”
You circled the shoulder rotator, kneading into the tight band of muscle, sliding down the line of his upper arm. Your fingertips grazed the curve of his biceps - firm, warm, unfairly pleasant beneath the excuse of professional touch.
“I have all the time you need,” he answered, voice already strained with the beginnings of relief. “I will not leave until my body feels as loose as a Water Garden dancer after a festival night.”
You huffed an involuntary laugh through your nose - quick, small, unprofessional - and prayed he hadn’t heard it. You continued your assessment in silence, working down his spine vertebra by vertebra, thumbs circling with growing pressure. You found the creases in his lower back, then moved down to the broad sweep of his thighs, brushing over the towel’s edge with the side of your hand.
He wanted pressure - more than most. A man who preferred intensity.
“You know,” he drawled, “you can use force. I would actually like to feel something of your work.”
“It is only my first day,” you answered with a thin smile he fortunately could not see. “I’d rather not damage my first customer.”
“Oh, I assure you,” he purred, “I am very hard to damage.”
You hummed instead of answering, placing both hands firmly on his shoulders and leaning your weight into the knead. You felt the ripple of his breath beneath your palms - shuddering out, satisfied.
“You carry tension as if it is part of your occupation,” you observed, still soft, still professional. “But you do not seem the type of man who spends his days on… manual labor.”
His head tilted slightly toward you. “Is that so? And what type of man am I, to your eyes?”
You cursed yourself silently for stepping into that trap - he had dangled it, and you had walked straight in. But your tongue found its footing quickly enough.
“Confident enough to believe he has no tension,” you said lightly. “And surprised when his body says otherwise.”
He laughed - quiet, low, pleased. “Sharp tongues are a specialty where you come from, petal?”
The pet name hit you like a warm breath across the back of your neck. You ignored the flutter it stirred in your stomach, reaching for more oil and letting it pool in your palm before warming it between your hands. You trailed your fingernails lightly down his spine first - just enough to raise goosebumps - before returning to deep, focused pressure.
“It is a specialty I brought with me, that much is true,” you answered.
“Intriguing,” he murmured.
You moved down his right arm this time: kneading the thick muscle of the upper arm, then the more delicate lines of the forearm, finishing with his hand. You threaded your fingers through his, lifting each knuckle, massaging the base of each finger separately. Most healers rushed hands - they found it awkward or intimate.
You knew better.
Hands held stories. And his held many.
You pressed your thumbs into his palm, slow, steady, controlled.
A long, soft exhale escaped him - almost a groan, almost something dangerous.
You barely allowed yourself a smile of professional pride before it happened: his fingers curled around yours. Not forceful. But deliberately enough that you felt every warm line of his grip.
“You are doing magic already,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “A gift, certainly. Too young to have decades of practice behind you.”
He released you before propriety forced you to snatch your hand back, and you used that moment to slip to his other side, collecting yourself.
“I can read my clients well,” you replied, keeping your tone careful, steady. “It helps to know what they need.”
“And what is it you think I need?” His voice held a question and a challenge both - wicked curiosity wrapped in silk.
You slid your hands down his left arm before answering. He felt warmer now. Looser. Less guarded. Too easy to enjoy.
“You need intensity,” you said quietly. “Pressure. Precision. Someone unafraid to handle what you carry.”
He shifted just enough that the towel pulled tighter around his hips, the outline beneath it shifting -
- and heat fluttered low in your stomach, quick and unwelcome.
“And you,” he said slowly, “do not sound afraid at all.”
You swallowed, breath quickening despite yourself.
“It is my job,” you managed.
“But it is my pleasure,” he countered.
And the room suddenly felt much, much warmer.
You could feel his eyes on you - heavy, perceptive, unmistakably lingering - while you continued working along the delicate structures of his left hand. His attention clung to you like heat, almost tangible on your skin. You took in a slow breath, forcing your focus downward, letting his fingers slip gently from your grasp as you moved toward his legs.
“You tell me how far I can move for you to be comfortable,” you offered in your most professional tone, though it betrayed a softness around the edges. Your fingertips had already begun gliding up the inside of his thigh, and you knew exactly how he would answer.
“You already said it yourself,” he murmured into the cushion, voice thick and dangerous. “You know what I need better than I do. So you’ll know when to stop… and when to go further.”
A warning flickered through your mind - rules, boundaries, the expectations of the house - but the thought dissolved as quickly as it came. He intrigued you. More than that - he unsettled you in ways you hadn’t felt in years. So you said nothing, letting silence stand in for agreement.
Your hands crept to the towel’s edge, brushing beneath it just slightly as you worked the point where thigh met hip. Normally, this was nothing. A practical place for pressure. A common request from clients burdened with travel, sparring, or labor.
But with him…
It felt wicked. Forbidden. A sin with warmth and pulse.
“I’m going to apply more pressure here,” you said softly. “You tell me the moment it’s too much.”
You leaned in, using the sharp angle of your elbow to dig into the deep-set knot in his gluteal muscle. A rough, breathy “Ouch -” escaped him before he could contain it.
“Too much?” you asked quickly.
