mercy🔥

This is… wrong.

The windows are open, pushed up as far as they’ll go, letting in a soft, steady breeze that smells like fresh grass and something faintly floral from somewhere down the street. The sheer curtains lift and fall with it, slow and lazy, like they have nowhere else to be. Sunlight spills across the floor in warm, golden patches, stretching over the couch, the coffee table, the edges of the scattered papers.

Outside, the world is alive.

Children’s laughter carries up from the sidewalk, bright and unfiltered. A dog barks, sharp and excited. Somewhere, someone’s playing music low enough that you can’t make out the words, just the rhythm. Birds chatter in the trees like they’re gossiping about something important.

It’s seventy-eight degrees.

Perfect.

The kind of day that feels like it was made for bare arms and long walks and staying out longer than you planned.

The kind of day you were supposed to be enjoying.

You smooth your hands down the skirt of your sundress—lavender, soft, light enough that it shifts with every whisper of air from the window. You’d taken your time getting ready this morning. Not too much, not overdone—just enough. Enough for a picnic. Enough for sitting across from Spencer in the park with a chessboard between you, sunlight catching in his hair while he pretends not to be competitive.

You had the whole thing planned.

Had even rehearsed how you’d ask.

And then you walked into the living room and found everything—well, wrong.

Like everything in it has been carefully arranged around one singular gravitational force, and that force is currently sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a stack of files, three open books, and a legal pad filled with handwriting so tight it almost looks like print scattered on the coffee table and floor around him.

Spencer hasn’t looked up in—what—twenty minutes?

Twenty-five?

You’ve been counting. Bad sign.

The only sounds are paper shifting, pen scratching, the occasional soft exhale when he rereads something and doesn’t like what it says. The world has narrowed down to ink and logic and whatever case has sunk its teeth into him.

He told you to be patient.

You tried.

You really did.

But patience is a lot harder to hold onto when the sun is warm on your skin, when the breeze keeps brushing past you like an invitation, when the world outside is practically begging you to come join it—

—and your boyfriend is sitting three feet away, completely unreachable.

The only sounds inside are paper shifting, pen scratching, the occasional soft exhale when he rereads something and doesn’t like what it says.

The world has narrowed down to ink and logic and whatever case has sunk its teeth into him.

Your gaze drifts back to the window. The light. The movement. The life just out of reach.

You could be halfway through a walk by now.

Could be stretched out on a blanket in the park, shoes kicked off, arguing over chess moves he’s absolutely overthinking.

Could be stealing kisses just because you can.

Instead you’re bored.

And that’s not even the worst part. Because this morning, you’d had a different plan. After the walk, after the picnic, after chess.

Something that had nothing to do with fresh air or sunlight and everything to do with the way he looks at you when he’s not thinking about anything else.

You’d imagined it, stupidly vivid.

The two of you getting back from the park, a little warm, a little flushed, the day still clinging to your skin.

You’d thought about the way the door would barely make it shut before he’d lose the thread completely. The way he’d pull you in like the thought had been there all along, just waiting for permission.

The way his focus would shift. Sharpen. Land on you.

You exhale, long and heavy, the sound slipping out before you can stop it.

Spencer doesn’t look up. But one eyebrow lifts, just slightly, like a reflex he doesn’t even have to think about anymore.

“You’ve been sighing a lot,” he says, tone absent, attention still pinned to the page in front of him.

“…have I?”

“Yes.”

Nothing else. No glance, no follow-up. Just the quiet scratch of pen against paper as he underlines something with unnecessary precision.

You wait.

He doesn’t continue.

The breeze shifts through the window again, lifting the edge of your skirt, brushing cool against your legs like it’s trying to drag you back outside where you belong.

You look at him. Then at the door. Then back at him.

“…it’s really nice out,” you offer.

“Mhm.”

A non-answer if you’ve ever heard one.

You huff quietly, deflating a bit.

“…are you almost done?” you ask, the question tipping at the edges into something softer than you meant—something that sounds suspiciously like a whine.

The pen keeps moving.

No pause. No hesitation. Not even that absent little mhm he gave you before.

You wait a beat. Two.

“…Spence.”

Nothing.

The quiet stretches, stubborn and unyielding, like he’s decided your voice is just another background noise to tune out.

Your mouth twists. You drag in a breath through your nose, hold it for a second and then let it out in a dramatic groan.

Still nothing.

Not even the courtesy of a glance.

Fine.

Fine.

If he’s going to pretend you’re not here, you’ll just have to make that a little more difficult for him.

You push yourself off the wall and cross the room in a few quick steps, the soft brush of your dress the only warning he gets before you drop onto the edge of the coffee table.

Right on top of one of his neatly stacked files.

Paper crinkles faintly beneath you.

The sheer fabric of your skirt flutters with the movement, settling wherever it pleases—over the corner of a book, across a few loose pages, obscuring a paragraph he’d clearly been working through.

You shift, deliberately unhurried, and cross one leg over the other.

The fabric slides, rides up just enough.

Sunlight catches on your skin, warm and unapologetic, the line of your thigh suddenly very present in a space that had been all ink and logic a second ago.

If he wants to ignore you, he’s going to have to work a little harder for it.

The pen stops.

Not for long. Just a fraction of a second—barely there if you weren’t watching for it.

But you are.

It starts again, a touch slower this time.

“…you’re sitting on my notes,” he says, voice even, eyes still fixed on the page like he can brute-force his focus back into place.

“You have other notes.”

“I need those notes.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to move me.”

The pen stills again, this time long enough to feel intentional.

Slowly—finally—Spencer looks up.

Not at your face.

His gaze drops first, tracking the line of your leg where it disappears beneath the hem of your dress, where sunlight and shadow play a quiet, dangerous game.

It lingers.

Just for a second.

Then it lifts, meeting your eyes.

There’s something different there now. Not distracted. Not absent.

Sharp.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says.

You tilt your head, all practiced innocence. “Doing what?”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s deciding how much patience he has left to spend on this.

“Interrupting me.”

