Since Uh When👆🏻

bnd!peter who makes you hold your own stomach while he cums, trapping your hand beneath his so you can feel the subtle swelling yourself. he keeps thrusting in short, rough movements as each fresh rope joins the rest, making you feel the pressure build until you’re sobbing from fullness and clenching helplessly around his twitching cock.

bnd!peter who loves fucking you from behind because he can watch your belly move, one hand under your stomach while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. every deep thrust makes the rounded fullness shift against his palm, and he becomes increasingly frantic when he realises he can feel his own cum sloshing inside you while he adds another load.

bnd!peter who who keeps detailed measurements of how much he produces, collecting his release in a marked glass after edging himself for hours. he watches the level rise with shameless fascination, stroking himself through every prolonged pulse until thick white strands coat the inside of the container and slide down so slowly that they barely move.

bnd!peter who who makes you drink the entire glass while sitting naked in his lap, his cock hard against your thigh as he holds the rim to your mouth. the cum is so thick that it clings to your tongue and coats the back of your throat, forcing you to swallow repeatedly while peter watches every movement of your neck with dark, possessive eyes.

bnd!peter who insists you show him your mouth afterward, gripping your chin and making you open wide so he can check whether you swallowed every drop. if he finds even a small streak left on your tongue, he pushes two fingers into your mouth, scrapes it forward, and makes you suck them clean while praising you for taking everything he made.

bnd!peter who pours his cum through a funnel directly into your mouth, keeping you lying beneath him with your wrists webbed apart. he lets the thick release slide down in slow ropes, pausing whenever you struggle so he can watch it pool across your tongue before telling you to swallow and opening the funnel again.

bnd!peter who freezes portions of his cum into small cubes, then presses one against your clit and watches it melt over your swollen folds. the contrast between the cold cube and the heat of your pussy makes you jerk against the webbing while he slowly rubs the slippery mess over your entrance with his thumb.

bnd!peter who uses a clear dildo after filling you, pushing it slowly into your cunt so he can watch thick white cum smear across the toy from the inside. he films every inch disappearing into you, especially the moment the base presses against your soaked folds and forces his release to spill around it in creamy waves.

bnd!peter who records close-up videos of his cock stretching your cum-filled pussy, positioning his phone between your spread thighs while he thrusts slowly enough for the camera to catch every detail. the footage shows his shaft emerging coated in thick white streaks before plunging back inside and dragging the mess deeper with every stroke.

bnd!peter who takes photographs of your stomach immediately after breeding you, making you lie flat while the low bulge remains visible. he places his hand beside it for scale, then takes another picture with his fingers pressing lightly into the curve while your pussy leaks between your legs below.

bnd!peter who keeps a private folder devoted entirely to your creampies, organised by date, position, number of loads, and how long it took for his cum to begin spilling out. he remembers every video perfectly and can tell which one he wants just from the sound of your moans in the opening seconds.

bnd!peter who webs a vibrator directly over your clit and makes you watch those recordings, keeping your thighs spread so widely that you can’t close them around the sensation. he plays footage of himself filling you while the toy buzzes relentlessly against your swollen clit, increasing the setting each time the recorded version of his cock starts pulsing inside you.

bnd!peter who makes you narrate the videos aloud, forcing you to describe the way your cunt stretches, how much cum is dripping from you, and exactly what you felt when your stomach began to swell. whenever you become too embarrassed to continue, he turns the vibrator higher and waits until desperation loosens your tongue.

bnd!peter who pauses the video on the filthiest frame, usually the moment his thick release gushes around the base of his cock or spills from your open pussy. he makes you stare at the frozen image while he rubs your clit with two fingers, quietly asking whether you think your cunt can hold even more next time.

bnd!peter who uses his webbing to secure two vibrators at once, one pressed against your clit and another held firmly against your filled entrance. the vibrations travel through the plug and stir the cum packed inside you, leaving your lower stomach aching pleasantly while thick droplets gradually tremble free around the toy.

bnd!peter who makes you wear a glass plug after he fills your ass, fascinated by the sight of his cum visible through the transparent base. he keeps your pussy stuffed separately with his cock, alternating between watching the cloudy glass and staring at the bulge forming low in your stomach from the load he’s pumping into your cunt.

bnd!peter who loves double-filling you with saved cum and a fresh load, first pouring an entire glass slowly into your pussy while holding your hips elevated. once the last sticky strand slides from the rim, he pushes his cock inside and cums on top of it, packing you with so much that the combined pressure leaves your belly visibly rounded.

bnd!peter who collects the cum that spills from you afterward, holding a clean glass beneath your pussy while he presses carefully against your lower stomach. thick streams slide from your entrance in slow pulses, and he watches the container refill with the mixture before bringing it to your lips and telling you not to waste what your cunt couldn’t keep.

bnd!peter who masturbates over your spread pussy without touching you, ordering you to remain completely still while he strokes his cock above your entrance. when he finally cums, the first ropes land across your clit and folds, but the later spurts fall directly into your open cunt, gradually pooling inside while you’re forbidden from closing your legs.

bnd!peter who ejaculates so forcefully during oral that his cum floods your mouth faster than you can swallow, thick spurts coating your tongue, cheeks, and throat while his cock continues pulsing between your lips. he holds the back of your head without forcing you deeper, groaning as each swallow draws another release from his oversensitive body.

bnd!peter who loves watching his cum stretch between your mouth and his cock, withdrawing slowly after finishing so sticky strands remain connected to your lips. he gathers them against the head with his thumb, smears the mess over your tongue, and pushes his cock back into your mouth so you can clean every remaining drop from his slit.

bnd!peter who smears one load over your breasts before producing another for you to drink, coating your nipples in thick white ropes that cling instead of running off. he sucks the cum from your skin, lets it gather on his tongue, then kisses it into your mouth before handing you the full glass waiting beside him.

bnd!peter who makes you kneel between his legs while he fills a glass, keeping his eyes fixed on your face as he strokes himself. you have to watch each heavy spurt strike the bottom, listen to the wet sound of it accumulating, and wait until he’s completely empty before he finally allows you to lift the glass and taste it.

bnd!peter who becomes obsessed with seeing how long his cum remains inside you, taking timed photographs over several hours while you wear nothing beneath an oversized shirt. whenever a thick drip finally slides down your inner thigh, he records it, catches it on his fingers, and pushes it back into your pussy to restart the timer.

bnd!peter who webs your thighs tightly against your chest after breeding you, folding you open so gravity forces every drop deeper instead of letting it escape. he sits in front of you and watches your stuffed cunt contract around nothing, occasionally pressing a finger over your entrance whenever the first creamy bead tries to push through.

bnd!peter who uses his enhanced hearing to track every internal sound, pressing his ear against your lower stomach after filling you. he listens to the faint movement of his cum inside you, then looks up with a filthy grin and tells you that he can hear how full he’s made you.

bnd!peter who becomes painfully hard from the smell of his cum on your skin, his heightened senses picking it up even after you’ve cleaned yourself. he follows the scent beneath your clothes, finds the last sticky traces between your thighs, and licks them away before deciding your pussy smells too empty and needs to be filled again.

bnd!peter who makes you wear his cum beneath your clothes in public, filling your pussy before securing a plug with thin strands of webbing. throughout the day, he texts you still images from the video he took that morning, reminding you exactly what’s trapped inside your cunt while your stomach remains faintly swollen beneath your outfit.

bnd!peter who remotely activates the vibrator webbed under your underwear, increasing it whenever you try to behave normally around other people. the vibration shakes the cum around the plug, leaving you struggling to keep your expression neutral while peter watches from across the room and sends you clips of your pussy being filled.

bnd!peter who makes you choose where every load goes, offering you three options in that falsely sweet voice of his: your mouth, your pussy, or the waiting glass. whatever you choose first only determines the order because his mutated body can produce enough to fill all three before the night is over.

bnd!peter who deliberately edges himself for days to make the eventual release even larger, refusing to cum no matter how desperately his cock throbs. by the time he finally sinks into you, his balls are so heavy and sensitive that the first clench of your cunt triggers a load strong enough to leave your stomach visibly protruding beneath his hand.

bnd!peter who gets off on the contrast between his sweetness and the obscene mess he makes, kissing your forehead and calling you his good girl while his cock continues flooding your pussy. his voice remains gentle even as he tells you he’s going to breed every coherent thought out of your head and leave you too full of cum to close your legs.

bnd!peter who combines everything into one carefully planned night, filming your belly swelling as he breeds you, webbing a vibrator against your clit, and placing a full glass of saved cum in your hands. he makes you drink while watching the live recording on a screen beside the bed, the vibrator forcing your stuffed cunt to spasm around his cock as he adds another thick, prolonged load.

bnd!peter who ends every session by documenting the aftermath, recording the empty glass, your cum-coated lips, the low swell of your stomach, and the thick release still leaking around the plug in your pussy. he finishes with a close-up of his hand resting possessively over the bulge while he quietly promises that next time he’ll make it even bigger.

It was the first time you’d ever seen Robby shirtless. Sure, he was a man in good physical shape, but he wasn’t a Calvin Klein model. He ate healthy meals (after work), drank water (after work), played pickleball with Jack (after work), but those beers in the park (after work) seemed to linger in his gut. You had seen the outline of his pudgy stomach through the deceptive black scrub tops before, even dragged your fingernails along its rounded outline when trying to reach up to his neck while he kissed you tenderly on your first date.

But now? You could see it. The plushness of his abdomen, his broad shoulders proudly showcasing his soft chest, the glint of his Magen David against dark chest hair that stretched down, down, down to the waistband of his scrub pants.

Robby’s eyes snapped up to meet his intruder, but quickly relaxed when he saw you. “Hey, kid.” He breathed in relief.

You didn’t even hear his greeting over the sound of blood pounding in your ears. His body was an intoxicating view, and you may as well have been inebriated. In this moment, you were no better than a man. You tried to respond, but only broken sputters left your mouth.

Robby’s brow furrowed, and he stepped closer to you, dropping his large hands to your waist to ground you. “Hey, you okay?” He questioned, worried you’d come to find him to vent or cry.

You shuddered at the warmth that radiated from his bare upper body. A timid hand hovered over his chest, finally daring to brush against the coarse hair on his pecs. “Y-you just look…really good.”

The pathetic confession should have made you cower in shame, but when you saw Robby’s smile, you felt safe. “You think I look good? After I just got puked on?” He chuckled.

You nodded slightly, now running your hands firmly against his chest, tracing nonsensical pictures against his skin. “Yeah.” It was the only answer you could spare for him.

Robby’s chest shrunk at your ministrations, almost like he was trying to hide from your attraction. “Gotta get back to work.” He diverted, quickly pulling the fresh black scrub top over his head, hiding his magnificent body from your sight.

Your lips shifted to a pout. “Hey, I was enjoying the view.” You teased, watching as he grabbed the soiled shirt from the ground.

Robby’s face burned red, all the way to the tips of his ears. “I’m fifty years old. Not much to see there.” He replied lightly.

You grabbed him by the arm before he could sneak out of the bathroom. “Let me be the judge of that.” It wasn’t a warning, it wasn’t a threat. But your words still carried authority that overrode Robby’s self-deprecation.

He just smiled, truly smiled, crows feet and crooked teeth and all, and pecked your forehead with a sweet kiss before heading back into the chaos of the Pitt.

—

After a couple of beers in the park drowned away the woes of a grueling shift, you practically dragged Robby back to his home. With the right blood alcohol level, the chief of emergency medicine was suddenly putty in your hands.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Robby grabbed your thighs and hoisted you around his waist, kissing your neck and jawline all the way to his bedroom. You were already clenching around nothing, rolling your hips into his waist, ready for any amount of fucking he was willing to give you for the first time.

Everything progressed quickly, hotly, borderline romantically, until Robby made a quick dash to switch off the light to his bedroom, wearing only his scrub top and boxers. The room darkened with a flick of his fingers, and you almost growled.

“Absolutely not. Lights on.” You demanded.

And he obeyed. The lights relit the room, and you were met with a confused yet worried look on your boyfriend’s face. “You…want the lights on?” He repeated, even though he’d already followed your orders.

You nodded with purpose. “I want to see you.” You answered.

Robby’s face flushed, and he carefully walked back to the edge of the bed, sitting next to you. “Look, I know I’m not the fittest man at work. I mean, fuck, I’m not even the fittest old man at work-“

You pushed Robby back onto the bed, his head flopping onto his pillow while you peeled off your panties. “Take it off.” You breathed.

Robby’s lips morphed to an enchanted grin, charmed by your dominance. His hand reached to his waist, thumb digging under his boxers waistband, but you snatched it out. “Take your shirt off.” You clarified with a sharp tone.

Those big brown eyes never left yours, mesmerized by the authority behind your tone, and he slipped his scrub top over his shoulders, tossing it on the floor. His body was on display for you again, in all of its aged glory. You immediately bent down to smear wet kisses across his pecs, down to his soft tummy, sucking hickeys that drew a mixture of moans and giggles from his throat.

“You don’t have to do all this, kid.” He chuckled, threading a hand through your hair as you worshipped his body.

Your eyes flicked up, nearly glaring at him, before you threw a thigh over his waist, straddling his belly. The scratch of body hair on your pussy fired an immediate hiss from your lungs. “Let me show you how pretty you are.” You said, slowly rocking your hips. “Show you how good you make me feel just by looking at you.”