He chuckled breathlessly, shaking his head against the cushion. “No. But you should know - not everyone can press their elbow into me like that and walk away unpunished.”
You let a small, knowing smile tug at your lips. “That’s why I keep talking to you. To get to know your limits.”
“Oh? And here I was thinking you simply enjoyed my company.”
You laughed silently and finished your work along the slopes of his backside before retreating a step to give him space.
“Turn over, please.”
He shifted, and you held the towel in place, shielding everything you were supposed to block from view. You fixed your gaze firmly on his chest - his very toned, very distracting chest - and nowhere lower.
He saw the effort you put into not looking. And he enjoyed it far too much.
Because the moment you dropped the towel to drape over his hips again… your gaze slipped.
Just a fraction. Barely a blink.
But long enough.
His outlines were… impressive.
And you hated yourself for reacting. To feel a knot in your belly and wetness building up.
“See something you like?” he asked, smooth as silk, dark amusement curling through each word.
You inhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. “What I see,” you countered, lifting your chin slightly, “is a great deal more tension. And -”
Your voice faltered as his fingers brushed your forearm. His hand slid down, slow, purposeful, then circled your wrist with a gentleness that burned. He guided your hand to the center of his chest - warm skin, steady heartbeat, impossible closeness.
“Then continue,” he said. “That’s what I’m paying for, isn’t it? Or were you too busy admiring the view, petal?”
You truly didn’t know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him senseless. So you chose neither and focused on his collarbones instead, letting your hands glide along the defined lines with practiced ease.
He closed his eyes, the arrogance melting into pleasure. For a blissful moment, you worked in silence - his breathing slowing, his chest lifting beneath your touch with an unguarded ease that made your own pulse stumble.
“I must say,” he murmured, voice thick with relaxation, “you are quite the piece of work.”
You stopped for just a heartbeat, preparing for whatever teasing jab would come next. “I’ll have you know,” he continued, tone dripping with mischief, “it took far less time for your predecessors to be straddling me by now.”
The words struck you like a slap and a shiver at once. Your fingers tightened unintentionally, nails grazing his skin.
He sucked in a sharp breath - but followed it with a low, hoarse laugh.
“That is certainly against this house’s rules,” you replied, though the steadiness in your voice betrayed the warmth coiling in your stomach. He heard it. Of course he did.
“I asked you to sit on me,” he clarified lazily, “for a better angle. Not to be fucked by me.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the undercurrent of heat was unmistakable.
You swallowed. Hard.
Your gaze drifted - traitorously - to the towel over his hips again.
“You’re telling me how to do my job now?” Your voice was soft, a whisper dipped in challenge. Your fingers skimmed the line of his hip as if weighing the idea.
“It seems to be my nature to be…” he paused, eyes flicking open, dark and glinting, “…a bit demanding. If it gets you a good review on your first day, I recommend you follow.”
You stared at him - half-exasperated, half-thrilled, entirely undone.
You could walk out. Call a steward. End this.
And yet…
You didn’t.
Instead, you reached for fresh oil, warming it between your palms before smoothing it across the planes of his chest. His breath caught - not obvious enough for him to lose his composure, but enough for you to feel it.
He expected hesitation.
You gave him none.
In one fluid movement, you climbed onto the stone recliner - onto him - knees bracketing his hips, carefully keeping your weight lifted so no part of you touched the towel or what lay beneath it. You straddled him just enough to reach him properly, but not enough to cross a line you could not uncross.
His eyes widened - surprise for a fleeting heartbeat - then melted into a slow smirk, pleased and amused in equal measure.
“What kind of service worker would I be,” you whispered, leaning forward, palms pressing into his chest, “if I denied a client’s reasonable request?”
His smirk deepened into something sinfully appreciative.
“Oh, petal,” he murmured, voice a dark purr, “you’re going to make this a very memorable first day.”
You concentrated on your hands again - because if you didn’t, you’d fall headfirst into the gravity of him. You leaned forward, following the familiar path along his shoulders, the press of your palms steadier than your pulse. Your loose braid slipped forward with you, strands falling over your shoulder and brushing his bare skin on his arms.
A soft, accidental sweep - nothing you could control in this position - but the reaction it drew from him was anything but accidental. His muscles tightened under your touch, a slow ripple beneath warm skin.
Your fingers traced the line of his shoulders again, then glided up along his collarbones. You kept your breathing measured, professional, but the moment your fingertips ghosted up his neck, just a feather-soft brush, something in the air changed. You followed the line of his jaw gently, the pad of your thumb sweeping upward -
- and then he turned his head.
Just a fraction. Just enough that your thumb no longer followed the cut of his jaw along the line of his neatly trimmed beard but slipped against his lower lip instead. Soft. Warm. Unmistakably intentional.
You froze. A thousand apologies rushed up at once - too close, too much, too intimate - but before you could speak, he caught your thumb with his mouth, a kiss so soft it barely counted as one. A boundary crossed with exquisite precision.
And then he looked up at you.
Not a joke on his lips this time. No lazy smirk. Only the heat of his breath on your skin and an expression so dangerously sure of itself that your knees weakened instantly. Your balance faltered. You sank, hips settling onto him because your legs simply refused to hold you.