“You were already interrupted,” you counter lightly. “By work. I’m just… trying to fix that.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Seems like it’s working a little,” you hum, glancing pointedly at the pen that hasn’t moved in several seconds.

His jaw tightens. Subtle, but there.

“You told me to be patient,” you add, softer now. “I was. For like… half an hour.”

“Twenty-three minutes,” he corrects automatically.

You pout a little, letting your bottom lip tip forward just enough to be noticeable, just enough to be felt.

“I’m bored.”

It comes out softer than the rest of your interruptions. Less sharp, more honest. A thread of something real woven through all the deliberate provocation.

Spencer huffs out a quiet breath through his nose, the sound almost a laugh if it weren’t so restrained.

“I can tell.”

There’s a faint edge to it, but not unkind. Just… aware. Like he’s been tracking every shift, every sigh, every inch you’ve stolen from his attention.

Your pout deepens into a frown. “That’s not very helpful.”

His gaze flicks back down to the page, pen tapping once against the margin like he’s trying to reset his thoughts, line them back up into something coherent.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and the word lands softer than anything else he’s said in the last half hour, “I’m sorry. I swear, this won’t take long, I just need to finish this.”

You shift slightly where you’re sitting, the papers beneath you whispering their quiet protest.

“How long is ‘not long’?” you ask, narrowing your eyes just a little.

“A few pages.”

“That’s not a unit of time.”

“It is when you read at my speed.”

“Spencer.”

He doesn’t look up this time. Just reaches for another sheet, flips it over, keeps going.

You lean forward instead.

Just enough to tip into his space.

“Spence.”

The pen pauses again. A small fracture in his concentration. You take it.

“You could work. Or,” you say lightly, tracing the edge of one of the books with your fingertip, slow and absent in a way that is anything but, “you could take a break. Ten minutes. We go outside, you get some sunlight, I stop being so distracting—”

“You would not stop being distracting,” he cuts in, still not looking at you.

You smile, because he’s not wrong. “I could try.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

You huff again, louder this time, letting it drag out just enough to scrape against his concentration.

“I just want to spend time with you.”

Spencer doesn’t even blink. “You are.”

Your eyes narrow. That answer lands like a door gently but firmly shut.

“That doesn’t count,” you mutter, shifting on the papers beneath you, making them crinkle again just to be difficult. “You’re not with me. You’re… adjacent to me. There’s a difference.”

“I’m in the same room,” he replies, maddeningly calm, like that settles anything.

You lean forward again, invading the careful bubble he’s built around himself, your voice dropping just a touch.

“I wanna spend closer time with you.”

That does it.

He goes still. Not just the pen this time—everything.

The leaves in the wind, the muffled sounds of the street outside, the rustle of the breeze in the curtains; it all seems to drop away into a sudden, weighted silence. Spencer lifts his head, slow and deliberate, and turns to look at you.

There’s no impatience in his expression, only a terrifying kind of calm. His gaze drags over the way your skirt has ridden up, the deliberate placement of your body directly in his line of sight, and finally settles on your face with a look that feels less like he’s seeing you and more like he’s calculating the most efficient way to solve a problem. He sets the pen down on the table with a quiet, decisive click that sounds louder than it has any right to.

"You want to be close?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing that distracted edge and smoothing out into something that makes your breath hitch. "Fine. If you need to be touching me that badly, we can do that. But I am finishing these files, and you are going to sit there and be quiet."

He doesn't give you a chance to respond, to process the shift in the air, or to take it back. He simply reaches out, hands firm on your waist, and lifts you off the paperwork as effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. Before you can draw a breath to ask what he’s doing, he’s guiding you down, settling you firmly on his lap so that you’re straddling him, the heat of his thighs searing through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your hands fly to his shoulders instinctively to steady yourself, a breathless little laugh already catching in your throat at the sudden proximity. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? His hands on you, his attention anchored, no longer drifting off to crime scenes and geographic profiles.

You open your mouth, ready to give him a smart remark about finally listening, or maybe just a hum of satisfaction, but the words die before they can reach the air.

Because Spencer’s hands aren’t settling on your waist or your hips.

His palms slide down, unhurried and deliberate, skating over the curve of your hips and gripping your thighs to spread them just a little wider on his lap. His gaze is locked on the hem of your dress where it has bunched up around your waist, his expression unreadable in that way that usually precedes a profile coming together.

Slowly, almost experimentally, his right hand smooths up the inside of your thigh, pushing the fabric higher.

You know he expects to encounter lace, silk, some barrier—but when his fingers brush against the crease where your leg meets your hip, there is only warm, bare skin.

He pauses and tsks, the sound soft but scathing, a click of his tongue against his teeth that feels like a reprimand all on its own.

"You really wanted attention, didn't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and smooth.

He doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't give you a chance to defend yourself or deflect with a joke. His hand shifts inward, fingers delving through your folds, dragging through the slick, undeniable evidence of your arousal. 

He hums, a quiet, considering sound that vibrates through his chest and right into yours. "All this fussing, all this trouble... just for this? You're soaked.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just sinks his middle finger into you, slow and devastatingly deep.

Your breath hitches, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder as your body immediately tries to accommodate him, your walls clenching around the sudden, welcome intrusion.

He works you with a terrifying kind of precision—not rushing, not teasing, just feeling the way you tighten around him, curling his finger just enough to drag a high, thin sound from the back of your throat.

A second finger joins the first, stretching you, and the deliberate pace of it begins to burn away the annoyance of being ignored.

The heat that’s been simmering under your skin all day flares up bright and demanding. You can’t help it—you start moving your hips, small, helpless little circles that chase the friction, your breath coming faster against his neck, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

It’s exactly what you wanted—the world outside has vanished completely, replaced by the thick, heavy air between you, the slick sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the low hum of approval he makes when you gasp against his ear.

Then, just as the heat at the base of your spine begins to coil tight, just as your breath starts to hitch in a way that signals more, he stops.