The slip of your pussy against his abdomen was vile. You received instant clitoral stimulation from his happy trail, and a sinful moan left your lips. Robby’s hands clutched your thighs, dragging you harder against him.

“This…this gets you that wet?” He stumbled through his words, eyes fixed on the wet stripe you were leaving on his stomach.

You glided back and forth, rolling and snapping your hips with a concentrated speed. “Robby…I was this wet when I saw you at work today. I wanted to do this on the bathroom floor.” You confessed.

A whimper left his chest while he tried to buck his own hips, frustrated by the lack of attention to his painfully hardened cock. “Baby, please let me fuck you.” He begged.

You just half-smiled, mouth open in ecstasy, pressing your hands firmly against his chest, steadying your balance as you rode him. “Oh, you’re gonna fuck me.” You confirmed, leaning forward a bit to give your clit just the right amount of pressure. “Wanna come like this first.”

And you did. The waves of your orgasm had you falling limp into Robby’s burly arms, trapping you in his embrace, your cum dripping down his rounded tummy. “Jesus, kid.” He mumbled in between sweet nothings to coax you down from your high.

He wasn’t appalled, and he wasn’t unnerved. He felt loved, and he felt adored. Nobody had ever gotten off on just the sight of his body, let alone rode his belly into an orgasm. After your breathing returned to normal and your kisses became responsive again, Robby flipped you onto your back, and you were presented with his gorgeous body once again.

~~~

Nursing is by no means an easy career—especially in the ER.

You’re on your feet the whole shift, most weeks strung together in back-to-backs or three 12s that blur into one long fluorescent day. It’s a miracle if you get a real lunch break. You never know what’s coming through the doors in the next hour—sometimes not even the next ten minutes.

And still, you love it.

Even when your back aches and your calves cramp and you’re pretty sure your future includes at least one ortho consult with your name on it.

You’re heading out, grateful to be done for the week, already building a mental checklist—hot bath, epsom salt, your vibrator—when you pass by the man everyone seems to orbit on nights.

Dr. Abbott.

Jack Abbott is one of the reasons you stayed on nights. Sure: no management breathing down your neck, differential pay, your people. But if you’re being honest, it’s him. You like the way he runs a room. You like the way he trusts a good nurse and expects competence without making you prove it twice.

“Heading home?” he asks, nudging your shoulder as he falls into step beside you.

You discovered one night that you live only a couple of buildings down from each other, and ever since then, he’s insisted on walking you home. Something about the streets not being safe for a girl alone. Honestly, it sounded like your dad.

But you welcomed it. Because the walk is quiet and private in a way the ED never is. Because you like hearing him talk when he isn’t running trauma. Because you like that he never asks questions just to fill the silence—he waits until it matters.

“You’re an old man,” you say, choosing a blunt statement to break the comfortable silence between the two of you.

He makes a sound, half scoff, half laugh. “Gee. Thanks.”

“No—wait. I mean—” You scramble, because it comes out wrong. “I mean, you probably have, like… back pain and aching joints-”

“Wow, just shoot me while I’m down, kid.”

“Jack!” You’re exasperated now, “I mean my back’s been killin’ me and I’m not even thirty. I figured you might have tips. Tricks. Anything that actually works.”

He glances at you—one measured look, the kind he gives a room right before he takes control of it. Like he’s deciding if this is a safe question or a dangerous one.

Then, quietly, “You like massages?”

Your stomach drops, warm and immediate.

“Ugh, are you kidding?” you say, trying for normal. Trying for light. “I love them. I swear I need someone to crack my back real good.”

“I could do it for you,” he says.

The words shock you like an AED.

You swallow. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t smile. Not really. But his voice goes lower.

“Only if you want.”

You nod and keep walking because stopping would be admitting how fast your pulse just jumped.

The rest of the walk feels charged. The city air is cold enough to sharpen everything. You can hear your own footsteps, the quiet crunch of the gravel path, the soft clink of his badge against his scrub top.

When you reach your building, your hands shake a little at the scanner.

You tell yourself it’s exhaustion.

You open the door, step inside, and the hallway light makes the moment feel too real. Setting your work bag down at the doorway beside his camo one.

This isn’t the first time he’s been to your place. Sometimes you invite him in for a drink and conversation after a hard shift—nothing more than two tired people debriefing over a couch that’s seen too many late nights.

But boundaries were never crossed.

And this—this offer from the attending you’ve been pining over for a year and a half—feels like a line you can’t uncross.

“You want a drink?” you offer, because you need to do something with your hands, your voice, your whole nervous system.

“’M good, kid,” he answers gruffly.

Kid. He says it like a habit. Like a shield.

But the way his eyes flick to your mouth isn’t habit at all.

He sits on your couch and, without ceremony, takes off his prosthetic and rests his leg. It’s a familiar sight—something practical, unglamorous, intimate in a way that makes your chest tighten. There’s a faint, irrational guilt that you’re about to be pampered when he’s the one who carries himself through the world with that extra weight.

As if he senses the thought, he murmurs, “Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t what?”

“Start feeling sorry for me.” His eyes lift. Steady. Flat. “I offered.”

Heat runs up your neck.

“Sorry,” you murmur as he shoots you a sidelong glance, “I mean not sorry for you, just sorry that I- y’know,” you ramble as you begin to pull out the sofa bed to cushion some of the embarrassment you’re feeling. It also felt safer than leading him to your bedroom. Too private. Too intimate. Exactly where you want him most.

“Didn't mean no disrespect…just-”

“You got any oils or lotion you like?” He asks, effectively cutting off your word vomit.

Your brain stutters.

You manage, “Yeah—uh. One sec.”

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror and look like someone who’s about to do something brave and stupid.

When you come back, you’re holding a bottle of lavender lotion with a hand that’s only slightly unsteady.

You pass it to him. Your fingers brush his. The contact is brief, but it feels like a promise.

“Top off?” he asks, voice even.

You hesitate. One beat too long.

His gaze doesn’t move from yours. “If it's a no, just say so.”

You exhale. “It’s not no.”

“Good,” he says, and the word is quiet—softened around the edges.

You turn, tug your scrub top over your head, and lie flat on your stomach across the expanse of your couch, suddenly aware of every inch of skin the room air touches.

He puts his hands on you tentatively at first—palms warm, pressure careful—starting at your shoulders like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

His hands continue their diligent work—patient, methodical, like he’s mapping you by touch. He uses his thumbs first, slow circles that sink in and hold, then his knuckles, then the broad heat of his palms.

Pressure, release. Pressure, release.

Like he’s coaxing your body to remember it’s allowed to let go.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says again, quieter this time.

“It’s not,” you manage. “It’s… perfect.”

You feel him pause for half a second, like the word lands somewhere it shouldn’t. Then he exhales, long and controlled, and resumes—only a fraction deeper.

Your muscles give in one by one. Shoulders first. Then the place between your shoulder blades that always feels like it’s holding your whole week. When his hands move lower, he doesn’t rush. He stays respectful, measured, working along the long lines of tension with the kind of focus you’ve watched him use on patients.

Heat rises across your skin, equal parts relief and vulnerability. You shift your head to the side, cheek pressed against the cushion, trying not to think too hard about the fact that his hands are the steadiest thing you’ve felt all week.

“God, right there.” You don't mean to make it sound so dirty, but when his strong hands finally reach the site of your back where you’ve been aching, it feels like heaven at his fingertips.

“Feel good, sweetheart?” You tense then under his touch; you’ve never heard him sound like that before.

Or call you sweetheart.

It shouldn’t undo you the way it does. It’s one word. One quiet, careless word—and it changes the air in the room like someone dimmed the lights.

Mhm. You hum, not trusting your voice at the moment, not when you can feel an ache building just south of where his hands are.

So close yet so far away.

His hands keep moving, but you feel the difference now—the way his control is deliberate. Like he’s holding a line. Like he’s deciding what he’s allowed to do and what he’s not.

“Good,” he murmurs again, and the praise hits warmer than it has any right to.

He works the knots out of you with slow insistence. His thumbs press and hold until the ache turns into something else—something that makes you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut.

You don’t know when it starts to shift—when “massage” becomes something heavier, the way a storm builds without thunder at first. It’s the scent of lavender in the warm air. It’s the ache dissolving in your back while something entirely different gathers between your thighs. It’s the way you can feel him behind you—his presence, his heat—so close it’s hard to pretend there’s still a safe distance.

But the change is so much more obvious after a subtle shift backward, pressing into that hardness just enough to feel it twitch through the layers of cloth.

There.

A groan from the man behind you, his breath coming in a little heavier.

He’s been rather quiet. And now you know the reason why.

It’s gently prodding at the curve of your ass.

You gasp at the feeling. His hands stopping in their tracks at the sound that escapes you.

You freeze. The quiet is loud—just your breathing, his breathing, the soft hum of the city outside.

For a moment, neither of you moves, like you’ve both reached the edge of something and you’re deciding whether to look down.

Not until you arch, pressing back into him as his groan fills the air and his grip tightens on your hips.

“What’re you doin’?” His voice is strained, like he’s trying so hard to maintain control and composure before you can’t turn back from this moment

“Feels good,” you sigh, “think it helps with the ache,” you add with another roll of your hips back onto him.

“Sweetheart-”

“Don’t you think?” You can’t bear to look at him, not now, not when you’ve put yourself in such a vulnerable position.

Not when you feel him shift behind you and worry that he might be leaving.

Not until you feel your legs trapped between his thighs and the weight of his body press along the length of yours, arms caging you under him, breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Yeah, warm pressure’s good,” lips brushing against your temple, “lemme make you feel good.”

“Jus’ relax.” His grip tightens on your hip, steadying you as his hips roll forward in a tentative grind. The friction is muffled by your pants and his, but it's there: the thick ridge of his cock dragging along the cleft of your ass, slow and deliberate. He keeps it controlled at first, like he's still pretending this is part of the relief, his other hand resuming its circles on your lower back to anchor the motion.

You bite your lip, stifling a moan as he finds a rhythm—forward, back, the heat of him building through the fabric, his hand on your hip guiding your subtle rocks to meet him.

It feels so wrong in the best way, the couch creaking faintly under you both. His breath comes heavier now, matching yours, the lavender lotion slicking his palms as they roam your sides, but he doesn't push further.

Not yet.

The line you're blurring makes every grind pulse with forbidden heat, your core clenching with an ache that's no longer just in your back.

Minutes stretch like that, the grinding intensifying, his cock throbbing insistently against you, the fabric between you growing damp from your arousal seeping through. You're whining now, soft and needy, unable to hold it in as the pressure coils tighter in your pussy.

He knows.

Of course, he does—his movements falter for a beat, then his lips brush your ear, voice a gentle rumble.

“The real ache's lower, isn't it?” He whispers, calm as ever, like he's diagnosing a subtle symptom. “I can feel you trembling. Let me help there, too. Turn over for me…lie on your back.”

Your pulse races, but his tone soothes the edge of nerves, making the surrender feel almost natural.

You nod, twisting carefully on the couch, and he eases back just enough to let you settle. Before you can fully relax, he reaches for one of the couch pillows, sliding it under the small of your back with careful hands. The arch it creates lifts your hips perfectly.

He kneels between your legs, eyes dark but steady, searching your face. “Can I?” he asks softly, fingers hovering at your waistband, waiting for your answer.

“Yes,” you breathe, the permission making it all feel so much more real.

With a nod, he hooks his fingers in and tugs your scrub pants and panties down your thighs in one fluid motion, bunching them at your knees. The cool air hits your bare pussy, slick and aching, and you feel exposed—vulnerable—but his gaze is reverent. He doesn't touch himself, doesn't free his straining cock; the bulge obvious and tented.

Starting slow, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just above the knee, then another higher, his stubble grazing your skin in a teasing path. It's build-up, deliberate and gentle, his lips lingering on the soft flesh, nipping lightly before soothing with his tongue. You squirm, the ache sharpening, but he doesn't make you wait long—your whines pull a soft chuckle from him, vibrating against your leg.

“Patience,” he murmurs, but his voice sounds as hungry as you feel.

He spreads your thighs wider, settling his shoulders between them, and finally, his mouth finds your core. A tentative lick along your folds first, tasting you, then his lips part yours gently, tongue circling your clit with firm, flat strokes.

You gasp, fingers flying to his hair, tangling in the soft curls to guide him exactly where the pleasure sparks hottest.

He groans in approval, the sound humming straight into you, and dives deeper—tongue thrusting into your pussy, lapping at your walls like he's savoring every drop.

He's a man possessed between your thighs, happy and focused, nose nudging your clit as he eats you with starving fervor. One hand slides up to join, two fingers pressing in alongside his tongue, curling to stroke that inner spot while he sucks your clit between his lips.

The dual sensation has you arching off the pillow, moans spilling freely now, the taboo thrill amplifying everything— Dr.Abbot, always so composed, reduced to rutting his hips against your couch cushions for friction. You catch glimpses of it: his body shifting, grinding down into the fabric as he loses himself in your taste, pants straining with his need.

“You taste like heaven,” he mutters against you, voice muffled and rough, pulling back just enough to swirl his tongue around your entrance before plunging back in. “So wet, so open for me—fuck.”

His fingers pump steadily, tongue flicking relentlessly, and the build is relentless. Your grip tightens in his curls, hips bucking into his face, chasing the edge. He matches you, grinding harder into the couch, breaths ragged as your pussy flutters around his fingers.

It hits you first—waves crashing, your walls clenching on his tongue and digits as you cum, crying out his name, juices flooding his mouth. He drinks you down, lapping through every spasm, and that's what tips him over.

A muffled growl against your core, his hips stuttering against the cushions, and you feel the tension snap in him too—his cock pulsing untouched in his pants, soaking the front with hot spurts of cum as he rides out his release with yours.

He works you gently through the aftershocks, fingers slowing, tongue soothing, until you're boneless on the couch. Pulling back, lips glistening, he meets your eyes with a soft, sated smile, his own pants a dark, sticky mess.

“Better?” he asks, voice tender, thumb brushing your thigh.

“Best massage ever.”