His sharp inhale as you landed on his lap snapped reality back around you. The linen separating you did nothing - absolutely nothing - to hide the firm outline of his cock pressing against you. Wanting you. Claiming space against you with unapologetic intent.
Mortified, you tried to rise, tried to salvage the last sliver of professionalism left in the room - but his hands slid up, firm and warm, settling around your hips. Not forceful. But certain. And hungry enough that resistance felt foolish.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice rough as desert stone. “You certainly know when and where to apply pressure.”
His fingers rode slowly up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, palms warm and calloused on your skin. The contrast made you shiver hard enough that he felt it.
He shifted his hips just slightly - barely a breath - and the pressure aligned perfectly with your center.
You choked on a gasp, your head tipping back, hands flying to his chest for balance.
“Well?” he asked, amusement curling low in his voice. “Continue your work, petal. What did I pay you for?”
The word petal hit you deeper than it should. Too soft. Too well-fitted to the way he was looking at you. You forced yourself to breathe, to find your hands again even as he pushed you closer into his lap, making your focus fracture.
But you managed. Somehow.
In between sharp exhales and the slow, deliberate grind of his hips - and with that his length pressing into you - you traced his skin again, his jaw, the tension at the base of his neck - your fingers slipping up into the short hair there, releasing something tight in him with practiced pressure. You felt the way he exhaled because of you, the way his pulse quickened under your fingertips.
His hands weren’t idle anymore.
They roamed freely, boldly, sliding under the layers of your skirt until his fingertips brushed over the heat at the center of you. Not quite touching. Teasing. Observing every twitch, every breath you tried to swallow.
“Look at you,” he chuckled darkly, low enough to vibrate against your hands. “Fighting so hard.”
His fingertip brushed your most sensitive point and your whole body jolted. Heat shot up your spine. You bit your lip, breath trembling.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping like silk over steel. “Better not let them hear.”
“Please,” you exhaled, the word slipping out before you could catch it. You weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Not freedom. Definitely not distance. Just - something. More. Closer. Now.
“Begging doesn’t work on me, petal.” His hand gripped your hip harder, rolling your body over him again in a way that made your breath stutter. “Only following orders.”
You felt yourself building - fast, embarrassingly fast - pressure coiling inside you with every subtle tug of his hand and every slow drag of your body against him. You clung to him helplessly now, fingers slick with the remnants of your oils, searching for any anchor you could find on his chest, his shoulders, his skin.
“Now…” His voice was a quiet command against your throat. “Come for me, petal. So we can continue.”
His fingers slipped beneath your last thin layer of clothing, finally touching you where you needed it most. Not roughly - no. Gently. Expertly. With just enough pressure to push you right to the cliff’s edge. He guided your movements with his hands on your hips, helping your body find the rhythm that made thought impossible. The fingers of his other hand grazed your slit, sliding just so to collect your wetness and applying pressure on your clit again to help you tilt over.
Heat tightened low in your belly, spreading fast, igniting everything.
You swallowed every sound that tried to escape - every cry, every plea - because some part of you still remembered the thin walls. But you couldn’t hold everything back. Your breath hitched. Your thighs trembled. Your grip on him tightened to the point of desperation.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s right. Let go.”
And you did.
You unraveled in silence, in shivering waves that pulled you tight against him, your head fell back and you pushed yourself harder onto him. His hands held you steady, guiding you through the tremors as though he’d known your body far longer than the handful of minutes you’d given him.
When it passed, he didn’t let you go.
Didn’t loosen his hold.
Didn’t let you slip away.
His hands kept you exactly where he wanted you.
Right there.
On his lap.
Still trembling.
“My, my… what a beautiful sight you are.”
The words slid over your skin like the warm oil of your craft, but they did nothing to ease the bloom of embarrassment rising up your throat. You shouldn’t have been doing any of this. You knew that. Knew it with an ache that pulsed right alongside the sweet aftershocks still echoing through your limbs.
And yet.
His gaze moved over you slowly, taking in your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your thighs, the way you were still trying - and failing - to gather yourself with dignity. He wore amusement like a second skin, lounging beneath you with infuriating ease.
“So,” he went on, tone light as if he were discussing the weather, “what comes next in this little ritual of yours?”
You wanted the dim lamps to burn out entirely, to spare you from his eyes. “The pool,” you managed, just as he rolled his hips in a teasing jolt that struck your oversensitive center with unholy precision. You gasped, the air hitching sharply.
“I… I continue with the washing. Rinsing off the oils. And…” You swallowed. “Tending to your hair, if you desire.”
Your voice was hoarse, raw around the edges, but slowly steadying again.
“Well then,” he said, softened into something almost gentle as he sat up suddenly - bringing you close to him. You caught your breath when his face hovered unbearably close, the shadows of the room flickering over his expression. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him for a heartbeat - just long enough to make you feel him again, unmistakably aroused and entirely unashamed - before he lifted you off his lap as though you weighed nothing at all.
You barely had time to process the loss of his warmth before he stood, the towel sliding from his body and falling soundlessly to the floor.
And then he was simply there.