The loss of his fingers leaves you feeling achingly empty, a cold void where the heat was just a second ago. A soft, desperate whimper slips out, your hips chasing his hand for a fraction of a second before you realize he’s pulling away completely.

But then you hear the metallic clink of his belt buckle, the distinct rasp of a zipper being lowered. Your head snaps up, eyes widening as you watch him shift, lifting his hips just enough to tug his trousers and boxers down, freeing himself.

Your pulse jumps. This is it. This is what you’ve been trying to provoke since you walked into the room.

He grips your hips with firm, steady hands, guiding you up and over him until the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your entrance. The stretch is slow and deliberate, your body sinking down inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt, filling you so completely that your breath catches in your throat. 

The sensation is overwhelming, a dense, heavy heat that pushes every thought of sunshine and picnics out of your mind until all that’s left is the feeling of him inside you.

For a moment, you just sit there, adjusting, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as you adjust to the size of him, listening to the ragged intake of his own breath.

Your body reacts on instinct. The need for friction, for movement, for any kind of relief from the building pressure, takes over.

You lift your hips slightly, starting a slow, experimental roll, bracing your hands on his shoulders to find a rhythm that will give you what you need.

But before you can even complete the motion—before you can establish a rhythm that might actually take you somewhere—his hand cracks down against your ass.

It’s sharp and sudden, a loud smack that echoes in the quiet room, leaving a sting that radiates heat through your entire body and freezes you in place.

"I didn't say you could move," he says, his voice dropping back into that terrifyingly calm register. His hand lingers on the stinging skin of your ass for a moment, an unmoving weight of warning, before sliding back up to rest firmly on your hip. 

"You wanted to be close?" He shifts his grip, locking you in place, burying himself impossibly deeper inside you. "Congratulations, you got it."

You try to pull back to look at him, to search his face for any sign that he’s joking, but his gaze is already fixed back on the file in front of him. He picks up his pen with his free hand, twirling it once between his fingers, and then gets back to writing, as if having you full and trembling on his cock is the most normal thing in the world.

"This is a punishment," he says, the words firm and unyielding, clipping off the end of any protest before it can form. His hand tightens on your hip, a grounding anchor that feels more like a lock. "You don't move. You don't wriggle. And you stay quiet. You're going to sit right here, filled up exactly how you wanted, and keep your mouth shut while I finish this."

He clicks the pen, the sound deafening in the sudden stillness between you. "If you move," he adds, glancing up just long enough for his eyes to lock onto yours, dark and serious, "I’ll pull you off and we’ll start over."

You freeze, the threat settling over you. 

So you sit there, perched on his lap, trying to find a way to breathe that doesn't make you feel like you're going to lose your mind. 

Stillness shouldn't be this hard.

You try to obey—you really do. You press your lips together to seal in any sound and focus on the rise and fall of your chest, trying to match the steady, indifferent rhythm of his breathing. But your body has other ideas. 

You can feel your pulse everywhere, a traitorous thrumming under your skin that makes you hypersensitive to every point of contact. The friction of the fabric of his trousers against the back of your thighs, the warmth of his hand still gripping your hip, the way the light dusting of hair on his forearms brushes against your skin—it’s all suddenly too much.

Your walls flutter around him, an involuntary, rhythmic clenching that you try desperately to suppress, but it’s like trying to hold water in your hands. Every time a tiny muscle spasm pulls him tighter, he responds with a subtle, maddening twitch of his own, a purely physical reflex that feels like a taunt. He’s so deep, pressing against a spot that makes your toes curl in your sandals, and the sheer fullness of it is a constant, throbbing reminder that the relief you crave is just an inch away—right there, if you just dared to rock your hips.

The urge to move is an ache, a physical itch under your skin that grows sharper the longer you sit there. It starts as a subtle shift of weight, a micro-adjustment of your spine to relieve the pressure, and you have to force your muscles to lock down to stop it from turning into a grind.

Your thighs tremble with the effort of staying perfectly frozen, your breath coming shallow and fast through your nose as you stare resolutely at the side of his neck, watching the steady beat of his pulse that contrasts violently with the chaos inside you.

Then the pen stops moving.

He doesn't look up immediately. He just sets the pen down with a deliberate, quiet click that sounds more like a threat than a writing utensil hitting paper. His hand, which has been resting loosely on your hip, slides upward, his fingers splaying wide across your lower back to pull you infinitesimally closer. The shift buries him that fraction of an inch deeper, drawing a sharp gasp from you that you barely manage to bite back behind your teeth.

"You're trembling," he observes, his voice low and rough, vibrating against your chest where you're pressed against him.

He leans in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, his breath hot and maddeningly slow. "You’re doing so well," he murmurs. "My sweet girl, being so good for me now."

The praise hits you harder than the threat did, a warm, confusing rush that seeps into your muscles and nearly undoes you entirely. 

Your eyes flutter shut, your head instinctively tipping toward his as his hand smooths up your spine, his fingers threading through your hair to scratch gently at your scalp. It’s such a tender gesture, so at odds with the way he’s stretching you open, that it makes your head spin.

For a second, you almost forget the ache—the need—just leaning into the touch like a cat being stroked, desperate to be good now that you’ve been acknowledged.

"Don't get comfortable yet," he murmurs against your temple, his voice slipping back into that sharp, dominant register that makes your stomach drop. "I still have three pages to go.”

The urge to whine builds in your throat, a high, sharp pressure against your vocal cords. You want to argue that you can't, that it’s too much, that three pages might as well be three centuries when every second feels like an hour. 

You part your lips, ready to let the words spill out, to test his patience one last time.

But the memory of his hand on your ass—the sting that hasn't quite faded, the way the heat of it seems to radiate outward and settle low in your belly—stops you.

You swallow the sound. Hard.

The next twenty minutes are a blur of agonizing stillness. The only movement in the room comes from his hand, the rhythmic scratch of the pen against the paper now sounding impossibly loud, like a metronome counting down the seconds of your torture.

You watch the clock on the wall with a sort of desperate fixation, watching the minute hand crawl forward while your body throbs in time with your heartbeat. Every time he shifts slightly to adjust his posture, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping, the subtle friction against your oversensitive nerves nearly sending you over the edge.