~~~

A/N: I have terrible back pain that’s aggravated by being an ER nurse, so I dreamed this up while going to sleep, need him badddd // as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, reblog and lmk what you think! <333

tagging moots and some of my fav Pitt/shawn writers💋

@kill3ill // @erwinsvow // @softundermoonlight // @superhoeva // @titus-danforth // @ovaryacted // @pope-codys // @pittrabbit // @thebumbqueen // @ofstarsandvibranium // @bubblebuckys // @hangmanapologist

Forty Seven.

Forty-fucking-seven.

That’s how old Aaron Hotchner was.

You knew because you’d asked. One day you just couldn’t contain yourself. He’d been driving you nuts for weeks already, plaguing your mind like a disease. So you thought that maybe—if you put a definitive number on it—knowing the age gap would help.

It did not.

The outcome had been so much worse.

“Hotch?” You’d asked, trying to seem busy with the file on the table in front of you.

“Hmm?” He’d hummed, not looking over from the cork board.

“How old are you?” You continued, trying to keep your voice as nonchalant as possible, eyes glued to the paper; the one you’d read ten times already.

He had paused and you could feel his eyes on you, but he only let out a soft chuckle, as though you had amused him.

“Forty seven.” He murmured, and went back to the cork board.

You’d nearly dropped the pen you’d been holding, your eyes snapping up to study his back in disbelief. Your father was fifty five, just eight years older. Swallowing hard, you went back to the file and found that, unfortunately, you still couldn’t focus on it. Instead, thinking of the way his sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows, and the way the muscle of his forearms might feel beneath your fingers… or teeth. The way his slacks hugged his ass, making it seem like he actually had one, and how they had a hard time hiding what he did have—

“Did it help?” He asked a few minutes later, and you realized, you had never given him a response, or a reason for your question…

“Huh?” You looked up at him, slightly stunned.

“Did it help?” He asked again, looking at you over his shoulder with that smirk; the one he often turned on unsubs if he saw right through them.

“I—” Your voice betrayed you, coming out broken instead of smooth, so you cleared your throat and tried again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t?” He purred, the smirk turning into a knowing grin.

“Not at all.” You lied, feeling your cheeks begin to heat under his gaze.

“Hmm.” His brows furrowed and you knew he didn’t believe you in the slightest as he turned back to the cork board.

That was the first time you’d realized that maybe you hadn’t been hiding your crush as well as you’d thought.

Several weeks later, on a case, you were in a heated debate with Morgan—having been the first two to make it back to the local police station—over a man who’s daughter was a victim. A man who’s current wife was only a little older than the daughter herself. All while Hotch looked on from the corner, not bothering to get involved.

“Either she’s taking advantage of his grief for financial stability, or he’s taking advantage of her naivety and financial instability to cope with his grief. Either way, he’s having a midlife crisis and she’s got daddy issues.” Morgan insisted, looking at you across the table like you were insane.

“That is not a fair assessment, Morgan, and you know it!” You shot back, “There are lots of reasons for age gap relationships, and most of the time they rarely have anything to do with money!”

“Name five.” He challenged, smirking at you because he either thought you couldn’t do it or were just playing devil’s advocate.

“Mutual attraction, being treated with respect, emotional maturity, the excitement of being with an older man or a younger woman and vice versa, and—” You stopped yourself short… You had the fifth one, but saying it felt awkward.

“And?” Morgan smirked, thinking you didn’t have a fifth.

You took a deep breath looked him in the eye and said, “Sexual experience.”

“Sexual experience, as in they’re in it for the experience?” He asked, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“No… I mean that older people—with the exception of those who abstain—are more experienced sexually than younger people.” You explained, and when he laughed you felt defensive. “Don’t laugh at me! That makes sense and you know it! Practice makes perfect or whatever the fuck the saying is! Older—sexually active—individuals have more practice, therefore more experience, and that—to me—says that they’d be better at sex!”

“What about stamina?” Morgan argued, “A fifty year old man is not gonna be able to keep up with a thirty year old woman!”

“That is not always true! It depends on the shape the man is in!” You threw your hands out to the side, and you almost found yourself using Hotch as an example—as your eyes flickered over to him—but caught yourself just in time, deciding to change the subject. “Besides, sex is not all there is to a fulfilling romantic relationship! There are all the other things I said too!”

“You can find all of those things with someone much closer to your own age.” Morgan reminded you, shaking his head, “An older guy could mean three or four years older! Why choose someone that’s twenty years older and has nothing in common with you, over someone who might and could keep up with you?”

“Curiosity?” You shrugged, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes flicked briefly to Hotch again, who was already watching you with an amused smile. “And no, I don’t think some women can find what they’re looking for in a man their own age. Which does not automatically mean daddy issues.”

“I disagree.” Morgan shook his head.

“Well you’re not a woman, so I don’t think you get to have an opinion on what we can and cannot want in a man.” You scowled, crossing your arms.

“Kid, you’re not even out of your twenties yet. You don’t know what you want in a man.” Morgan chuckled, clearly amused by your stance, for a totally different reason than Hotch.

“Some of us have it modeled for us from a young age and know what we want early.” You shrugged, keeping your eyes on Morgan and not daring to look over at Hotch again. “My dad is very present in my life, and we have a wonderful relationship, so I tell him everything. He comes and takes me out for dinner at least once a month, he calls me every single day, he reminds me to eat lunch, he makes sure I have good tires on my car, and he checks the latch on my door every single time he comes to my apartment; just to make sure it’s sturdy. He treats my mother like a goddamn queen, anything she wants she gets, and they are so in love it’s palpable, after nearly thirty years. He’s only five years older than her, but before you say that proves your point… Even though I know it works for them, I find myself disgusted by men my age. They’re crude, they’re rude, they don’t have any modicum of emotional maturity, they’re disrespectful, they’re boring—most only care about cars, video games, and money—and if you think a man in his mid twenties is in his prime… I beg you to look at pictures of Patrick Dempsey, Ryan Gosling, or Robert Downey Jr. in their twenties, versus their forties. The difference is night and day, and so much sexier.”

“What does that prove?” Morgan asked, unwilling to admit he was wrong just yet.

“That I don’t have daddy issues.” You insisted firmly, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Hotch bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I’d love to be treated the way my dad treats my mom, and any man I might see a future with would have to be one that I could see treating my future daughters the way I’ve been treated. However, I still find myself drawn to older men because men my age just don’t do it for me. Sometimes it really is just about attraction.”

“That’s all fine and good, I’m not gonna shame you for what you like, but in their case—” He circled back to the original topic of the victim’s father and step mother. “I don’t see what you’re seeing.”

With that, Morgan got up and left the conference room in search of coffee, leaving you alone under the discerning gaze of Aaron Hotchner.

“Who are you trying to convince?” Hotch chuckled from the corner once Morgan disappeared. “Morgan, or yourself?”

“What?” You breathed, finally looking over at him to find him studying you with laughter in his eyes.

“You sound less like you believe what you’re saying, and more like you desperately want it to be true.” He smirked, pinning you to the spot with those gorgeous fucking eyes… “I think you’ve recently realized you have a thing for older men, or more likely an older man, and you don’t know what to do with that information. So you’re struggling to make sense of it, and you thought arguing with Morgan—if you won—would help.”

You hated how close to the truth he was…

“Or…” You murmured, not trusting your voice to sound as strong as you wanted. “Maybe I do believe what I was saying, and I wanted Morgan to stop being so ageist about it because it was offensive.”

“Is that what you wanted?” He challenged, giving you that look again. The one that said he saw you… and knew how badly you wanted him.

“I think I would know what I do or do not want.” You shot back, with a little more attitude now that you thought you were being patronized.

“Do you?” He asked, undeterred by your snark, in fact, he seemed encouraged by it.

“Do I what, Hotch? You’re not making any sense!” You huffed, frustratedly.

“Do you know what you want?” He clarified, with a roguish smile on his face.

Suddenly, you didn’t think he was talking about Morgan and ageism anymore.

“Yes.” You whispered, hoping that was a safe answer either way.

“Are you sure?” He asked, and there was something else in his eyes this time. Something you’d never seen in them before… Something… Warmer.

“Are we still talking about Morgan’s ageism?” You asked, knowing that it had never been about Morgan… It had always been about him… and the way you felt about him.

“Are we?” He teased.

Before you could say anything Morgan came back, and you found yourself wondering how that conversation would’ve ended if he hadn’t interrupted it.

Over the following weeks, you caught Hotch watching you just as much as he caught you watching him, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Truthfully, you thought he found your little infatuation to be entertaining. He would laugh when you panicked over prolonged eye contact. Watch you with glee as you blushed over a compliment or the tiniest hint of praise. He’d rest his hand on the back of your chair if he chose to sit next to you—and he always chose to sit next to you—making sure you were aware it was there, but never letting it touch you. He’d make comments that made your heart race at their ambiguous nature, uncertain if he was flirting or just making small talk. He was always winking at you if you glanced at him, but would make sure his face was perfectly neutral if you did a double take. Along with a hundred other things to let you know he knew and thought you were just a silly girl.

He was teasing you.

At first, you thought it was cruel of him to play so flippantly with your emotions, but you noticed he was never mean about it. In fact, he never used it to humiliate you, never said anything about it in the presence of the team either. It was like a secret game that only the two of you were aware of, and having something to share with him—even if he didn’t take it seriously—was exciting.

So you began to play too.

Instead of pretending he didn't effect you, you showed him how much he did… and how much you could effect him if you tried.

If he winked, you bit your lip and winked back. When he would rest his hand on your chair, you would slip your shoe off and toe at the hem of his pants under the table. Sometimes brushing his ankle, but most often you teased him with almost but not quite touches. Every time he said something that could've had a double meaning, you always replied to the meaning you were meant to ignore. You could tell that he was well aware of the change in your behavior, but he never did anything about it.

So you got bolder.

You’d meant it when you said you knew what you wanted.

Two months after your argument with Morgan, it was the hottest day of the summer—in Texas—and Hotch had taken you with him to interview a victim’s family. You were boiling because the family’s A/C had been out. They’d had all their windows open, but it hadn’t helped. The trailer they lived in was basically an oven.

By the time the two of you made it back to the car, you were both sweating and he’d started taking layers off before he ever got in the vehicle. Suit jacket? Back seat. Tie? Right alongside it. Buttons? Undone to his sternum. Sleeves? Rolled up to his elbows.

He had ran his fingers through his hair so many times to keep the sweat at bay that it was standing on end and pointing in every direction. Effortlessly sexy. You were sure yours was plastered to your forehead, so you shook it out, and—as he started the car—you leaned across the console and plucked a pen from his shirt pocket. He barely glanced at you, not seeming to mind at all, if he even noticed.

But you would make him notice.

Using the pen you secured your hair up into a twist to get it off your neck. Then you slowly began unbuttoning your own blouse, just as far as he had. So that if he glanced over at you he would catch a glimpse of flesh and pink lace. You didn’t say a word, and neither did he, he didn’t so much as blink… but his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

That wasn’t enough for you.

Fanning yourself, you slouched a little in your seat, letting your blouse fall open farther. Then you lifted your leg—slipping your foot out of your heel—and rested in on the dash as he drove. Letting your skirt ride up, you un-clipped your garter from your thigh high hose, rolled it down slowly, then tossed it into the back seat, and did the same with the other. When you put your second leg back down, you didn’t bother straightening your skirt, in fact, you let your legs splay a bit so that it would ride higher.

He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat, then clutched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white and the veins in his forearms stuck out.

Much better.

When you reached the field office, Hotch disappeared to the restroom for ten minutes.

The night that case wrapped up, you all decided to visit a club in Austin, waiting for the Jet to refuel and be ready to go.

Hotch looked delicious, wearing that black polo you were so fond of and a pair of jeans. You didn’t have much in the way of club attire but you made it work with your shortest pencil skirt—which you folded under and clipped to your garters to make shorter—and the vest that matched it, with nothing but a bra and panties underneath. You looked… Well, you’d never been one to brag.

When you walked into the hotel lobby—your heels clicking softly on the tile—the girls saw you first. JJ and Prentiss were the best hype women on the planet on nights like this.

“Goddamn, how do you manage to make that same outfit say, ‘respect my badge,’ in the daylight, but say, ‘fuck me sideways in the bathroom,’ at night?” Emily teased, giving you an appreciative round of applause, that subsequently got Hotch’s—and everyone else’s—attention.

His eyes locked onto your cleavage, and you focused on breathing into your upper chest to make your breasts rise with each inhale… He was mesmerized.