Uncovered. Unbothered. Stunningly confident, with no attempt to hide how your presence hardened him - how he pulsed with it, how his body betrayed every controlled breath he took.
You snapped your gaze away from his cock instinctively, cheeks burning, trying to gather every ounce of professionalism you still possessed.
He strode to the pool with the slow certainty of a man entirely comfortable in his own skin, sinking into the warm water. Ripples shimmered across the surface, catching the lamplight in glints of gold.
He leaned back against the tiled rim, arms stretched along the edges, waiting.
You exhaled shakily, grounding yourself in routine, in training, in anything that wasn’t the way he had looked at you.
Kneeling behind him, ointments and soaps within reach, you steeled yourself and let your fingers gently rake through his hair to ready him. His body reacted instantly - head tipping back, a low sound escaping his throat that sent heat spiraling low in your belly again.
“So - you prefer fingers in your hair, sire?” you asked quietly. “Some clients don’t care for it.”
A short grunt rumbled from him, deeper this time, undeniably approving.
“It seems,” he said after a moment, voice thick with pleasure, “that every touch of yours is its own kind of magic.”
You bit your lip, uselessly trying to will away the flush that warmed your cheeks.
You dipped the silver bowl into the water, pouring it slowly over his curls, careful to keep from wetting his face. Warm droplets ran down the back of his neck and shoulders, chasing the path your hands would soon follow. When you applied the soap, he sank a little deeper into the pool, exhaling a sound that was entirely too sinful for someone pretending innocence.
You had to lean forward to reach him, close enough that the heat of the water shimmered against your skin, close enough that your breath stirred the curls you were lathering.
Your knees were still unsteady. The aftershocks hadn’t faded fully, and your focus wavered.
So when he shifted - only a little - it was enough.
Your fingers slipped. Your balance tipped. You grabbed for the stone rim, missed completely, and plunged into the water with a full, ungraceful splash.
You came up coughing, hair plastered to your face, disoriented and mortified. “By the gods - I am so, so sorry!”
He laughed. Not mocking - just delighted.
You tried to scramble away, water sloshing softly as you attempted not to brush against him, but he reached out in the gentlest, most disarming way - fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked soaked strands of hair behind your ear.
“More subtle attempts have been made on my person,” he said, amusement tugging at his mouth. His hands slid from your hair to cradle your face, warm even under the water.
“This is unacceptable,” you insisted, horrified. “Truly, you should get your money back. Please, consider this a free -”
A sharp tsk, tsk cut through your babbling. “All I see is the best entertainment I’ve had in months.”
His gaze dipped - slowly, blatantly - down your soaked dress. The fabric clung intimately to your body, outlining every curve, every soft line. Your nipples stood sharply against the thin material, and heat flared in your cheeks, crawling down your throat.
“This is inappropriate,” you whispered, trying to gather scraps of composure. “We shouldn’t - I can’t -”
“And yet,” he murmured, drawing you the slightest fraction closer, “here we are.” His eyes fell to your mouth, lingering. “I’d wager you taste as sweet as you sound.”
Before you could breathe, his lips met yours.
The kiss was fire and velvet. Not rushed but measured. The kind of kiss that claimed without force, that demanded without cruelty, that pulled you apart and put you back together with every slow drag of his mouth.
Your resolve crumpled instantly.
His tongue slid against yours, coaxing a soft sound from you that he swallowed greedily. The contrast of your soaked clothing against his bare, warm chest made your head swim, made everything sharper.
His grip changed. One hand slid into the wet hair at your nape, tightening just enough to make your breath catch. The other wrapped around your waist, guiding your body with disarming ease as he turned, pressing you back against the cool stone of the basin’s edge.
“This… is…” you breathed between stolen kisses, “…forbidden…”
“I prefer,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw and down your throat, “to write my own rules.”
The hand in your hair tightened; the other slipped under your drenched dress, gliding up your thigh, caressing warm skin and the outline of your curves.
“Take off your clothes,” he said quietly.
Not cruel or demanding.
Just certain.
An order from a man accustomed to being obeyed - and for a second you questioned what rank he held to be so used to giving them.
Your hands trembled as you reached for the knots and ties of your uniform. Each loosened piece floating away like shedding not just professionalism but distance itself.
And when you finally stood bared before him in the water - nothing between you and his gaze but a shimmer of lamplight and the steam rising from the warmth - you felt something inside you unravel entirely.
His eyes dragged over you slowly, but with an appreciation that felt almost reverent. He took his time - far too much time - mapping every inch of bare skin with a gaze so warm it made your breath hitch.
“A sight worthy of the gods,” he murmured.
You had no chance to process the compliment. His hands slid to your waist and in one smooth motion he lifted you, setting you onto the cold rim of the pool. The shock of chilled stone against your backside made you hiss softly, thighs tensing. But he gave little time for adjustments.
“Show yourself to me,” he said.
An order again.
You obeyed before thought could catch up, legs opening for him. The boldness of it struck you a second too late, but he was already stepping closer, the water rising around him as he leaned in.
His palms settled on your thighs, thumbs drawing slow arcs across your skin. He positioned himself so that when he bowed low, his lips were a breath below your center, his face half-submerged in the warm haze rising from the pool.