You are acutely, painfully aware of every inch of him inside you, a heavy, possessive weight that refuses to let you forget who is in control.

Then, finally, the pen stops.

He sets it down with a final, decisive click, and the sound is like a starting gun. You feel the tension in his shoulders release instantly, the rigid line of his spine relaxing as he lets out a long, low breath, rolling his neck to work out the stiffness. 

He surveys the stack of completed papers for a brief second, his eyes scanning the mess he’s made on the coffee table with a distant sort of satisfaction, before his attention shifts—and just like that, the gravitational pull of the room snaps back to you.

"There," he murmurs, the word soft but final.

Before you can even process the shift, his hands are moving. 

They slide up your back, strong and sure, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. He looks at you—really looks at you—his eyes dark and heavy, tracing the flush on your cheeks and the dampness clinging to your lashes.

"Look at that," he says quietly, his thumb sweeping over your lower lip. "You did it. I knew you could be good."

The heat in your cheeks flares instantaneously, a mortifying flush that burns all the way down to your chest at the praise. 

You want to argue, to snap that you were only good because he forced you to be, but the words dissolve into a soft, broken moan as he flexes his hips beneath you. 

That subtle movement feels cataclysmic now that the stillness has shattered, dragging a raw gasp from your throat as your body finally registers that the waiting is over.

"You took your punishment so well," he breathes against your lips, the rough praise barely a whisper before he seals his mouth over yours. 

The kiss is hungry and demanding, swallowing the little whimper that escapes you as he lifts you slightly, dragging his cock nearly all the way out, his grip on your hips bruisingly tight. "Now I'm going to give you what you've been begging for since you walked into the room."

Then he brings you back down.

The pace he sets is brutal, completely opposite the agonizing stillness from before.

He fucks up into you with sharp, precise rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive nerve ending you possess, effectively erasing the memory of the punishment and replacing it with a blinding, white-hot pleasure. 

You can’t keep up—you’re reduced to holding onto him for dear life, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he uses you, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you grounded while the world tilts on its axis.

The friction is overwhelming, each thrust punching a high, broken sound out of your throat that you can no longer contain, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin filling the quiet room.

Every nerve feels stripped raw, your body hypersensitive after so long spent balancing on the edge, and the sudden intensity is enough to make your vision blur. The heat that had been simmering under your skin roars into a conflagration, burning you from the inside out as he hits that spot deep inside you with ruthless accuracy. You’re trembling uncontrollably now, your thighs shaking where they’re bracketing his, your head falling back as you gasp for air that doesn't seem to reach your lungs. 

"Spencer, please—God, it’s too much," you sob, your voice cracking as he drives into you harder, grinding you down onto his lap until the friction borders on pain.

"Shh, you can take it," he rasps against your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-slicked skin.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, his rhythm steady and punishing as he chases his own release, completely unraveling the composure he held onto for so long. "You wanted my attention, you have it. You’re doing so well, taking it so good for me, sweet girl." 

The praise wraps around you, mingling with the pleasure curling tight in your belly, pushing you closer and closer to the brink. 

He sucks a mark into the hollow of your throat, possessive and claiming, and the combined sensation of his teeth on your skin and the relentless friction is enough to finally send you flying.

The orgasm hits you with the force of a tidal wave, ripping a hoarse, broken cry from your throat as your body seizes and arches in his grip. Your vision whites out, your walls clamping down around him almost violently as the pleasure tears through you, leaving you shaking and gasping.

Spencer doesn't let up, fucking you through it with deep, grounding thrusts that prolong the sensation until it borders on unbearable, drawing every last aftershock out of you until you’re boneless and trembling against him.

"Good girl," he breathes, the words ragged and rough against your ear as his rhythm begins to falter. "So beautiful when you let go. Just let go."

His control finally snaps. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he follows you over the edge. You feel the heat of him spilling inside you, his hips jerking sporadically as he rides out his own climax, his face pressed tight against the curve of your neck. 

His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you close, grounding you both as the aftershocks ripple through your joined bodies.

For a long, hazy stretch of time, the world is reduced to the sound of your own ragged breathing and the heavy thud of his heart against your chest.

You stay curled around him, face buried in the crook of his neck, limp and boneless in the aftermath. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he keeps you anchored, one arm banded securely around your waist to keep you from slipping, his hips remaining flush against yours so you remain connected, feeling the weight of him inside you as you both drift back down.

His free hand moves up your back, slow and deliberate, smoothing over your dress in long, grounding strokes that seem to chase away the tremors still racking your frame. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there, his lips soft and dry against your overheated skin.

"You did so good," he whispers against your hair, the praise a soft rumble in his chest that vibrates through your own body. "So perfect for me. My beautiful girl." His fingers trace a gentle path down the curve of your spine, rubbing away the tension with a tenderness that feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket. "I’ve got you. You’re okay."

He shifts slightly, just enough to cradle the back of your head, urging you to look up at him. When your eyes finally meet his, the intense focus is back, but this time it’s softer, open, filled with a quiet adoration that makes your breath hitch all over again. He brushes a stray lock of hair away from your face with careful fingers, tucking it behind your ear.

"Such a sweet thing," he murmurs, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. "All you wanted was a little attention, hmm? Just wanted to be looked at." He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, treating you like something fragile and precious he’s afraid of breaking. "I see you. I promise. I see exactly what you need."

You sag against him, letting your forehead rest against his shoulder, the fight draining out of you until you’re nothing but liquid weight in his lap. 

The difference between the strict punishment of minutes ago and the gentle reverence of his touch now makes your head spin pleasantly. 

He keeps up that steady, rhythmic petting, his nails scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that melts the remaining tension in your neck. 

It feels safe to be small here, to let him hold the weight of the world while you just float in the aftermath, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

Eventually, though, the reality of physical limitations sets in. Your thighs twinge, a dull ache settling into the muscles from holding the position for so long, and the overstimulated throb between your legs starts to border on genuine sensitivity.