“Layers and choice of lipstick.” You joked, giving her a little spin that was not at all for her benefit, but for his.

When you faced them again, he was gone, but you caught sight of him… slinking into the men’s room.

Later at the club, you, Emily, and JJ hit the dance floor for long enough that you began to get thirsty, so you left them together in the crowd and made your way to the bar. You spotted him there, getting another round for himself, Rossi, and Morgan; though the other two were nowhere to be found.

You didn’t think it through, you just acted.

Slipping up behind him, you slid a hand over his ribs and up his chest, using it to put a little bit of space between him and the bar, but you didn’t look up at him as you stepped into that space.

“Hey, Hotch.” Was all you said to acknowledge his presence, before leaning over the bar and pressing your ass right against his crotch as you flagged down a bartender.

As you ordered, you made sure to wiggle around enough that he could feel every movement.

“She’s on my tab.” Hotch told the bartender after you’d both been handed your drinks.

The man nodded then walked away, so you turned around and leaned back on the bar—exposing your cleavage and throat—as your leg slipped between his and you made sure he felt it. You took a long sip of your drink, wrapping your red lips around the straw as you looked up at him from under thick lashes. Daring him with your eyes to make a move.

His own eyes were devouring you, and you thought he might break—might finally drop the act and do something about the way you’d been teasing him—but he took a deep breath instead.

“Thanks for the drink.” You smirked, and slipped back into the crowd as quickly as you’d appeared, but you watched once again as he excused himself after delivering Morgan and Rossi’s drinks. He found his way to the bathroom, and when he came back out you felt his eyes on you for the rest of the night.

Once everyone stumbled drunkenly onto the plane—yourself included—it didn’t take long for everyone else to fall asleep; except him, though you pretended not to notice. You wanted to get one last tease in before the long weekend, something he could ruminate on—obsess about—until he saw you again.

Standing from your seat, you pulled your go-bag out from beneath it—having planned this in advance—and pulled out a pair of sweats and an over sized tee. Your heels had long since been discarded so it was easy to slip the sweats on over your skirt, pulling it up to your waist once you were covered, and removing it over your sweats. Your garter belt following immediately after. You turned away from him, toward the wall where no one could see if they happened to wake, and unbuttoned your vest letting it slip off your shoulders. You contemplated removing your bra as well, but decided that with the others present… that was too far.

You took your time putting your shirt back on though, and you could feel his eyes on your back. When you turned around again, he didn’t even pretend not to have been staring. He watched as you sat down again, curling up into a ball and trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, content that he would be thinking about you incessantly.

“I know what you’re doing…” He murmured quietly, after several minutes had passed.

You didn’t respond, but you couldn’t keep a smile from tugging at the corner of your lips. Teasing him had become your new favorite pastime. Half an hour later, when he thought you’d fallen asleep, he slipped out of his seat and snuck to the restroom.

You could just barely hear the faint sound of his moans, each one resembled a broken utterance of your name.

Rossi invited the whole team to his house for dinner and drinks the very next night, and couldn’t help but see it as another opportunity to push your agenda. So upon receiving your invitation, you immediately texted the other girls saying, ‘let’s dress up and be cute, we can take pictures together!’ Penelope immediately jumped on the bandwagon, and with some gentle prodding—shameless begging—from her, the other two agreed as well. You knew exactly what you were going to wear.

When you arrived at Rossi’s that night, you were the very last one to show up. Partially on purpose, but also because you’d spent hours making sure you were irresistible. You’d been saving the little dress for an important occasion, maybe a first date or something, but breaking Aaron Hotchner’s will seemed like the perfect use for it. It was a black, satin, backless, halter top, minidress so short you couldn’t so much as bend slightly at the waist. Your hair was styled so that it wasn’t obstructing the view of your bare back, your makeup flawless. If he resisted you tonight…

You’d fucking give up.

As you walked into the dining room, Morgan let out a low, playfully teasing whistle—being the first to spot you—and that had everyone else looking your way. You blushed at the attention, playing up your innocence and biting back an ‘oh so timid’ smile. Hotch wasn’t buying it, you could tell by the way he was smirking at you that he knew exactly what you were doing.

“You look amazing!” Penelope gushed, wobbling over on her platform heels. “Do a twirl, lemme see the back!”

So you did a slow twirl… and when you faced them again, the smirk on his face was long gone. What remained was something between panic and desire.

“Do you like it?” You asked Penelope, smiling and looking down as if you were unsure of yourself. “I’ve had it for like two years, but never had a chance to wear it, and we were dressing up tonight so I thought… Why not?”

“Do I—? Do I Li—? Do I like it?!” Penelope blustered as if it was an absolutely ridiculous notion that she might not. “Sugar, I love it! You look like— Like— Like a dark seductress of the night or something!”

You tried not to laugh.

JJ and Emily did no such thing.

“Garcia, you just called her hooker!” Emily cackled, falling into JJ, already a few drinks in.

“I did not!” Penelope protested, absolutely aghast at the suggestion. “She looks much too sophisticated to be a hooker!”

“So a very expensive call girl then?” You teased her, joining in on the fun, even as you felt his eyes drinking you in.

“No— Well… now that you mention it— No! I’m kidding!” Penelope joked as well, laughing at your mock outrage.

Once the laughter faded, you all made your way to the table, and—as always—it seemed as though Hotch would sit next to you. This time however, he pulled out your chair for you, something he’d never gone so far as to do before. You could feel the heat of his hands, just inches from your skin, gripping the back of your seat as he pushed it up to the table, but as always… he didn’t touch you.

So you didn’t touch him either, instead ensuring that he could only feel the heat of you as you almost made contact all through out the meal. His hands twitched in your direction with a frequency you found encouraging, his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking, his breath hitched each time you laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile because you had him at the end of his rope. Of that you were certain.

By the time dinner was over, the others were several bottles in collectively, and they’d decided to abscond to the patio for more. They were intoxicated enough that no one noticed when you slipped away.

No one but Hotch, of course. Exactly as you’d intended when you made eye contact with him as you disappeared inside.

At first, you weren’t sure if he would follow you, and you couldn’t hear anything but the soft clicking of your heels as you traipsed down the hallway. Looking for a dark corner to get cornered in.

Hearing the faintest scuff of a shoe behind you, you stopped, but you didn’t turn around. You knew it was him, you could feel his eyes on you and recognized their weight.

“Do you enjoy torturing me?” His low rumble of a question just barely reached your ears over the sound of the music the others were blaring outside.

“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” You quipped, still not turning to face him as he took a few steps closer.

“Is it not?” He asked, his voice near enough that it almost startled you. “Is that not exactly what you’ve been doing for the last five days? Before this week it was just retaliatory and I deserved that, but you’ve been taunting me, Sweetheart. I don’t like being taunted.”

You laughed softly, even though you could hardly focus… How could you? Your pussy had it’s own goddamn pulse.

“The only person taunting you was you.” You shrugged.

“I beg to differ.” He chuckled, and you felt his breath disturbing your hair, tickling your ear, sending a thrill down your spine. “Do you know how hard it’s been to keep my hands to myself? While you’ve been taking your clothes off in front of me, or just not wearing enough of them to begin with… Do you know how many times I’ve had to sneak away and take care of the evidence of what you do to me?”

“Four, by my count.” You grinned, turning your head just enough to make sure he could see it. “My name sounds so good falling off your lips…”

“You’re a menace…” He groaned, and you knew if you looked at him his fists would be clenched at his sides.

“And you’re a masochist.” You let another laugh roll off your tongue, shaking your head. “All this self inflicted yearning, when you could’ve just taken the invitation I’ve been serving to you on a platter.”

“You’re not even thirty.” A weak attempt at reason, and you both knew it.

“And you’re old enough to be my father, but I don’t have daddy issues, and you’re too uptight to be having a midlife crisis…” You shrugged, a smile pulling at your lips. “Sometimes it’s just about attraction, and having the balls to take what you want. We both know what we want… So what the hell are you waiting for?”

The force of your chest hitting the closest wall nearly knocked the breath out of you, but the feeling of his hands—sliding up under the hem of your dress and forcing it up around your waist—was what had you gasping. You moaned so loudly, as he took a handful of your ass and squeezed, that you bit your lip to keep from being heard.

“Don’t be shy now,” he growled in your ear, biting it, “they can’t hear your filthy little mouth out there, the music is too loud.”

“Hotch!” You whined, as he licked and sucked his way down the side of your neck.

“Aaron.” He corrected, slipping his other hand into the top of your dress and kneading your breast as he kept gripping your ass. “I knew there was no way you were wearing a bra under this little thing, I half expected you to have forgone panties too. Did you, sweetheart? I can’t feel anything but skin…” He released your ass, only to reach around and cup your cunt possessively. “Ah, there they are… must be a thong. I think I’ll leave that on while I fuck you, I bet it’ll look so pretty.”

His teeth snagged the bow on the halter of your dress, and he pulled it loose with a jerk of his head; exposing your breasts to the cool air and causing you to gasp. Gripping your hips he flipped you around and pressed your back to the wall, trailing hot, sloppy, open mouthed kisses down your chest. Then sinking his teeth into the mound of your breast he—making you cry out—he slipped his hand inside the front of your panties. His fingers swiping through your folds, gathering wetness and dragging it back up to your clit.

“You’re so fucking wet already…” He groaned, then sucked a nipple into his mouth, drawing on it hard enough to make you whimper before dragging his mouth back up to your throat. “Are you always this wet for me, darling? Have I always made you this desperate, or is has it built up with the anticipation?”

His fingers were circling your clit so perfectly, you couldn’t have answered him if you wanted too, and you didn’t because the answer was too raw… it was humiliating. Then he stopped, wrapping his free hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make a point, and make you dizzy with lust.

“Answer me.” He growled looking into your eyes, and holding your gaze so that you could see the fullness of his own desperation, his desire for you.

“Always.” You gasped, and the truth of it must have shown in your eyes because his softened.

“Fuck.” He nearly sighed, and then his lips crashed into yours, messy and frantic, all consuming.

His fingers grazed down from your clit to your entrance, and he kept the other hand around your throat as he slid one inside. You moaned into his mouth at the thickness of it, as he worked it in a come here motion against your g-spot.

“Aaron!” You cried, as he added a second digit, his thumb finding your clit as he moved the two fingers faster.

“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, and you felt him smile against your lips. “Let me have it baby, tell me how good it feels.”

“So good!” You panted, writhing against the wall and grinding down into his hand, desperate to have him deeper, to be fuller. “More please!”

“Such a good girl…” He chuckled, and the sound only nudged you closer to the edge, making your pussy clench around his fingers. “Begging for me already… You want another one baby? Need to feel fuller?”

“Yes!” You sobbed, the tension had built so quickly that it was beginning to throb painfully. “Please, please, please…”

“Pitiful.” He growled against your lips, biting the bottom one and dragging it through his teeth. “You sound pretty when you’re desperate.” You could feel his smile as he nipped and sucked his way up your jaw to your ear, his voice was a low rumble that made your whole body quiver when he said, “Ask me one more time, tell me exactly what you want, and make it sweet, darling.”

You couldn’t fucking breath, but you forced yourself to do it anyway.

“I need another one, please Aaron, I wanna feel so full of you it hurts! Please…” You pleaded, your body shaking with a mix of apprehension and pleasure as he huffed a condescending laugh against your skin.

“That’s my girl…” He murmured, and slid a third finger inside.

“Fuck!” Your voice broke, ragged and harsh as you panted through the stretch of it. “Oh, fuck!”

He busied himself with your neck, trailing kisses and finding sensitive skin with his tongue, fucking you into oblivion with his fingers all the while. You’d never been this overwhelmed by someone in your life, he was doing everything so perfectly as if he’d made you fall apart a thousand times before and knew exactly what you needed.

“Fuck, Aaron, I’m—” You choked out, barely able to speak at all as the pleasure mounted and you felt tears running from the corners of your eyes.

“I know you are, pretty girl… So fucking pretty.” He hummed, taking your lips with his again before pulling back to look at you, studying your trembling form and meeting your eyes with a fiercely possessive gaze. “Don’t look away from me, angel, I wanna see it in your eyes when you come.”

Then you were gone. It was like he’d broken something in your mind with that last command and completely shattered your last shred of self control. The sensation was white hot, and so powerful your knees buckled, but he kept you on your feet. Clapping a hand over your mouth as a scream ripped its way from your throat.

“Good girl, sweetheart, you’ve done so good…” He cooed, fucking you through it gently, and stroking your cheek with his thumb when your scream softened to short little whimpers. “Such a good girl, you came so hard, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

You whined when he pulled his fingers out of your cunt, and he stifled the sound by sticking them in your mouth instead. The taste of your release on his fingers was intoxicating.

“Clean up your mess for me, pretty girl.” He murmured, his tone somehow soothing and condescending at the same time. Then he chuckled when you moaned around him and began to suck without hesitation. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

You nodded, as he wiped tears away from your cheeks, now that it seemed your legs functioned well enough to stand.

“Can you walk, baby?” He asked, stroking your hair away from face.

When you shook your head no, he laughed, pulled his fingers out of your mouth, then slipped his hands beneath your thighs and lifted you off the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Where are we going?” You murmured, as he began to carry you up the stairs.