“Now,” he purred, “you get your moment of relaxation, petal.”
His breath touched the sensitive flesh he’d already teased to raw awareness, and a tremble ran through you so sharply you had to bite your lip to keep quiet. He hadn’t even kissed you yet - just breathed you in - and you could already feel the coil of pressure tightening again.
When his lips finally brushed your skin, you nearly jolted. He didn’t rush. He didn’t devour. He traced first - slow, soft lines, almost lazy in their precision, as though he were tasting a secret he intended to memorize.
Your hands dug into the tile behind you as you arched into the sensation, your elbows trembling with the effort of holding yourself upright. His tongue moved deliberately, sliding up and down your slit, collecting every trace of warmth he coaxed from you, letting you drown in the low, controlled hum of his breath.
A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.
He made a pleased noise in response, the vibration against your skin adding a dangerous new layer. One of his hands slipped away from your thigh and drifted lower, closer, fingers brushing lightly before finding their path.
You braced - but it did nothing to prepare you.
His finger eased into you with unholy slick, your body giving way for him like it had been waiting, wanting, the entire time. Your breath shuddered out of you.
“Oh… gods…”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Divinity has nothing to do with it,” he said against your skin, tone soaked in amusement, while giving your clit a little flick with the tongue. “These are earthly delights. I am just very good at them.”
Another soft stroke with his tongue nearly undid you.
Your knees trembled. Your chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. Your hand - without permission - slid into his curls, gripping for something to hold on to as he continued these slow torments.
Then he added a second finger.
Your breath caught hard, the intensity doubling in an instant, a slow burn that climbed higher and higher. His mouth worked in a steady rhythm - controlled, practiced, maddening - while his hand matched it with movements meant to coax rather than overwhelm.
He guided you with expert finesse, each motion tuned to the way your breath stuttered, to the tightening of your thighs, to the tiny sounds you kept trying to swallow down. He could feel you trembling beneath his touch, clenching around his fingers, climbing toward that edge again -
And then -
He stopped.
He withdrew his fingers, his mouth, everything - leaving you gasping and blinking in disbelieving frustration. The sudden absence was a shock, leaving your skin sensitized and empty, your pulse thrumming impatiently.
“What…?” you breathed, dazed and desperate, though you knew you had no right to demand anything from him.
He looked up at you with a devil’s grin, droplets of water clinging to his lashes, his lips glistening.
“We must keep the balance, remember?” he teased lightly.
His fingers - shining from you - drifted lazily through the water again as he examined them with almost academic curiosity before flicking his eyes back to you.
“I’m simply making sure you’re ready for what happens next.” The promise in his voice made your entire body tense in anticipation, heat blooming low and sharp.
Still too unsteady on your feet, too wrapped in lingering heat and the fog of his touch, you let yourself sink back into the chest-high water. He guided you with an easy, confident steadiness, his palms warm on your waist as he drew you toward the center of the pool where the steam rose thicker, cloaking you both in something that felt stolen from a dream.
Before you even fully registered the movement, he pulled you into his embrace - slick skin meeting slick skin, your breasts brushing his chest, his body radiating heat against yours in a way that made your breath catch. The lap of water around your chest was gentle compared to the pressure of his hands. He angled his face down, searching yours.
His fingers cupped your cheeks again, thumbs brushing over damp skin. The scent of oils hung heavy in the air. You already knew you’d never work with this mixture again without feeling the ghost of his hands on you.
“This is by far the most relaxing massage I’ve had in a very, very long time,” he murmured, his voice a low purr that vibrated against your throat as he leaned closer. His breath grazed your lips, and the gentle sway of the water pushed you even nearer.
“And you haven’t even had the pleasure of my scalp treatment yet,” you whispered back, unable to steady your own voice as the closeness scrambled every functioning thought.
His mouth brushed along the line of your neck, warm and searching. When his fingers threaded through your hair and tightened, you nearly melted in his hold.
“We are far from finished,” he murmured against your skin. “Still plenty of time. Afterward.”
“After… what?” you breathed, though you already knew, teasing him because it delayed the moment you might drown in it.
Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling yourself flush, letting the soft drag of his body against yours say the things you didn’t dare. His hips shifted, and the length of him pressed, unmistakable, against your lower belly. That sudden, intimate pressure sent excitement sparking through your limbs.
He chuckled into your skin, amused, pleased, far too confident. His lips trailed slowly along the base of your throat, depositing kisses that made you swallow hard - especially when he paused to lick away droplets of water.
“Just promise me to be quiet, petal,” he said, “I’d like to come back to you once in a while.”
A shiver rippled down your spine. You curled your fingers into his hair, guiding his face up, making him meet your gaze.
“That depends on you,” you said, giving him a small, daring smirk. Then you pulled him to your mouth.
He followed instantly. Eagerly. A man very used to control - relinquishing it for you, if only for a heartbeat.
The kiss was slow only in the first second. Then it turned hungry. His lips moved with purpose, tasting every breath you offered. He pressed you closer with each passing moment, his hands sliding along your back, over your hips, pulling you into the solid heat of his body as if the water wasn’t even there.