You shift with a quiet, uncomfortable noise, instinctively trying to lift off him and ease the pressure. He stops you with a gentle hand on your hip, not restraining you this time, just steadying you, his touch light and reassuring as he helps guide your movements.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice raspy with exhaustion but filled with warmth as he helps you shift to the side, sliding out of you with a careful slowness that makes you both hiss. 

The loss of him leaves you feeling strangely hollow, your body trying to adjust to the sudden lack of connection, but the way he immediately gathers you into his side, tucking you securely against his ribs, makes up for it.

It’s quiet now. Not the stifling, desperate silence of before, but something heavy and sweet. 

You curl into him, your head resting on his chest, your legs tangled comfortably with his on the couch. You can hear the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart slowing down, returning to its normal cadence. 

His hand is a constant, soothing weight as it moves up and down your arm, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin, occasionally stopping just to smooth your hair.

It’s nice. 

It’s what you wanted all afternoon—the kind of closeness that doesn't require you to beg for it, the kind of attention that feels effortless and warm. 

The file on the table is forgotten, the pen capped, and the only thing that matters is the heat of his body seeping into yours.

You lose track of time drifting in the lull, your eyes fluttering closed as you listen to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. 

It feels safe and weighted, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy you’d carried into the room just an hour ago. 

The tension that had been coiling tight in your chest has finally unwound, replaced by a golden, drowsy haze where nothing else exists but the circle of his arms and the lingering scent of him—old books, coffee, and the distinct, sharp smell of his cologne mixed with the warmth of sex.

After a while, his fingers still against your arm. He shifts slightly beneath you, and when you glance up, you find him looking down at you with a soft, considering expression. 

His curls are a mess, and he looks a little less sharp around the edges now, the formidable genius replaced by something much softer and infinitely more fond.

"So," he starts, his voice raspy but gentle, his hand coming up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. "Do you still want to take that walk? Or have I completely tired you out?"

"I think I can manage," you murmur, though the heavy contentment settling into your limbs makes the prospect of moving seem almost Herculean. 

You push yourself up slowly, muscles protesting in the best way possible as you stretch your arms over your head. 

When you look back at him, he’s watching you with a lazy, affectionate warmth that makes your chest feel tight. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, fueled by the memory of the day and the man currently trying to fix his disheveled tie. "Absolutely. I'm not letting you out of my sight that easily."

He laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrates through his chest as he begins the process of reassembling himself into the put-together profiler he usually is. He stands up, buttoning his cuffs with precise fingers, though his hair is still a chaotic mess of soft curls that no amount of smoothing will fix until he’s near a mirror. 

He reaches down, offering you a hand with a gentle reverence that feels miles away from the dominant grip he’d held you with just minutes ago. His grip is firm as he pulls you to your feet, steadying you when your knees wobble just slightly.

"Careful," he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand warm against your lower back as he steers you toward the door. 

The late afternoon sun is casting long, golden shadows across the floorboards, promising a beautiful evening. 

As you slip your shoes back on, you watch him pocket his keys, his demeanor relaxed and open in a way that is entirely for you. You step out into the hallway together, and his hand slides down to yours, lacing your fingers together tightly, ensuring that even though the work is done, the connection you craved isn't going anywhere.

His body goes cold again, rigid at her silence. At first, he thinks something might be wrong. How sad is that, he wonders then, that his first instinct always screams that there must be danger at play? The feeling leaves as quickly as it came, replaced by a gust of wind and another marrow-deep chill. Now he’s simply cold and impatient. “Samira?”

“You have my address, right?”

She doesn’t even get the whole sentence out before he’s on the move, briskly pacing towards the parking lot, panic rising through him again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she clarifies sharply, stopping him in his tracks. “Nothing, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m just…”

“You sound unsure…”

There is a long, exhausted sigh on the other end of the line, a sound he knows all too well. It rings out just as loudly as the howling wind, piercing some deep, aching corner of his being that he thought had been stowed away and collecting dust long enough to be mostly unrecognizable by now. Suddenly, he’s worried for Samira, but in a different way. He hesitates to call the feeling pity, but there’s something familiarly self-deprecating about this late-night call that reminds him of his own desperate encounters with distraction. They’ve shifted significantly over the years as he’s more-or-less come to terms with his circumstances. Still, it’s hard to forget that crushing imposition of feeling alone. 

“I’m okay. Really, I am…”

“But?”

“But… I asked for a weekend off of work a while back, and now that it’s here it suddenly feels like I have nothing to do. I’m restless and I can’t get my mind to slow down, so I figured if I couldn’t be productive…”

Jack can’t help but smile, feeling the muscles in his face stretch taut against the cold. “Then you might have luck talking to the most restless person you know?”

Her laugh comes through the phone with a soft crackle, another beacon of warmth. “Well… Yeah, I mean… You’re just as much of a workaholic as I am, I thought you might be able to help me out… But I know you just got done with your shift, so you don’t have to—”

“You’re still in that apartment on Mayberry, right?”

There’s a brief silence, but then…

“Yes.”

Her voice is barely a whisper, yet that one breath holds so much relief—so much hope—that Jack has forgotten the chill of the wind altogether. All he knows in that moment is the soft caress of her voice and her silhouette in the back of his mind, calling to him like an offering from the divine.

His feet are moving again, and he’s telling her, “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll leave the light on.”

As it turns out, divinity might be too gentle of a word to represent the true effect of Samira Mohan’s presence on him.

Untouched by restraints of the workplace, Jack experiences her ability to rattle on about practically everything that’s on her mind; When she said she was unable to slow down her mind, there’d been no exaggeration. They cover a wide array of topics, from their childhoods to med school horror stories to random hobbies and habits they’ve picked up over the years, and in the span of a couple hours, the two of them are comfortably perched on her sofa, mugs of neglected chamomile gone cold on the coffee table and throw pillows abandoned on the floor.