“To find a bed.” He said, kissing his way back up your neck and somehow managing to stay on his feet. “I’m too old to fuck on the floor, and I want you on your knees.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You sighed into his mouth as you captured his lips with yours, threading your hands through his hair like you’d been dying to do for months.

You placed the book aside on the table and stood slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Aaron?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he shrugged out of his suit jacket with mechanical movements, hanging it on the rack by the door as if the small act of order could somehow impose control on the chaos raging inside him.

His jaw flexed once, twice even. The muscles jumped under the low light.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking slightly at the shifting weight. When you reached him, you stopped just inches away, close enough to smell the faint trace of courthouse coffee and the cologne he’d worn that morning... the one you’d bought him for Christmas. You were close enough to see the faint tremor in his fingers as he loosened the tie completely and let it slide free.

“How did it go?” you asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled through his nose, a long, controlled breath that did nothing to ease the tension radiating from him. For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then, voice low and rough like gravel under tires, he spoke. “Everything was left to me to divide between us.” A bitter edge crept in, barely there but unmistakable as he spoke. “Sean was granted permission to attend the reading... judge’s courtesy, I suppose,” the last part came out as a mumble. “Sat there in his prison jumpsuit looking like he still couldn’t believe any of it was real. But the estate, the decisions… all of it falls on me.”

You watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. The frustration was there, the kind that never raised its voice but could level everything around it. And beneath it, deeper and much rawer, was the grief. Fresh and unprocessed. His mother’s death had come so suddenly,  no one knew she had been sick. A quiet heart attack caused by her medication had taken her. Taken her in the house he’d grown up in, she’d been found by her nurse two hours too late, and now this: being handed the keys to a life he’d spent decades trying to outrun.

Everything was crumbling down around him.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured. Your hand lifted instinctively, hovering near his arm before settling lightly on his forearm. The muscle beneath your palm jerked slightly; you could feel his nerves reacting to your touch, to the pain and grief, to the stress of having to figure out what to keep and what to toss. “That’s… that’s an impossible burden to put on you right now.”

He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes fixed on some point just past your shoulder. “It’s what she wanted. Or at least what her lawyer interpreted. No clear instructions. Just… me, deciding what Sean gets. After everything.” His voice cracked on the last word, so faint you almost missed it. He cleared his throat, forcing it back down. “I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”

You could see it, the walls slamming back into place. They were thicker than ever, reinforced by years of training himself to compartmentalize his childhood, to lead, to never break in front of anyone. Not even you, not fully. Not yet. Pushing would only make him retreat further into that stoic silence he wore like armor.

Instead, you stepped closer, sliding your arms around his waist and pressed your cheek to his chest. His heart thudded hard against your ear, too fast for the calm exterior he was projecting. For a long moment, he stood in place, rigid, as if further touch might shatter the rest of him. You wish it would. He needed to fall, to break down, to grieve, to let everything out.

Then, slowly, his arms came around you. One hand settled between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel you there, feel that you were real and alive. The other rested at the small of your back, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

You didn’t speak. You just held him, breathing in sync with the rise and fall of his chest, letting the silence stretch until it felt almost too sacred to break. His chin came to rest on the crown of your head, and you felt the faintest brush of his lips against your hair.

Grief rolled off him in waves, tangled with the old resentments toward his father, toward Sean, toward the boy he’d once been in that house in Manassas. You felt every ounce of it in the way he clung to you, in the subtle hitch of his breath, in the way his fingers flexed against your back like you were the only thing anchoring him to the present right at this moment.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. His eyes met yours, and you saw the depth of it all laid bare for a fleeting second before he blinked it away.

“I need some time,” he said quietly. Not a rejection. Just a fact. Stated so clinically that you couldn’t help but worry about his state of mind.

You nodded, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I’m here when you’re ready. Or when you’re not. Either way.”

He managed the ghost of a nod before retreating to the bedroom, the weight of the day still clinging to him like a second skin.

Hours later, the bedroom was wrapped in darkness, broken only by the thin silver blade of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains. The apartment was quiet. Jack was with Jessica for the weekend, his father not needing to see how broken he had become. You lie on your side facing him, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting lightly on the mattress between you. Sleep had been teasing you for a while, but you stayed half-awake, attuned to every shift of his body beside you.

Hotch was on his back, one arm slung over his eyes, the other hand resting on his stomach. His breathing was too even, too controlled, too... normal. He wasn’t asleep. You could feel the tension still humming through him.

The silence stretched. Then, ever so softly that you almost thought you’d imagined it, his voice broke through. “Come with me to Manassas.”

Your eyes opened fully. He hadn’t moved, but his hand found yours beneath the covers, fingers threading through yours with a grip that was almost desperate, compensating for the lack of emotion in his voice.

“I have to go through the house,” he continued. “Clean it out. Get it ready to sell. There’s… so much in there. Furniture she never replaced. Boxes in the attic I haven’t touched since I was twenty. Photos. Letters. Things that remind me of who I was before I was sent to boarding school.” Hotch paused. His thumb stroked over your knuckles, like the motion itself was enough to steady him. “I’m not sure I can do it alone. Not without...” He trailed off, never finishing his sentence.

The raw honesty in his tone hit you like a physical blow. Hotch rarely asked for help. He didn’t admit weakness. But in the safety of your bed, the grief had cracked him open just enough to allow him to finally ask. His parents’ house, the one that had held every sharp word, every slammed door, every lesson in what love wasn’t supposed to look like, was waiting for him roughly an hour away. And the thought of walking back into it, of sorting through the remnants of her life, of his life, while Hotch’s own still felt fractured from everything that had happened since he moved out, was more than he could shoulder without you.

You squeezed his hand, shifting closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. “Of course I’ll go with you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be right there, every step of the way.”

He turned his head then, dark eyes finding yours in the moonlight. They were glassy, the grief no longer fully contained. A single tear slipped free before he could stop it, trailing down the side of his face and disappearing into the pillow. He didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he pulled you closer, rolling slightly so you were tucked against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

“Thank you,” he breathed against your hair, the words cracking open with everything he couldn’t say. The love, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion of having to be the strong one for so long. His hand stroked down your back in slow, soothing passes, but you could feel the tremor in it. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”

You pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

Tomorrow, the drive to Manassas would begin. Tomorrow, the house would open its doors and let the ghosts out, whether he wanted them to or not.

The drive from Quantico to Manassas had been quiet. Hotch had kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing yours where it rested on the console between you. You tried to fill the silence with soft conversation about Jack’s latest school fair you’d attended while Hotch was away on a case, the book you were reading, anything to keep the tension from swallowing him whole. But as the familiar Virginia roads narrowed and the suburbs gave way to the older, tree-lined streets of his hometown, the words between you, mainly yours, faded. Now, only the low hum of the engine and the crunch of tires on pavement remained.

The car rolled to a slow stop at the curb in front of the two-story red house. The paint, once a vibrant brick red that probably stood out proudly in the neighborhood many years ago, was faded and peeling in long strips, revealing the weathered gray wood underneath. The white trim around the windows and porch was chipped and dingy, years of neglect showing in every cracked shutter and sagging gutter. Overgrown grass and weeds choked the front yard, reaching up to the knees in some places, dotted with dandelions and patches of clover. The concrete pathway leading to the front steps was stained with moss and dirt, cracked in several spots where roots had pushed through from below.

Hotch killed the engine.

The sudden silence felt deafening.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and glanced over at him. He sat perfectly still in the driver’s seat, hands still gripping the wheel even though the car was off. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle ticking, eyes fixed straight ahead on the road, almost as if he was considering turning the car back on and speeding off. His breathing was measured, deliberate, the same way it got right before he entered a hostage negotiation. But this was different. This was way more personal than he would like for it to be.

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you opened your door first, stepping out into the mild air. It smelled like cut grass from a neighbor’s lawn and distant rain, with an undercurrent of damp earth from the overgrown yard. The big oak tree in the front yard was massive and ancient-looking, its branches stretching wide over the property. From one thick limb hung the remnants of a wooden swing, the ropes frayed and green with moss, the seat itself darkened and warped, probably rotten thoroughly through after years of exposure to nature. You could almost picture a young Aaron there, legs pumping, laughing, or maybe just escaping whatever waited inside the red house.

The image made your heart twist.

You walked around the front of the SUV to his side and gently opened the driver’s door. “Aaron?”

He didn’t move at first. His gaze remained locked on the house, eyes tracing the familiar lines of the porch, the second-floor window that must have been his childhood bedroom based on how long his eyes lingered there, the overgrown flower beds his mother probably had tended with meticulous care once upon a time.

Then, slowly, he released the wheel. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, a rare tell of the storm building inside him. He turned his head toward you, and for a moment his eyes were wide and unguarded, filled with a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. Grief, anger, nostalgia, maybe all of it all at once, and a deep, aching reluctance.

The house wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was every night he’d lain awake wondering why love in this family felt like walking on broken glass when it came to his father. How his mother had been to scared to stand up to him when he got really bad, how Sean was the golden child, and he was the lost cause. And now, with her gone, those memories were about to flood back the second he stepped inside and started sorting through her things, her clothes, her letters, the photos that would force him to confront the boy he used to be.

“I’m okay,” he said, but the words came out hoarse and unconvincing. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just… need a minute.”

You nodded, reaching in to rest a hand on his shoulder.

He gave a small nod and finally swung his legs out of the car and stood. He closed the door with a soft thud and stood beside you on the cracked sidewalk, staring up at the red house again. His hand found yours almost instinctively, fingers lacing tight.

The wind rustled through the oak’s leaves, making the rotten swing creak faintly on its frayed ropes. A bird called from somewhere down the street. Otherwise, the neighborhood was quiet, as if it too was holding its breath for Aaron Hotchner to face his past.

“It’s just a house,” you whispered, trying to ease the tension, even though you both knew it was so much more. “And you’re not the boy who grew up here anymore. You’re the man who built something better.”

Hotch swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. His free hand came up to loosen the collar of his shirt. He took one step forward, then another, leading you both up the dirty pathway toward the front porch. His grip on your hand never loosened. With every step, you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. The overgrown yard brushed against your legs, the scent of wildflowers and decay mixing in the air. The porch steps creaked under his weight as he climbed them, pausing at the top to pull the key from his pocket.

He inserted the key into the lock but didn’t turn it yet. Instead, he stood there, forehead nearly touching the faded door, eyes closed.

“I haven’t been inside since Haley died,” he admitted quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Mom always came to me because she knew how much I had on my plate. It’s going to be… a lot. The smell of her perfume. Her coat on the hook. The kitchen table where we used to...” He cut himself off, jaw clenching again. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” you said softly. “And even if you can’t, I’ll be here.”

He turned his head to look at you. The love and gratitude in that gaze hit you hard. Hotch leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he turned the key.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

And the memories rushed out to meet him as the front door creaked open on hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years, releasing a stale wave of air that smelled of old wood, faded lavender sachets, and something faintly like death.

You stepped inside behind Hotch, the floorboards groaning under your combined weight like they remembered every footfall that had ever crossed them.

The living room was dim, heavy curtains drawn halfway across the windows, filtering the afternoon light into dusty shafts that cut across the worn Persian carpet. Everything looked frozen in time: a faded floral sofa with sagging cushions, a side table still holding a half-empty glass of water that had long since evaporated, leaving a ghostly ring of lime on the inside of it.

Picture frames lined the mantel, some with photos of a much younger Hotch in a cap and gown, others of Sean as a gap-toothed kid, a few family portraits where everyone’s smiles looked strained, like they’d been ordered to pose.

Hotch moved forward slowly, shoulders rigid, each step deliberate as if the house might swallow him if he wasn’t careful. You stayed near the entrance, leaning against the doorframe, giving him the space you could sense he needed. This was his childhood. His ghosts. You could see the way his eyes swept the room, cataloging, remembering, bracing himself for what he might be reminded of.

His breathing had grown shallower. He disappeared down the short hallway toward the kitchen and the stairs, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly, then fading.

You didn’t follow. Instead, you remained in the front room, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, listening to the creaks and sighs of the old house settling around you. The air felt thick.

You could almost picture it: a young Hotch doing homework at the coffee table, his father’s voice booming from the next room, his mother’s quiet sighs. It made your heart ache for the man he’d become, the one who carried so much without ever complaining because anything and everything was better than the way his father had treated him.

Minutes ticked by. You heard him moving upstairs briefly, then back down. When he finally reappeared in the doorway of the living room, his face was pale, jaw set in that familiar line that meant he was holding everything together by sheer force of will.

His eyes were distant, unfocused, like he was looking through the walls rather than at them.

He stopped just inside the room, gaze landing on the old leather armchair tucked in the corner by the window. It was a monstrous thing, cracked, faded brown leather that had split in several places, stuffing peeking. The arms were worn shiny from years of use, the seat permanently indented. It looked like it had survived decades of abuse and somehow endured.

Hotch stared at it for a long moment. Then, completely unprompted, his voice came out low and dull, almost monotone, like he was reciting facts from a case file rather than dredging up pieces of his own life.

“That was my father’s chair.”

The words hung in the air. He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the armchair, as if it might bite if he glanced away.

“He sat in it every night after dinner. Read the paper. Watched the news. Never let anyone else near it.” A pause. “I don’t think Mom ever sat in it. Not even after he died. She just… left it there. Like some kind of shrine to him.”