Your fingers tightened in his curls, not to pull him closer - he was already impossibly close - but simply to stay grounded. The sensation of his mouth moving against yours, the soft drag of his slick skin, the warmth of his chest under your palms… it was an overwhelming symphony of sensation.
You hooked one leg around his hips, not even thinking about it - just seeking more of him, opening yourself instinctively. The movement drew a low, satisfied sound from deep in his chest. He shifted, sliding his cock against your center in a way that made heat ripple through your entire body, slowly gliding through your folds.
In a desperate moment of trying to steady yourself, you caught his lower lip lightly between your teeth.
His fingers tightened in your hair just a fraction - barely enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you were teasing.
“Careful, petal,” he growled softly, voice dark as rich wine. “I only tolerate so much defiance.”
“And yet,” you returned, breathless but still daring, “you’re the customer here. You should be grateful I’m willing to bend the rules for you at all.”
If you knew who he was, you would have never dared to speak to him like that. But ignorance came with its own kind of bravery.
Instead of arguing, he laughed - low and pleased - and slid a hand down your back, settling at your hip. His other hand drifted lower, guiding himself at your entrance with an intention that made your pulse stutter.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and anticipation -
And then he pulled you toward him in one smooth, claiming motion, sliding into you and filling you up with a rush of sensation that forced all air from your lungs.
You pressed your forehead to his chest, biting your lip to stifle the sounds that rose, but a soft, trembling whimper still slipped out. Your nails dragged along his back in an instinctive attempt to hold on.
He gave you barely a moment - barely a heartbeat - to adjust. He was already moving again, his breath catching sharply at the reaction he drew from you.
“Where is that sharp tongue now?” he murmured against your hair, mockery dripping from each word even while his own voice trembled with the effort of restraint.
You took a breath, or attempted to, your mind fogged beyond clear thought.
“Busy,” you managed, voice thin but still faintly teasing as he thrusted into you with force again, “being… completely overwhelmed by a very arrogant man.”
The water moved with you - first in gentle spirals, then in faster ripples that echoed the rhythm he set. Each motion sent tiny waves slapping against the mosaic edge of the pool, the sounds merging with your shallow, uneven breathing. You tried to stay quiet for his sake, and for yours, but every exhale threatened to break into something louder.
It became harder for both of you to stay steady in the center of the pool. You felt it in the way his hands tightened on your hips, in the way his control began to blur at the edges. Without warning, he steered you backward with firm, guiding pressure, until the slick stone rim met your spine.
The brief press of your back against the edge grounded you just long enough for a few hard thrusts - his hands braced on either side of you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, opening yourself with need. The movements grew more deliberate, more demanding, his breath mixing with the steam as he leaned over you, chasing your reactions.
But before you could lose yourself completely, he slipped away from your body. The absence was sharp, shocking, stealing your breath in a different way. You nearly protested -
- but his hands were already on you, flipping you with effortless strength and guiding you forward. The cold floor met your chest in a sudden, biting contrast that tore a small, involuntary cry from your lips - too loud for comfort, loud enough to make your heart seize.
His answer came instantly. His fingers traced down your spine in a soothing, deliberate stroke, calming and commanding all at once. He followed that line lower. The warmth of his touch spread through you, chasing away the sting of cold. You felt his hand slip beneath the water, between your thighs and in between your folds. The slow, intentional strokes meant only to steady you, to coax you into relaxing for him again.
You breathed out, tension melting. Then he nudged you open with gentle insistence, positioning you for him with knowing hands. He gave you a mere second to anticipate him, then he drove is cock back into your warmth with the same force he used before.
Your palms slid on the slick floor as you searched for purchase. You found none - but you didn’t need to. You let yourself give into him, cheek pressed against the chilled stone, breaths fogging the wet mosaics with each exhale while water splashed over the rim obscenely.
His hand traveled up your spine again, fingers weaving into your damp hair. He pulled your head up just enough to arch your back, lifting your sound, tightening your breath - stealing the chance to make any noise louder than a choked whisper.
You clung to the pool’s rim, fighting for balance as he found his own rhythm behind you - stronger now, more controlled than before, the movements punctuated by low, satisfied sounds in his throat.
“Always such a beautiful sight,” he breathed, voice warm and dark against your ear. His free hand drifted over the curve of your hips, your waist, your backside - claiming, appreciating. He squeezed once, firm enough to anchor you in the moment. “And completely at my mercy.”
The next thrust forced a broken whimper from you, muffled only by your bitten lip.
Heat built inside you with unmistakable inevitability - too fast, too intense to push down, impossible to resist. You could feel it rising with every shift, every pull of his hands, every tremor running through you.
He noticed.
Leaning over you, his chest brushed your back, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. One of his hands reached around, covering your mouth - just enough to trap the sounds that threatened to escape. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, as if he wanted to feel every little tremor rippling through you.
His whispers found you there, low and rough, urging and coaxing, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beside your ear.
"Look at you, petal. So beautifully undone for me..."
You trembled in his hold, the moment cresting -
- your climax taking you in a sudden, shuddering wave that stole every sound except the muffled ones he captured against his palm.