Her eyes are wild, expressive, and excitable, yet the exhaustion shows. He wonders how long it’s been since she slept, but decides not to bring it up, knowing damn well he’s been in her place too many times to count. If he’s going to help her successfully, he figures the best case scenario would be to let Samira tire herself out, maybe covering her sleeping form with blankets on the couch before sneaking away.

Regardless of the method, he decides that whatever she wants, he’ll gladly offer. She deserves that much at least.

Occasionally Samira’s hand will reach out and grasp his knee as punctuation, nothing but an extension of her storytelling, and yet each time it happens it casts his soul further into Hell, where he’s starting to feel like he belongs…

…Because why can he not stop leaning into it? Into her?

He’s always been attentive—intense even, someone had said once… So, naturally that must be it, right? Except the longer they talk and the closer they get and the more frequent their passive touches become, nothing at all feels very passive anymore.

So why does it feel like he’s betraying every moral he’s ever known when she gradually pauses the laundry list of apartment renovation projects she’ll never have the time to get to, and leans in? Why doesn’t he stop himself from crossing the line? Why does the possibility of tainting their professional relationship merely feel like a bleached red flag?

Because, Jack realizes, he’s as much an attentive personality as he is a fool. Some things never change, regardless of how much time has passed and how much shit he’s had to work through.

He’s a damned fool. He’s pathetic. Her fingers are beginning their ascent along the side of his neck and up to the graying field of curls that rest at the base of it. Her breath is so close and his heart is pounding and it’s been so long…

“Abbot…”

His last name floating gently past her lips does not make the situation any better, as it painfully reminds him that they work together. As much as he’d like to believe they could carefully share a vulnerable moment, their professional relationship is extremely strong and simply good that the prospect of jeopardizing it makes what he does next even fucking worse.

“What do you need?” he relents.

Her wide, dark eyes only seem to expand as she tilts her head, humming… contemplating… There’s as much of a war going on inside her mind as there is in his own, he realizes, though she’s much better at hiding it. He can only pick it out because there’s so much of himself reflected in her; It’s part of why he’d been drawn to her in the first place. Both lonely workaholics with loud minds… Both insanely alike in many ways, it almost feels as if this had been inevitable.

Though, Jack supposes that’s exactly what a fool would make himself believe.

But how could he not allow himself this luxury when she’s so close he can almost taste her breath? He yearns for it, now that he’s nearly there. He feels her fingers nest further into the tufts of his hair, her other hand resting cautiously optimistic on his chest. He wills his heartbeat to slow, but doubts it will do any good; Samira is the smartest woman he knows, after all, so there’s no hiding it from her. Especially not from this moment forward.

Finally, she answers him in a whisper that he wishes he could bottle up forever and keep as his own, a souvenir from the night he threw all caution to the whistling winter wind and followed his heart here, inevitably, to her.

“I need to feel you… Everywhere.”

“Come here, baby,” he offers reverently, helping her swiftly onto his lap as their mouths meet.

That first true taste of her is utterly damning, as told by the low, satisfactory groan that tumbles from Jack’s chest. Samira parts her lips and lets it in, tugging at his hair and rolling her hips as her tongue deliberately works over his own in one long, hot swipe.

God, slow down, he thinks.

Admittedly, Jack is a methodical lover. He takes his time, draws it out. He appreciates the slow burn, the exploration, and the careful consideration of every move, drawing out every sound, committing it all to memory…

Still, he promised himself that he’d give her whatever she wanted, and he has always claimed to be a man of his word.

Besides, it’s good and healthy to switch things up once in a while, right?

And, fuck, if it’s not completely exhilarating.

Every cell in his body is on fire. Samira’s hands are fucking everywhere, tugging at his hair and exploring the planes of his shoulders, his arms, and his chest. Wherever her touches land, flames follow, and the inside of him isn’t much different. Whether she’s intentionally creating friction or she’s just as black-out lust drunk as he is, the fact of the matter is that every time she grinds her hips down into his, it takes every ounce of strength he has not to shift and pin her underneath him.

Instead, he settles for submission, reveling in the way Samira is giving and taking all in one, heated breath. He allows himself to be a vessel, an outlet for her. Useful.

Unhealthy. The word stabs him quickly in the chest.

He should definitely put a stop to this…

But then she moans in his mouth, shuddering over top of him, and the overwhelming cacophony of it all makes his dick twitch.

“Fuck, are you coming already?” he pants against her lips, chasing her tongue with his own.

He feels another moan, this time chased with the most adorable giggle of embarrassment. She pulls back enough to let him breathe, resting her forehead to his as she slows her hips. “I’m sorry… Not yet, but almost… You… You make me feel so good.”

“Mmm, you don’t even know half of how good I can make you feel,” he breathes, roaming his hands under her shirt.

The cockiness is a trigger response, really, but he doesn’t think twice about it, not even afterwards. Not when she leans into his touch and kisses him again, practically melting as she whines into his mouth. Her kisses feel less hurried, but still intense. The only difference is that this time Jack is able to return the favor without completely feeling paralyzed by fear, or by the fact that this is happening at all in the first place.

He’s able to slow down for just a moment and memorize the way her body feels in his hands. He kisses her back deeply, drinking in every delectable sound she produces at his mercy, and lifting his hips to meet hers at any given moment, just to see if he can feel how wet she is through her clothes.

As determined as he is to find out, he figures tonight is likely not the time. But he’s more than happy to pocket that thought for a rainy day, especially as he finds her breasts with his hands and squeezes gently, her body eagerly leaning in and practically begging for more, until she really is begging for more…

“Abbot, please, I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” he asks, twitching again at how hard she’s grinding into him now.

“I can’t take it anymore, I need you inside me.”

It’s not as swiftly as he’d once been able to execute, but he shifts and maneuvers Samira along the length of the couch, tucking his knee into the spot between her legs. She whimpers into his mouth as he kisses her again, cradling her head between his arms.

His body burns hot all over as she rides his leg, desperate, until a rather delicious cry rips from her throat and into his mouth, like a trigger. He feels it deep in his bones, this urgent call to fuck her and do it hard.