You watched him carefully, heart twisting at the undercurrent of old pain in his tone. You knew the stories, or at least the fragments he’d shared over late nights and quiet mornings when the memories dug their way out.

The relationship with his father had been anything but warm. Expectations that cut deeper than any of the bruises the man had ever given his son. Seeing that chair now, still occupying its throne in the corner, clearly stirred something unresolved in him that he likely wouldn’t resolve ever if you knew him right.

Hotch’s shoulders had tensed further, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to clench them into fists but wouldn’t allow himself the release.

He crossed the room in a couple of slow strides and stopped in front of the chair. Without hesitation, he reached down and slid his hand deep into the crevice between the cushion and the armrest, fingers probing into the dusty, grimy darkness.

You winced visibly, nose wrinkling at the thought of what might be living in there after all these years... crumbs, lint, God knows what else accumulated over decades. “Aaron…” you started softly, a gentle prompt laced with mild disgust, but he didn’t seem to hear you.

He rattled his hand around, the sound of coins clinking together breaking the heavy silence. When he pulled his hand back, his palm was cupped with a small pile of quarters, dimes, and nickels, some tarnished, some surprisingly bright.

He stared down at the coins. “Dad never emptied his pockets. Ever. Mom would yell at him every time the washer would rattle and bang like it was about to explode because he’d left a handful of change in his work pants again.” A faint, humorless twitch spread at the corner of his mouth. “She’d fish them out afterward, stack them on the counter, and tell him he was going to break the machine one day. He’d just grunt and go back to his chair.”

He let the coins spill slowly from his hand onto the side table beside the armchair, the metallic clatter loud in the quiet room. They scattered across the dusty surface, some rolling off and onto the carpet. Hotch didn’t move to pick them up. He just stood there, staring at the empty chair, lost in memories that clearly weren’t kind ones. His expression remained closed off, eyes shadowed, the grief and old resentment mixing together.

You took a small step closer but stopped yourself, sensing he wasn’t finished. The house seemed to hold its breath around you both, waiting for whatever else was about to surface.

The afternoon light had shifted, slanting through the half-drawn curtains and casting long golden rectangles across the living room floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, stirred up by the constant movement of boxes being dragged down the narrow attic stairs. Hotch had been at it for nearly two hours, climbing up and down with quiet determination to get everything emptied out of there by tonight. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and a fine layer of attic grime already smudging his forearms and the knees of his jeans. Each trip brought another cardboard box, some labeled in his mother’s neat handwriting, others unmarked and bulging at the seams. The living room was slowly transforming into a maze of cardboard and memory.

You had claimed a small clearing on the faded carpet, sitting cross-legged with your back against the old floral sofa. A worn shoebox balanced on your lap, its lid long discarded. Inside were dozens of loose photographs, some in color, some faded black-and-white, edges curled from years of neglect.

You were completely absorbed, fingers gently sorting through the pile, a soft, wistful smile tugging at your lips as you lingered on each image. The house had grown quieter around you, the earlier weight of Hotch’s silence giving way to the rustle of paper and the occasional creak of floorboards.

You didn’t hear him approach this time. His footsteps were softer now, tired from the physical labor and the emotional toll. He stopped a few feet away, a fresh box balanced on his hip, and watched you for a moment, head tilted, eyes softening at the sight of you so intently focused on his past.

“What are you doing?” His voice was low, rough from disuse for the past couple of hours, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath the exhaustion.

You startled, shoulders jumping slightly as the shoebox nearly tipped in your lap. A small laugh escaped you, embarrassed. “God, you scared me.” You glanced up at him, cheeks warming. “I was just… looking. Sorry, I got lost in these.”

He set the box down with a dull thud and wiped his hands on his jeans before lowering himself to the floor beside you, his long legs stretching out as he leaned back against the sofa. His shoulder brushed against yours.

You lifted the photograph you’d been studying and held it out to him. “Look at this one. This little boy looks so much like Jack it’s uncanny. Is it you or Sean?”

Aaron took the photo between his fingers, his expression shifting as he studied it. The corners of his mouth twitched, just the barest hint of a smile breaking through the guarded lines of his face.

The image showed a small boy on all fours on a cracked concrete path, grass stains on his knees, a determined scowl on his face as he looked at something just out of frame. Dark hair falling into his eyes, the same serious brow even then.

“That’s me,” he said quietly, voice thick with something unnameable. “About six. I think we were at the park near here. I was trying to catch a frog or… something. Mom always said I was too stubborn for my own good, even back then.”

You leaned in closer, your shoulder pressing more firmly against his as you both looked at the picture. The resemblance to Jack was striking, the shape of the eyes, the set of the jaw, that same intense focus even in play. It made your heart squeeze.

Hotch set the photo aside gently and reached into the box, pulling out another. This one was a family shot: Hotch, older than the last picture, maybe fifteen, standing between his parents at what looked like a backyard barbecue. His father’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, his mother smiling stiffly in a sundress. Hotch’s own smile was cautious.

“Fourth of July,” he murmured, distant but present. “Dad had just bought that ridiculous grill. Burned half the burgers, but Mom made it work. Sean was still a baby then, probably napping inside.” He paused, thumb brushing over the edge of the photo. “It was one of the better days. No yelling. Just… normal.”

You nodded, sorting through a few more. One caught your eye: Hotch as a teenager, lanky and serious, pimples scattered across his face, sitting on the front porch steps with a law book in his lap, the big oak tree and its swing visible in the background. The wooden swing looked new then, ropes bright and sturdy.

“Happy memory?” you asked softly, holding it up.

A faint, rueful chuckle escaped him. “Sort of. I’d sit out there for hours to escape whatever was going on inside. Reading, thinking, pretending the world outside this house was simpler.” His voice dipped lower, the dull edge from earlier creeping back in. “Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.”

The stack revealed more layers. A school picture of Hotch in a too-big blazer, hair neatly combed, looking every bit the overachiever even at twelve. Another of him and Sean, building a snowman in the front yard, both of them laughing with red cheeks and mittens. Sean clearly having more fun than Hotch. You pointed to that one, smiling. “You two look like you were having fun.”

“We were,” Hotch admitted, leaning his head back against the sofa. His arm draped casually behind you now, fingers absently tracing patterns on your shoulder. “Sean was always the one who could make me laugh when things got heavy. Before… everything changed, and I was sent away.”

There were harder ones too. A Christmas photo where the tree lights were bright but the tension in the room was almost visible, his father’s face stern, his mother’s eyes tired, young Aaron holding a gift as if it were fragile. You didn’t want to ask him about it, but you noticed the slightly pinkish handprint on his mother’s cheek. Aaron’s gaze lingered on that one longer, his jaw tightening. You knew he knew.

“Dad hated the holidays,” he said flatly, the words coming out removed, as if recounting someone else’s life. “Too much noise, too much mess. He’d drink more than usual. Mom would try to keep everything perfect, and I’d just… try to keep quiet.” He exhaled slowly. “This one was the year he smashed the ornaments because the neighbour kids were too loud. Mom cried in the kitchen afterward. I tried my best to clean it up, but ended up cutting my hand open.”

Your hand found his free one, squeezing gently. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned another photo toward you, a simple, everyday shot: his mother in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, Hotch as a teen setting the table in the background. No big smiles, no posed joy. Just life.

“Regular days,” he murmured. “Most of them were like this. Not terrible. Not great. Just… days. Mom trying to hold it together. Me learning how to disappear into responsibilities so I didn’t have to feel too much. Sean took this one.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, the shoebox still open between you. The pile of photos had grown into two small stacks, one for keeping, one for deciding later. Hotch’s breathing had evened out slightly. His thumb continued its slow stroke on your shoulder, grounding him as much as you.

The last of the daylight had softened into a warm amber glow by the time you both stepped out onto the back porch. The attic boxes still sat half-sorted in the living room. For now, you had called a gentle truce with the house, needing to get away from the ticking time-bomb of emotions that would eventually explode once Hotch started digging deeper into his childhood.

The air outside was cooler, carrying the faint scent of blooming honeysuckle from the overgrown fence line and the earthy dampness of the neglected garden beds. Crickets had begun their song.

Hotch lowered himself onto the old wooden porch. He held out a hand to you, and you took it without hesitation, letting him guide you into his lap. You curled up against his chest, knees drawn toward your body, one arm slipping around his waist while the other rested over his heart. His arms came around you immediately, one hand splaying across your back and the other settling at your hip, holding you close.

The sun hung low, painting the sky in streaks of rose, gold, and deepening lavender. It dipped slowly behind the line of trees at the back of the property, casting shadows across the yard. The shadow from the big oak out front was visible from here.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The silence was serene. Hotch’s chin came to rest gently on top of your head, his breath warm and steady against your hair. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the faint beat of his heart. His fingers traced lazy, absent patterns on your hip.

The tension that had gripped him all day had eased, if only a little.

After several minutes, his voice rumbled softly against your scalp, barely disturbing the tranquility of the moment.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being here today.” His arms tightened fractionally around you. “I know we’re nowhere near done. There’s still the rest of the attic, the bedrooms, her clothes, all the things I haven’t even faced yet. But having you here made it… bearable. More than bearable.”

You felt the words settle warmly in your chest. You nuzzled closer into the crook of his neck, pressing your face against the warm skin just above his collar, breathing him in. Your fingers curled gently into his shirt, holding on as the last sliver of sun slipped below the treeline, leaving the sky awash in soft purples and lingering golds.

“Always,” you whispered back, the single word so simple and heartfelt, carrying the weight of every promise you’d ever made to him. “No matter how many boxes, how many memories, how many hard days… I’m always going to be right here with you, Aaron. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

He didn’t reply with more words. Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. His hold on you deepened, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as he tucked you more securely against him.

The two of you stayed like that as twilight settled fully over the yard. The red house behind you was still full of ghosts and unfinished work. Hotch’s breathing grew slower, more even, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him in the safest way possible: with you safe in his arms, the sunset fading into night, and the quiet assurance that tomorrow, however difficult it might be, wouldn’t have to be faced without you by his side.

“so quiet tonight,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. you lift up until just the tip catches at your entrance, then sink back down torturously slow. his hips jerk once. a tiny, strangled breath escapes him but he catches it fast.

you smile, soft and mean. then, you lean forward so your breasts brush his chest, lips near his ear. “you know i love hearing you. why do you make me work for it, dee?”

dean swallows hard. his cock twitches inside you but he doesn’t answer.

you grind down, clit rubbing against him with every circle of your hips. his breathing gets ragged. you feel every inch of him, hot and perfect, stretching you open. still, he stays mostly quiet. just those tiny hitched breaths he can’t quite hide.

“tell you what,” you whisper, nipping at his earlobe. “make one little sound for me… just a moan… and after i’m done riding you, you can bury that pretty face between my legs. let eat me out until i come on your tongue. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

his eyes flutter. lips part. a soft, broken whimper slips out before he can stop it.

“good boy,” you praise, voice sweet as you pick up the pace. long, rolling thrusts that take him deep every time.

the wet slap of skin fills the room. dean’s head tips back, exposing the line of his throat, and another low sound escapes him. half moan, half whine.

you sit up straighter, hands braced on his chest, and really ride him. bouncing on his cock, thighs burning, breasts moving with every drop. his hands finally fly to your hips, gripping hard but not controlling. just holding on.

“louder,” you demand, slowing again just to torture him. “let me hear how bad you need it, dean.”

he whines then, high and needy, hips bucking up to chase you. “please—fuck, swwetheart, i need—i’ll be so good, just let me taste you after—”

you reward him by riding him harder, faster, grinding down on every thrust so your clit catches just right. dean’s moans turn constant. rough. desperate. filling the cheap motel room like music. his thighs tremble under you. he’s so close you can feel it, cock swelling inside you.

you reach over to the nightstand and grab the slim pink vibrator. dean’s eyes widen, pupils blown black.

“you’ve been so good,” you tell him, voice breathy as you keep riding him slow and deep. “now you get to watch.”

you click the toy on and press it to your clit while still moving on his cock. the vibration hits instantly, sharp and perfect. your head falls back, a moan spilling from your own lips. dean’s eyes locks on the sight.

“fuck—look at you,” he pants, voice cracking. “so fucking hot. please, baby, let me see you come like that.”

you circle the toy faster, riding him in shallow rolls that keep him buried deep. the dual sensation of his thick cock stretching you with the buzzing against your clit makes it build fast. your thighs shake. dean’s hands tighten on your hips, thumbs pressing bruises you’ll feel tomorrow.

“gonna come,” you gasp. “watch me, dee. don’t look away.”

he doesn’t. his eyes stay glued to where the toy meets your clit, to the way your pussy grips his cock on every stroke. the sight pushes you over. you come hard, clenching around him, crying out as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

dean groans loud, hips stuttering like he’s fighting not to follow.

you ride it out, then click the toy off and toss it aside. your body’s still pulsing when you lift off him, legs shaky. dean makes a desperate sound at the loss.

“please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “let me—i need to taste you. please.”

you crawl up his body and settle over his face, thighs bracketing his head. “you earned it, baby. make me come again.”

dean doesn’t hesitate. his hands grab your ass, pulling you down onto his mouth. his tongue dives in immediately, licking through your soaked folds, groaning at the taste of your release mixed with his. he eats you like a man starved, sucking your clit, fucking his tongue inside you, moaning loud and shameless against your pussy.

you grip the headboard, rolling your hips against his face. “that’s it. just like that.”

he whimpers into you, the vibration making your eyes roll back. one hand leaves your ass to stroke his own cock, desperate and leaking. you watch him fist himself while he devours you, the sight so filthy it sends fresh heat curling in your belly.