He followed you into it, breath hitching, movements faltering for the first time. You felt the tremor of restraint in him - the way he fought it, the way he mastered it - pulling away from your body at the last heartbeat, the water rippling violently around you as he spilled into it with a low, ragged exhale.
He didn’t let you fall.
Instead, his hands slid to your hips, pulling you upright with a command that felt almost effortless. Your body followed before your mind caught up, rising from the wet floor as he guided you back against him.
Your spine curved at his insistence - an elegant, instinctive bow. Your backside met the warmth of his hips, your slick skin fitting against him as naturally as breath. His arm came around your waist, drawing you tighter until you could feel the faint tremor still running through his muscles.
With his other hand, he caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up and back. Not roughly - just enough to open you to him, to expose the long line of your throat, to hold you in that perfect, helpless arc.
He lowered his head.
Slowly. As if savoring the anticipation more than the kiss itself.
You could feel his breath first - warm and steady, brushing your parted lips. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, guiding your gaze up to meet his just before his mouth touched yours.
The kiss wasn’t hurried.
It wasn’t greedy.
It wasn’t the kind that tried to claim what it could before the world intruded.
It was a kiss that took its time with you.
Decadent and intentional. His lips molded to yours with a certainty that stole whatever breath you had left.
It was a kiss meant to be remembered.
A kiss that promised he wasn’t done with you.
Not on a long shot.
His hand slipped from your chin in an unhurried glide, tracing the line of your throat before settling over your breasts. He cupped you there - almost reverent, almost careful - thumb sweeping across your nipple in a gesture that sent another shiver down your spine. Then he shifted, guiding your body with an ease that felt instinctive, turning you to face him again. This time the kiss he pulled you into was gentler, unhurried, a settling after the storm. You leaned into him, pressing your soaked body closer, chasing the warmth he offered in contrast to the cool stone around you.
His length pressed between you, still heavy, still unmistakably present. He seemed amused by your reaction, by the way your hips shifted despite yourself.
“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each syllable. “If you keep pressing into me like that, we’ll be here long past your working hours.”
A breathless laugh escaped you. “Thought you had all the time in the world,” you teased, emboldened now that the line between customer and forbidden indulgence had been thoroughly erased.
“And yet,” he countered, voice dipping low, “we both must return to our days.” The words should have felt like a parting blow, but instead they landed soft - an unspoken suggestion that this wasn’t an ending, merely a pause.
He eased back from your embrace, and you let him go, though your skin protested the loss of his warmth. He stepped out of the pool, water dripping from him in a slow cascade, catching the lantern light as it travelled the lines of his body. You followed more reluctantly, retrieving your drenched uniform from the water, squeezing it out with little success. It would dry eventually… long after your shift ended.
He took up the linen cloth resting on the stone recliner and dragged it over his torso, then extended it to you, gliding it down your arm, across your hip, a final indulgence. He tossed it aside, eyes fixed on you, still the most fascinating sight in the room.
His fingers brushed your chin again, lifting it just enough to force your gaze to meet his. “I see a prosperous path ahead for you,” he murmured. “Your hands are a blessing… they’ll ease many tensions.”
“You’re only saying that because I let you fuck me,” you shot back with a crooked grin, tightening your grip on your soggy dress.
His laugh was low and rich. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your lips. “Perhaps. Or perhaps next time I’ll allow you to focus solely on your craft and make a cleaner judgment.”
“Next time.” The words echoed in your head as he dressed, every layer settling with practiced elegance. Too elegant for someone who should be here. But the question of who he truly was dissolved into the steam as he pulled on his final piece.
You glanced around at the chaos the two of you had made - the water sloshed onto the floor, the oils streaked across the recliner, your dripping clothes. It would take a while to make this room look respectable again.
He paused at the doorway and turned back, eyes sweeping over you with that same slow-burning interest. “Until we meet again, petal. Try not to break any more rules in the meantime.” A smirk. “I’d hate to lose you so soon.”
Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the echoes of heat, the scent of oils… and the unmistakable promise of return.
-------‐---------
This was it. You felt it in your bones before anyone spoke a word. Your end. You had been so careful - obsessively so - scrubbing every tile, wiping every ripple of water, rinsing away every trace of oil, even airing out the room so the scent of him didn’t linger. Your wet clothes you had explained away as a clumsy slip after cleaning. The mistress had believed you. Or at least she had pretended to.
And yet here she was, days later, staring at you with eyes sharp as cut glass.
“Follow me.”
No warmth. No explanation. Just clipped footsteps and a back you dared not question.
You followed her through the crowded streets of Sunspear, each step heavier than the last. Maybe he had spoken. Maybe your rule-breaking had spread through whispers, servants passing stories like stolen figs. Maybe she was marching you to the brothels, deciding that your place was among those who used their hands for entirely different services.
But then… why were you walking away from the docks?
The roads grew cleaner, wider, brighter. Pale stone shimmered under the sun. You swallowed hard when the walls of the royal courtyard rose before you. The gates opened with a deep groan, guards in polished armor standing sentinel. The mistress pushed a small satchel - your pathetic collection of belongings - into your arms. She didn’t look at you when she said, through clenched teeth, “This might be the shortest employment I’ve ever overseen.”