In another life he’d have been gentler and more thorough with her, and in this life down the line perhaps he might be able to live that out. But right now, he’s entirely at her whim and more than happy to be there.

As she fumbles around with his pants and wraps her skilled, beautiful fingers around his cock, he doesn’t bother hiding the reverence he has for her. He kisses her deeply, moaning into her mouth and letting her guide himself past her loose sleep shorts and underwear, hastily pushed aside to allow him passage.

As urgent as they both are, however, even this moment can’t be rushed. That first contact. That initial test. The way his tip quickly disappears inside, then comes back, teasing her and getting her wet. Her fingers stay there where they meet, gathering her arousal and using it as natural lubricant. She’s surprisingly slow with it, breathing hotly into his mouth as she strokes him. It’s like even now she’s being purposely methodical. Ever curious. It’s easily the most attractive quality she has on any normal day, and now…

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” Jack asks, unable to resist it any longer, resting his forehead to hers.

Samira squeezes her hand gently around him and nods. “Yes.”

And that’s all he needs. Her hand falls away as he slides in, slow and deep. The taste of her breath evades him as she sucks in a sharp, whiny breath, adjusting to his size. His thumb tenderly strokes her temple once he’s in all the way, staying still and catching his own breath.

“Breathe for me, Samira,” he encourages, pulling back to look at her. Her eyelids flutter open, and she lets out a shaky breath that crossfades into a moan. She’s clearly overwhelmed, but the lazy smile on her face indicates it isn’t a bad thing at all. He can’t help but smile back, meeting her eyes and nodding. “That’s my girl.”

He pulls out just a tad and plunges back in, testing the waters, and her eyes flutter shut again. “Fuck, it’s… it’s… You’re so…”

When he realizes she’s unable to form a proper thought, he repeats the movement just a tad harder, causing her to cry out and grab him for dear life. Finally, she relents and pulls him down, kissing him, panting into his mouth.

“Please, you’re killing me… I need you to fuck me.”

Humming into her mouth, he only circles his hips a little, still teasing her but ready to snap at any moment.

Samira whines in earnest, lifting her hips for any sort of friction. “Please.”

The word cuts through his resolve like a blade. Jack reaches down and twists her shorts and panties in his fingers, getting them out of the way entirely and tightening them in his grip like he’s fastening a seatbelt. He searches her face again, drinking in the wicked sparkle in her eye at his action, the sweat that glistens on her brow, and the anticipation nesting in the beautiful curve of her mouth.

“You sure that’s what you want?” he asks. It’s half a tease, but it also doesn’t hurt to hear it one more time, just to be sure. To give her an out.

But then she’s nodding with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, clenching around him like she’s beckoning him inside her, and pulling him down to meet her lips once more. “Yes, Jack,” she whispers against him. “I want you so bad.”

Before he can even really process what his body is doing, he feels Samira melt into him, her tongue gliding sweetly over his own as their hips keep colliding. He’s hot all over, limbs and insides burning, and it’s soft and sharp all at the same time. His brain is fuzzy. His breathing is shallow. It’s muffling, like he’s swimming through stormclouds and the sound of her voice is the only thing that will bring him back to earth.

Oddly enough it isn’t her voice, but her nails, blunt and hard as they press into his shoulder blades, that snap him out of his reverie and bring him back to his body. He’s quick to forget the dizzying effects of his first name crawling from her lips, focusing on the task at hand, tightening his grip on her clothes, and fucking her harder.

Her back arches up off the couch for a moment at the sudden change of sensation, a cry stuck at the back of her throat. Whether she’s trying to keep quiet or merely unable to breathe again, the sight of her throat, now exposed and twitching with restraint, draws him in like a moth to flame. He leans down the best he can and kisses the glistening skin, feeling his stomach tighten in knots at the feel of her pulse under his lips… Under his tongue…

“You can let it out, sweetheart,” he coos against her skin. His hips snap forward as hard as he can manage, his voice straining in between thrusts. “Let me hear you… I can see how good I’m making you feel, but I want to hear it…”

Just over the soft creaking of the cushions beneath them and the blood rushing in his ears, he hears her calling out his name again. The syllable vibrates deliciously in her throat, and he swallows it, littering her skin with open-mouthed kisses as he tries to hold on. She cries out again and again, louder each time and making it harder for him to last. Still, he persists, encouraging her through the whirlwind and singing praises into her skin.

She makes a particularly desperate sound just as he feels her clench around him, and he knows she’s almost there. It takes everything he has not to lose his steady rhythm, but anything less than perfection for her would be a failure of mass proportion. While he lets his voice devolve into a fit of incoherent whimpering as a compromise to his body, she compliments him by crying out his name again. It’s loud. It’s desperate. It’s wanting.

Her whole body tenses and releases, over and over again under his own as he fucks her into the couch. His fist burns from holding onto her clothes for so long, but it’s the only thing anchoring him to the deep sea of pleasure, keeping him from washing away.

“Jack, I…”

“I know… Let go, Samira, I’ve got you… That’s… That’s it.”

She pulls him up to kiss her as she comes, her hands desperately cradling his face, and, finally, he lets himself fall apart alongside her.

Her tongue gladly laps up his every moan, and he can feel her smiling through it. The dichotomy of the soft, intimate gesture and the blinding hot, downright sinful pleasure coursing through his body works its way into his DNA, altering the course of his life in ways he doesn’t even know yet. All he knows is that there is a change. Samira Mohan is changing the way he experiences life, and it’s so intoxicating that if anyone were to even dare try and intervene, he fears for where he might end up.

Their kisses slow, though not out of boredom. In fact, now that all that initial tension between them has finally progressed past its breaking point, the soft, hazy aftermath leads them gently by the hand. The grip he has on her clothes gradually loosens, every molecule in his hand alight with feeling as he snakes it just a tad lower, to where they meet.