“gonna come again just from your mouth,” you pant.

dean doubles down, sucking hard on your clit. you shatter for the second time, thighs clamping around his head as you grind through it, soaking his face. he keeps licking you through every pulse, moaning like he’s the one coming.

when you finally slide off, legs trembling, dean looks utterly ruined. lips swollen, chin shiny, eyes hazy with need. his cock is still hard, flushed dark, leaking steadily.

you lean down and kiss him slow, tasting yourself on his tongue. “you were so good for me,” you whisper against his mouth.

dean shudders, pulling you close. his voice is wrecked when he answers. “again?” he asks, already half-hard again against your thigh. “please?”

you smile, fingers threading through his hair, and let the ache settle warm between you both.

...

You weren’t sure what woke you first—the turbulence of the jet or the sinking feeling in your chest.

For a moment, still half-asleep, you forgot. You forgot about the case.

The bodies.

The weight.

And the kiss.

God, the kiss.

Reality settled in with the force of a punch.

You opened your eyes slowly, pretending to still be asleep, but you could feel the heat of his presence across from you.

Aaron Hotchner. Your boss.

The man you’d kissed like your life depended on it less than twelve hours ago.

Correction: the man you’d let kiss you, after you’d all but fallen apart in the hallway of a dingy hotel.

After the worst case you’d worked in months.

After watching a mother cradle her son’s body like she could will him back to life.

You hadn’t cried until you left the scene.

Not until your hotel door shut behind you and the silence pressed in. And then—then you couldn’t breathe.

You had stepped out into the hallway, unable to stay in that room alone with your grief, and you’d walked straight into him.

He’d looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and when he saw you—really saw you—his face cracked.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

You didn’t remember who moved first, just that your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and then his lips were on yours.

It had been desperate. Unspoken. A collision of grief and longing and loneliness.

You remembered the press of his hands at your waist. The way he’d kissed you like he needed it to survive. The quiet sound he made when you kissed him back, pulling him closer, ignoring every voice in your head screaming this is wrong, this is dangerous, this is everything you can’t have.

But it had felt like the first thing in days that made you feel human again.

And then you'd pulled away.

You remembered the look in his eyes.

Open. Bare. Vulnerable in a way Hotch never allowed himself to be.

And you remembered being too scared to speak. You’d just walked away.

And now here you were.

Sitting across from him on the BAU jet, coffee growing cold in your hands.

Neither of you speaking.

Neither acknowledging what had happened. It was as if the kiss never occurred.

Except your lips still burned with the memory.

You risked a glance up. He was reading—pretending to read—a file, but you could see the tension in his posture.

Shoulders rigid. Jaw tight. Avoiding your eyes like it was an act of self-preservation.

It made something ache in your chest.

Did he regret it? Did he think it was a mistake?

Or worse—did he think you were?

“Here,” Emily said, offering a granola bar. “You should eat something.”

You blinked, pulled out of the spiral.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, though you barely touched it.

The plane landed in D.C. and the team dispersed with tired goodbyes.

You tried to slip away quietly, grabbing your go-bag and heading toward the exit ramp, desperate for the solace of your car, your apartment, your own private misery.

But then—

“Can we talk?”

His voice stopped you cold.

You froze, one foot on the jet stairs. Your heart stuttered. Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

Hotch stood at the base of the ramp, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his expression unreadable—but his eyes were locked on you.

He looked as uncertain as you felt.

You nodded.

He didn’t say another word until you were in his SUV.

You noticed he didn’t take the turn toward Quantico.

He drove in silence, the weight between you growing heavier with each passing streetlamp.

Your mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

Was this where he told you it was a mistake?

That it crossed a line? That it couldn’t happen again?

When he pulled into a quiet park and turned off the engine, you braced for it.

But instead, he just stared at the steering wheel.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said finally.

Your stomach dropped.

You turned your head toward the window, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have let it happen like that,” he continued, quieter this time. “You deserved better than that moment. You deserved better than me losing control.”

That hurt. Because for all the complications, it hadn’t felt like him losing control.

It had felt like a choice.

“I didn’t regret it,” you said, your voice thin. “But I regret walking away.”

That got his attention.

He looked over at you, eyes softening with something like hope.

“I thought you regretted it,” you admitted. “You didn’t say anything this morning. You couldn’t even look at me.”

“I was scared,” he said simply. “I am scared.”

You turned fully toward him, hands clenched in your lap. “Why?”

“Because I’ve spent so long building walls to survive this job. To survive… everything. Haley. Foyet. Jack. The darkness we see every single day. I don’t let myself want things anymore. Not really.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I want you,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“And I don’t know what that means,” he added. “I don’t know how to have this and still do this job the way I need to. But not telling you how I feel—it’s worse. It’s so much worse.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your eyes stung.

“Last night,” he continued, “it wasn’t just grief or adrenaline. It was something I’ve been trying to push down for months. Something I thought I could ignore, because it was safer that way. But I can’t anymore.”

The silence stretched between you, fragile and tentative. You reached out, placing your hand over his where it gripped the gearshift.

“I’m scared, too,” you said. “But maybe we don’t have to figure everything out at once.”

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I don’t know what this looks like,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You gave a small, watery laugh. “Neither do I."

He brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles, and for the first time since the case ended, since the kiss, since the spiraling aftermath—you felt like you could finally breathe again.

Maybe there were rules. Risks. Realities to face.

But in this moment, in the quiet of an empty park at sunrise, none of that mattered.

You couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across your face once you heard your name being called to hand over the gift to your Secret Santa. You had been holding in your laughter all day, sneaking subtle glances to gauge his expression, because the gift you had picked out was absolutely inappropriate—potentially fireable—but when the opportunity to give your boss one big “FUCK YOU” presented itself, how could you resist?

The moment you locked eyes with Congressman Barnes and handed him the perfectly wrapped present with your brightest smile, you could practically see the stress lines deepen around his eyes as he accepted it with cautious hands.

“You’re my Secret Santa?” he asked, blinking up at you from his seat.

“Yup,” you grinned, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying innocently, even though every item in that box was anything but. “Merry Christmas, Congressman.”

Bucky gave you one last skeptical look before turning his attention back to the gift now resting neatly in his lap. Carefully, he untied the ribbon, peeled back the wrapping paper, and lifted the lid of the box.

Staring back at him was a HOW TO: SEX FOR DUMMIES, Volumes One and Two.

And a packet of the smallest size Trojan condoms.

The moment you saw his eyes darken, his jaw clench, and his eyebrow twitch, you knew you had won.

After months of constant bickering and endless arguments about ridiculous schedules and a growing workload, you had finally gotten your sweet revenge, and what better way to deliver it than through the art of gift-giving, where everything is supposed to be merry and bright?

“Well,” Gary said, grinning with anticipation, “are you going to show the rest of us, Barnes?”

Bucky forced a smile so bright it looked painful. “No. I think I’ll be keeping this one to myself,” he teased, placing the lid back on the box before carefully setting it on the floor.

Whistles broke out around the room, everyone riding high on holiday spirits.

“Well, whatever she got you, it must be a keeper,” one of the press assistants chimed in. “Probably why she’s managed to stay your trusty assistant for so long—despite all the bickering.”

That earned a round of perfectly polite, coworker-forced laughter that grated on Bucky’s nerves, and only made his gift even sweeter.

“That’s exactly right,” Bucky said, exhaling through his nose. His tone was so flat no one could tell whether he was joking or actually annoyed. But then, he looked up at you with a smile and eyes that seethed You’re fucking fired.

“Thank you. I love it.” Bucky lied. “I guess it’s my turn?”

Everyone nodded, and Bucky lifted an equally nicely wrapped present—which surprised you, because he never had the diligence to wrap his own gifts. He always left you, his assistant, responsible for all of that.

He stood up with an old man’s groan, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in all the people sitting in their respective seats.

Before they landed back on you. Again.

You blinked as he closed the distance, his expensive shoes hitting the floor as he presented the gift.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. You could see the way the corners of his lips twitched from the soreness of his forced smile.

“Wow,” the press assistant cooed. “What are the odds of getting each other for Secret Santa?”

“Goes to show how meant to be they are,” another person teased.

You looked up at him, dumbfounded. A part of you felt guilty for getting him a gag gift, especially after seeing how pristine the wrapping was—meaning he took the time and effort out of his already busy day to make this presentable for you.

“Congressman Barnes,” you started softly, your face flushing with guilt as you reached for the present. “I… I don’t know what to say—”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he said, nodding toward the gift. “Open it.”

There was something about the way his eyes looked that made you second-guess yourself—but you gave him a quick, brief smile as you started to undo the perfect bow, your fingers gently tearing the wrapping paper. Bucky’s eyes were on you the entire time, examining your expression as you slowly lifted the lid.

You looked down. Staring back at you was a purple vibrator with the words “Womanizer Next Duo Clitoral Stimulator and Vibrator” listed loud and proud on the box. But there was also something underneath it. You pushed the vibrator box aside with your finger; beneath it was black, lacey lingerie that left little to the imagination.

Your face flushed—first with embarrassment, then with a burning hot anger. You didn’t dare to lift any of the items up.

What the hell was the Congressman thinking?

Your eyes met Bucky’s again. He was standing above you, an obnoxious smile on his face at your subtle reaction. Not noticeable to the others, but obvious to him.

“Well?” he taunted. “Do you like it?”

Your throat felt tight. The vibrator’s glossy purple plastic seemed to mock you from inside the box, alongside the lingerie that looked like it belonged in a hidden drawer, not an office holiday party. You forced your jaw to unclench.

“I—”

“Come on!” Gary called out, smiling in his seat. “Show us! What’d he get you?” he elbowed the woman beside him. “He’s a terrible gift-giver, so this has to be good.”

Bucky’s eyes never left yours, despite the amused chatter and whispers around the room. His smile widened, because deep down, he knew you didn’t have the guts to reveal what he’d gotten you. And he was right.

Payback. Triumph.

And check-fucking-mate.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box, your nails nearly digging into the cardboard. Heat climbed up your neck and spread beneath your collar, and you could only pray no one noticed as you forced a smile.

“I don’t think I should show this one,” you said with a forced laugh.

Bucky also laughed. Not with you, but at you.

“Aww, come on!” someone whined. “Stop being so secretive!”

You inhaled slowly, deeply, and slipped the lid back over the box. “It’s private.”

“That’s right,” Bucky nodded. Then he leaned in just slightly, his voice taunting. “Aren’t you going to thank me for such a thoughtful gift?

In other people’s eyes, they thought it was hilarious that the usually stoic and broody Congressman had cracked an office-friendly joke. But to you, you wanted to do nothing more than take this purple vibrator and shove it up his—

“Thank you,” you said through clenched teeth instead. “You’re so thoughtful, Congressman.”

The next few days were uncomfortably tense between you and the Congressman.

Whatever bickering or passive-aggressive back-and-forth the two of you usually exchanged had somehow multiplied tenfold. The paperwork he dropped on your desk were thicker than usual with dense briefing packets, endless policy drafts, constituent letters that normally would’ve gone to the interns. He had you doing redundant tasks the front desk or staff assistants could’ve easily handled; reorganizing files you had already organized, reformatting reports that didn’t need reformatting, double-checking things you’d triple-checked yesterday.

And the schedule.

The goddamn schedule.

He had you listed for more overtime than you had seen all year. Fielding late-night calls, managing back-to-back meetings, arranging interviews he refused to reschedule despite his calendar already being overloaded.

And his excuse?

“That’s politics.”

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case. This was because of that goddamn Sex for Dummies book and the extra-small condoms you gifted him. This was him getting his sweet revenge, as if the lingerie and vibrator hadn’t been insulting enough.

You had gone home several nights in a row exhausted—tired, stressed, and in desperate need of some kind of relief. And every time you walked through your front door, that purple vibrator box sat there waiting for you—taunting you. Haunting you.

The glossy packaging felt like Congressman Barnes himself was delivering another slap to your face. And because of that, you never touched it. You refused to use it, because opening it would mean letting Bucky win.

So, since it was the start of a brand new week, you did the mature, responsible thing that even the Congressman wouldn’t find himself doing.

You packed the gifts he had given you into a neat little gift bag—stripped of all the festive wrapping paper he had miraculously folded with before. Your plan was simple; return the gift. Tell him, professionally, how wildly inappropriate it was. Then apologize for your own wildly inappropriate gift.

A clean slate. A truce, even.

Except the chance never came.

You were already drowning in tasks he had piled onto your desk. Three constituent reports, two briefing summaries, and a stack of letters he somehow wanted “proofread, printed, signed, and mailed before lunch.”

And, as always, you grabbed the letters with a smile and said, “Yes, Congressman.”

Later in the day, you were halfway through drafting an email when Bucky stepped out of his office and into yours with a folder in hand.

“Need you to handle this,” he said, placing the folder directly on top of the open one you were already working on.