You opened your mouth, too many responses fighting to emerge - a question, a plea, a thank you for the opportunity, something - but you were swept forward by the guards before you could form a single syllable.
You were led through the royal gardens, and even in your confusion, awe found you. Lush greenery spilled over marble pathways. Fountains danced in the sunlight. The air smelled like citrus and honey and sea wind. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, a world you had never even hoped to see from afar, let alone walk through.
Inside, the palace swallowed you in cool shade and opulent beauty - vaulted ceilings painted with suns and spears, pillars carved with curling vines, and floors that reflected your nervous face back at you in polished stone.
The guards left you standing in the center of a grand reception hall, then stationed themselves at the door, unmoving. You clutched your satchel to your chest as though it might hide how woefully underdressed you were.
A door at the far end opened sharply. Footsteps echoed - poised, confident, rhythmic. And then a stunning woman appeared.
Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous - soft curls cascading over sun-kissed skin, jewelry that seemed part of her rather than worn, eyes that took you in with deep, perceptive interest. Not a trace of disdain. Only curiosity.
“So,” she mused as she circled you slowly, fingertips grazing your shoulder in passing, “you’re the one with hands that can coax miracles from muscle and bone.”
You swallowed, unsure how to respond. She tilted her head, evaluating you like a rare artifact.
“Well,” she said, tone light but eyes sharp, “we shall see if the reputation is deserved. Welcome to House Martell, you shall know me by the name of Ellaria Sand. Do you know why you’re here?”
You shook your head, gaze dropping out of instinct.
Ellaria slipped a finger beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your eyes to hers. “Obedience is appreciated here,” she said softly. “But do not mistake it for servility. Submissiveness has its place - and its moments.” Her lips curved. “He said your talents were wasted in a common parlor. I’m inclined to believe him. Whether he is correct… we will discover soon enough.”
She turned and swept forward, expecting you to follow without needing to ask. You hurried after her through a side corridor until she opened a smaller chamber.
Smaller - yet breathtaking.
Warm golden walls hung with silks. Carved wooden screens filtering sunlight into honeyed patterns. A raised stone pool fed by a trickling fountainhead, water steaming gently. Tables with bottles of oils, brushes, soft linens. A padded reclining couch embroidered in golden colors. It was a sanctum for luxury, comfort, and indulgence - a version of your old workspace elevated into royalty.
“This room is yours to prepare,” Ellaria said, already halfway toward the door. “If anything is missing, call the guards.”
“My lady,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “Why… why am I here?”
She paused, then laughed - an open, warm, utterly disarming sound. “You are here, child, because from this day forward you will serve as the physical healer of this house.” She smiled, hand resting casually on the doorframe. “For Prince Oberyn Martell. He will come to you soon enough - so do make yourself ready.” Her fingers tapped against the wood. “And who knows… perhaps I will join him if the mood strikes.”
The flutters in your chest turned into a dizzy storm - intrigue, panic, anticipation.
When she left, silence swallowed the chamber. You set your satchel down, inhaled deeply, and began to arrange the room as you once had in your humble parlor, though your hands trembled slightly. You barely had time to breathe in your new reality when a sharp knock jolted you to stillness.
You bowed instinctively as the door opened and shut.
A quiet chuckle answered your posture.
“Look at you, petal.” Your head snapped up. He leaned against the door, smirking, eyes full of that same molten amusement. “I trust you’ve warmed those magical hands,” he said, stepping toward you with unmistakable intent. “I’m carrying a great deal of tension today.”
Hope that could ease your tensions a little... if you crave more: my Masterlist is right this way.
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summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
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so back when my little brother was in high school, my mom went as a chaperone for their senior year field trip to an amusement park. which, you know, brave move to volunteer to supervise a bunch of high school seniors let loose in a wonderland of rollercoasters and sugar
my brother and his friends in this field trip group were truly great kids. but they were not above run of the mill teenage boy shenanigans. it’s the end of senior year, you and all your buddies are at the amusement park, you’re naturally going to want to act like a complete moron
there was one kid in the group who was especially prone to goofing around. committed to the bit, some may say. my mom knew that if nonsense was going to break out, he’d likely be at the center of it
so she goes up to this kid at the very start of the trip and says “hey, i’m kinda worried about this chaperoning thing. this might be a lot to ask, but can you help me keep an eye on everyone? you wouldn’t have to do anything big, just be an extra set of eyes for me.”
friends, this kid proceeded to run their field trip group like the fucking us marines. everyone is at the meet up spots at the designated time. everyone waits in line for the rides like a bunch of boy scouts. the second the horseplay gets too out of hand, this kid is getting it back under control
it’s incredible how differently people act based on the expectations you set. instead of going to this kid and saying “hey, i know you’re trouble, so i’ve got my eye on you,” my mom went “hey, i know you have influence in your peer group, so i think you can help me.”
treat someone like a problem, they’ll act like a problem. but give people a chance to help, make them feel important, and they usually rise far above the occasion. it was a stroke of genius that i’m honestly still in awe of
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