She sighs softly into his mouth as he rubs her clit in slow circles. Though he’s softening inside her, the way she tightens makes it hard to breathe. He’s stopped moving his hips, the couch no longer croaking underneath them, so the sound of her wetness is unmistakable and downright pornographic. It draws forth a deep, guttural groan from the hollow of his chest, and then Samira is taking his tongue in her mouth and sucking, and—

“Jesus,” he breathes, quickening the pace of his fingertips. “You like my tongue, huh?”

The groan comes from her this time, followed by, “Yes. Fuck.”

“Mmm.”

When he pulls his hand away, she whines, but it catches in her throat the moment he kisses her. First on the lips, then messily along her jaw… The base of her throat…

He pulls himself out of her and climbs his way down her body, helping her lift the shirt over her head and spending some ample time praising her breasts. His hands caress her reverently as he takes each nipple into his mouth. He swirls and flicks his tongue over them again and again, taking note of each time she bucks up underneath him.

He could spend hours here, experimenting with her pleasure points and learning what gets her blood thrumming, and for a split second he considers doing exactly that. But it’s late and he can feel the exhaustion slowly fighting its way through his nervous system.

Cursing himself for not being twenty years younger and stowing away a gameplan for the next time he’s with her like this—because he will be… he continues his path down her body and nestles in between her legs. He slides the rest of her clothes off and hoists her limbs up over his shoulders, sighing. He presses his face to the inside of her thigh, looking down at her wet, dripping cunt.

“Look at you, fuck,” he breathes, kissing her thigh and working his way down. “Look at what I did to you…”

Her fingers come down to comb through his hair, not pushing or pulling him in any direction, but merely to feel something. He hums and presses a featherlight kiss to her opening, nearly losing it at the taste of himself coming out of her.

“Mmm, I’m gonna clean you up, okay? Gonna take good care of you.”

He hears her head fall back and hit the arm of the couch, her fingers tightening in his hair as he licks a thick, flat stripe up the entire length of her cunt. He takes his time, reveling in the taste of her until he gets to her clit. He flicks it softly, once, then twice before going back and repeating the process a few times.

“Fuck, Samira…” he sighs into her. He kisses her expertly, over and over again, until she’s trembling and begging for release. His scalp burns beautifully at the mercy of her fingers, and he’s determined to make sure the feeling stays with him until the end of time. He wants—no, needs—to feel her everywhere. He needs her to haunt his every breath, needs her to be the very thing that kills him.

He doesn’t truly realize how hungry he’d been for her until she calls his name, once again anchoring him to the present. He groans and sucks at her clit, encouraging her with his thumb as it traces circles into the back of her thigh.

“Gonna come again, baby?” he whines, overwhelmed by the scent and taste of her… by the fact that she even exists in his atmosphere. That he knows how to help her and that she allows him.

He comes alive at her response, at the way she begs. “Please…”

“Mmm, go ahead,” he says into her cunt, kissing her and fluttering his eyes shut at the warmth. “Come for me.”

His lips are relentless, sucking at her clit as he holds her apart, keeping her legs from closing in on him. Not that he’d mind being trapped there forever, but the feeling of her struggling against the barriers of his strong grip is just as intoxicating as her taste. He hums into her, and in just a few seconds, she’s shrieking his name and coming once more. Her hips roll up to meet his mouth, riding out the high as she grips and releases his hair, over and over until she collapses.

Gently, he releases her legs, continuing his praise and comfort by massaging her skin as he kisses her all over. Her thighs, her stomach, the palms of her hands as she releases her hold on his hair…

Eventually he rests, cheek flat to her stomach as she strokes his head. One of her legs dangles off the couch while the other finds its way around his midsection, her ankle hooked just above his ass. They’d probably be more comfortable in a bed, but he can barely move as it is.

Plus, the last thing he wants to do is suggest he spend the night. As… incredible as that was, it’s probably best that he take it easy. Helping her out of a bout of loneliness is one thing, but inserting himself into her narrative without any kind of clarification first is dangerous business, and… Truthfully, he doesn’t even know what he might want out of this. Occasionally hooking up with a co-worker isn’t necessarily a new excursion for him, though Samira is a lot younger than he’s used to.

She’s also… well, Samira. She’s his match in a lot of different ways, which is something he’d only ever found with a few others in his lifetime. That rarity and excitement are more than enough to start considering where he might put these feelings, but…

Would it be worth it in the end?

She sighs from above him, and he lifts his head to see her smiling, her breathing slowed and controlled. She looks beautiful like this—bare and blissed out. Knowing he’d been able to bring that out of her fills Jack with a genuine prideful warmth that rarely surfaces these days.

He tells her as much, in his own way. “Just so you know, if you ever need a break from anything… And I mean anything… I’m more than happy to help. You hear me?”

Samira looks down along her body, still playing with the curls atop his head, and smiles. “Thank you, Abbot.”

It’s still snowing when Jack finally leaves, nearly four hours later, yet there isn’t a trace of white anywhere on the ground, the cars, or the trees. As he walks to his car, the pavement glistens under streetlights like it’d been raining for hours. Everything is quiet aside from the distant hum of whatever traffic is out there at this hour, and the wind has become nothing more than a ghost. Enough of it is there to chill him, but his face no longer stings from its strength.

Samira’s touch also lingers, in his scalp and his shoulders and his cheeks… The chill from his body disappears, replaced by her phantom warmth, and for one selfish moment, Jack allows himself to imagine what it would be like.

Visions flood his mind like a montage. Stolen touches and glances across the room, nights and mornings lounging beneath the covers, cooking meals together… Her face is there in every image, smiling at him. Her eyes are everwild with emotion whether it be plain, pure joy or unfettered desire. Everything about her is soft. Warm. Kind.

Jack barely remembers how to get home, until finally he’s at his doorstep and he notices that the snow has actually started to stick to everything.

Before walking inside, he turns around and looks at the sight in front of him. Dying grass, an unkempt yard… A mailbox with chipped paint. He stares up at the sky, dark and starless, flecks of snow pelting him in the eyes like a wakeup call.

“Jesus Christ, you’re in over your head,” he groans, laughing and running a hand over his face. He can still taste her essence on his breath, faint, but strong enough to make him dizzy.