Your hands paused on the keyboard as you looked up. “Congressman,” you addressed him slowly. “I’m still working on the policy revisions you asked for. I’m not finished—”

“This takes priority,” he said, pointing a finger at the file. “I need the whole packet organized, footnoted, and ready before my meeting with the Oversight Committee—”

You blinked, looking at the time at the bottom right of your monitor. “That’s in—”

“Forty minutes,” he confirmed, looking down at his watch and not at you. “Better get to work.”

It was like the devil himself was standing right in front of you—all six feet of him in an expensive suit and tie that probably cost more than your salary. Before Secret Santa, he already made your work life a living hell, and now he seemed to be taking even greater joy in kicking you while you were down.

You couldn’t take it anymore. It was like something inside you snapped—your face immediately felt boiling hot, and your heart beat faster than you could think. Being in this very office with this man taunting you triggered your flight or fight response.

And you were choosing fight.

You quickly stood up, your chair rolling back and hitting hard against the wall. This finally made him meet your eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” you scoffed. “You’ve been dumping extra work on me all week. Redundant tasks. Unnecessary overtime. A schedule that’s fucking impossible to keep up with,” you jabbed a finger at the folder on your desk. “And this? You want finished in forty minutes? Are you serious right now?”

Bucky froze and glanced over to the window. When he caught people staring, they immediately looked away.

At this point, you were on the very precipice of getting fired. You didn’t care who was watching anymore.

“What the hell is going on, Congressman?” you demanded. “Are you punishing me because of the Christmas gifts I got you?”

You saw Bucky’s jaw clench in the dim light of your office. He didn’t say anything, nor did he even blink. Without a word, he turned and stepped away from you. He walked straight to the window that separated your office from the hallway and—under the eyes of every staffer pretending not to eavesdrop— he pulled the blinds shut with one, easy motion.

Then, he walked to your door, closed it softly, and quietly clicked the lock into place.

Bucky turned back toward you slowly, his hands tucked in his pockets and his expression completely unreadable.

“Excuse me?” he asked, and you still couldn’t discern his emotion.

It felt like you were poking the bear, and suddenly, being in this office where you were supposed to feel most productive felt suffocating. You probably should’ve apologized, but you knew you were already in deep shit. You just hoped he had any ounce of understanding in that cold political heart of his.

“I said,” you cleared your throat, not backing down. “Are you punishing me because of the Christmas gifts I gave you? You know, the one with the How to Sex for Dummies and the small condoms—”

He raised a hand. “Stop right there.”

You scoffed again. “What—”

“You want to talk about the Christmas gifts? Fine,” he said, meeting you back at the other side of your desk and staring you down. “But as your boss, I think I should go first.”

Before you could even say anything else, Bucky continued.

“Let’s talk about the oh-so-pleasant gift you gave me for Secret Santa. Did you even read what I put down on my wishlist? Did you even look at it?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm and quiet despite the biting tone.

And despite him asking you a question, he continued without waiting for an answer.

“No, I don’t think you did. So let me tell you what I asked for,” he added, stepping closer and resting both hands on the table, leaning forward so that he was eye-level with you across your desk.

“I wanted gray socks and an assortment of neckties,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Not a goddamn Sex for Dummies book and…” he grimaced before continuing, “… extra-small fucking Trojan condoms.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Bucky gave you a look. “You’re laughing? You’re actually fucking laughing?”

You quickly shook your head. “No, sir. It’s just—”

His eyes trailed to your desk. “What is that?” he interrupted suddenly, nodding toward the plain gift bag sitting on your desk.

You looked down at the bag, clearing your throat and trying to choose your words carefully before digging yourself into an even deeper hole. “Okay. You know what? You’re right, Congressman. I shouldn’t have done that. I’d like to—uh, actually apologize for the gifts that I gave you.”

He stood up straight, crossing his arms and raising a skeptical brow. “Apologize?”

You nodded again, your teeth strumming your bottom lip to keep from laughing at his man-child outburst just a few seconds ago. You picked the bag up with gentle hands.

“I understand that the gifts I gave you were highly inappropriate, especially for a work setting. I also understand that you’ve been feeling… on edge because of… well, said gifts.”

Bucky tried to ignore the subtle taunt in your voice, but he couldn’t.

“I thought I’d give you the gifts you gave me back, and the receipt for the… sex education books. Condoms aren’t returnable, though. So…” you handed the bag to him. He grabbed it, opening it slowly.

“I didn’t use any of the things you got me—so if you wanted to return that as well, you can. And you can use the money to get the gray socks and neckties you wanted instead.”

Bucky set the bag down on the desk, pulling the receipt out slowly. He mentally read your purchase back, the Sex for Dummies Volume One and Two and the small condoms taunting him yet again.

“So, I guess we can consider this a clean slate?” you rested your hands primly in front of you, flashing the most innocent-looking smile you could muster in front of your asshole of a boss.

“A clean slate…” he scoffed. “Is that what this is now?”

“Look, Congressman. Since Secret Santa, you’ve been working me to the bone. Things have been tense between us, and I know now it’s because of the gifts I got you,” you sighed. “So… can you just please take this as a peace offering so we can move on—”

Your voice trailed off as you saw Bucky dig into the bag, fishing out the vibrator box and holding it up for you to see. Your face immediately burned.

“You really didn’t use this?” he asked, even though the wrapper was still intact.

“No, sir.”

He kept his eyes down at the box, unwrapping it. He nodded toward the lingerie inside the bag. “And you didn’t wear that?”

“No, sir,” you repeated, your face flushing.

A deep, almost disappointed exhale escaped his nose. “That’s a shame,” he mumbled, unwrapping the plastic layering and tossing it somewhere on the floor. “I carefully hand-picked these items because you always seem so tense and worked up around the office—I figured this could’ve helped you relieve your stress.”

Your face was crimson as you watched him unbox the vibrator, pulling out the toy slowly and carefully before setting the box gently back down on the table.

How the hell was he not dying of embarrassment right now? To say this was inappropriate would be an understatement. You loathed your boss—you guys weren’t even friends, and his actions in front of you, knowing how flustered you were getting while he kept his cool, only seemed to pour salt right into the open wound.

“Help me?” you recoiled, making a face. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Congressman, but how the hell could this ‘gift’ possibly help me—”

“Don’t act smart,” he cut in sharply. “You don’t mean any disrespect—but that’s all you’ve been throwing in my face since I walked in here.”

He lifted the toy up so you could see it, though you wanted so badly to look away from how shameful this was.

“I drag my feet into this building every morning,” he continued, “because I know you’re going to be here—already in a mood, rolling your eyes at every little task I give you. You stomp around like there’s a permanent raincloud hovering over your head, always trying to make my already stressful workday a living hell.”

Your jaw almost hit the floor.

You were making his workday a living hell? Meanwhile he strutted around with a permanent stick wedged so far up his ass? You couldn’t take it anymore. Here you were, trying to make amends, and he had the gall to say this to you as if he weren’t the problem.

“I’m sorry,” you scoffed. “What did you just say to me?”

You snaked around your desk, your heels clicking angrily against the floor before you could think. When you finally met him face-to-face, body-to-body, you jabbed a finger square into his hard chest.

“I have a permanent rain cloud over my head?” you laughed, humorlessly. “You make my life hell. You treat me like crap compared to the other staff. You act like I’m some dispensable, mindless assistant who’s on-call twenty-four seven to fix your crises, clean up your messes, and read your mind.”

Each end of a sentence was exaggerated with a hard jab to his chest—a jab that left him unwavering and unmoving, as he stood completely still with the vibrator tucked between his fingertips.

“So, I’m sorry—actually, no. I’m not sorry for getting bitchy when you push me around. I act the way I do because of how hard you keep pushing me! ”

He looked down at you, his expression still unreadable, brows slightly narrowed. “Sit down.”

You huffed, moving your finger away. “What?”

He tapped the edge of your desk with two fingers. “Sit. Down,” he repeated. “Let’s take a breath and talk like two functional adults. Can you do that for me?”

You gave him a doubtful look, but you listened. He was your boss, after all.

Hesitantly, you took a seat on the desk, perched awkwardly as you tried to pull your skirt down. But despite the vulnerable position, he kept his eyes on yours.

“You’ve been stressed, I see that. And these gifts,” he lifted the vibrator again. “You were supposed to use them to make yourself feel better.”

Your eyes flickered to the toy, then back to him. He continued speaking as if it were a lecture.

“You were supposed to go home that night, unwrap this box, and take care of yourself.” He walked around to the other side of the desk.

You looked over your shoulder to watch him, and he caught you.

“Keep your eyes forward,” he instructed, and you did.

He stood behind you, his presence large and heavy as he leaned in, his breath tickling against your ear as he spoke. “And the lingerie? You were supposed to wear that when you took yourself out for a night out. Maybe show it off to a lucky man after he took you to a fancy dinner. But you didn’t use any of my gifts, and that hurts, you know?”

“Funny for you to say,” you mumbled. “I bet you didn’t use any of the gifts I got you either.”

“You mean the extra-small condoms? No. That wouldn’t fit. I would burst right through,” he sighed, shaking his head disappointingly. “But I’ve read the book you got me. How to Sex for Dummies? I’ve gotten through the first few pages, and I gotta say, I’ve learned quite a bit of… valuable stuff.”

You barked out a harsh, mocking laugh.

“You actually read the book?” you snorted. “I bet the lucky lady you used those ‘skills on’ had a great time.”

Bucky planted his vibranium hand on the empty space next to you with a heavy thud. You flinched at the soft, metallic whirring sound it made, and how much closer his body was now pressed to yours.

“That’s the problem,” he rasped against the sensitive shell of your ear. “I don’t have anyone to practice what I’ve learned. But you’re right here, and I have this.” He lifted the vibrator from behind so that it was clearly in your peripheral view. “How about I help relieve my poor, overworked assistant’s stress? Show her, firsthand, what I’ve learned from this very important book she gifted me?”

You swallowed hard, a shiver shooting down your spine at your boss’s indecent proposition.

“Sir—”

Your words got cut off, replaced with a startled yelp as he wrapped his left arm around your body, dragging you away from the edge of the desk and closer to him. Your skirt rose up as your back pressed against his chest.

“Congressman!” you gasped as you squirmed awkwardly, but his vibranium arm kept your body tight and close to his hard body. “Congressman, someone might see—”

“No one will see,” he murmured, low and raspy against your ear—it was ticklish. “I’ll make sure of it.”

With one strong vibranium arm holding your body still, he reached over with his other hand and let his knuckles trail down the smooth surface of your leg, nudging them open and teasing the vibrator along your inner thigh.

“Open up, doll,” he gruffed. “Let your Congressman relieve your stress.”

Your entire body was shaking with humiliation and a shameful, dreading arousal from the close proximity and the exposed position he’d left you in. As much as you hated him—he was right.

These past few days, you’d been nothing but a pent-up mess waiting to explode. And with your conventionally attractive—and equally annoying—boss’s body pressed up behind you, touching you in places you normally hadn’t been touched other than by yourself, the bomb was ticking by the minute.

“Congressman,” you let out a breathy sigh. “We can get into so much trouble for this.”

“In trouble?” he clicked his tongue. “How could I get in trouble? When I’m just your boss, looking after my sweet, little assistant?”

A soft little gasp left your lips at the sound of the vibrator being clicked on.

“Would you look at that? It came already charged.” He said, amused.

Bucky felt you tense up, and his metal arm gave your body a reassuring squeeze, cool vibranium fingers splaying over your clothed stomach.

“Relax,” he cooed into your ear. “You need to be taken care of. I can feel your tension here…” His vibranium fingers trailed down from your stomach to the hem of your skirt, lifting it up and letting his fingers play along the fabric against your thigh.

“Oh,” he sighed. “You’re wet. That means you like this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his fingers insistently pressed against your panties, already damp and sticking to your sensitive folds. It was embarrassing, almost humiliating, but what was worse was that you actually liked it.

“Yeah?” you mocked, trying to act unfazed. “Did the book tell you that?”

A harsh, low laugh rumbled from his chest as his left hand hooked the side of your panties, trying to push them aside, but he ended up shredding the thin fabric with one hard, unexpected tug. You let out a sharp gasp as your warm, wet cunt was immediately kissed by the cool office air. He was completely indifferent to the fact that he’d torn your underwear clean off.

“It did,” he said. “The book also told me that this—” with his other hand, he pressed the vibrator against your clit “—was a woman’s sweet spot. Is that right?”

“Ah—!” you whined, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle your moans as you felt the cool, vibrating silicone stimulate your core.

“Oh, look at you,” he chuckled, pressing the vibrator harder against your hypersensitive spot—making you squirm. “Finally staying quiet for me. Got nothing smart to say with this toy pressed against you, huh?”

You shook your head, still defiant. “Fuck you, Congressman.”

With a low groan, his vibranium hand found your blouse, his fingers fumbling clumsily at the buttons. Lacking patience, he instead gave your top a harsh tug, sending one or two buttons flying and clattering to the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, your body moving with his rough movements. “Are you out of your mind? That shirt was expensive!”

“There’s that goddamn mouth again,” he snarled. “You’ve always got something to say that’ll piss me off.”

He moved the toy up and down, your mouth falling open into a helpless O-shape as he stimulated your sensitive folds. The silicone toy was soaking up your arousal, making embarrassingly wet noises you wished you could drown out.

“Fu-fuck, Congressman!”

He pressed the toy against your clit again, making your head tip back against his shoulder. His fingers coyly probed against your entrance, and you immediately started fluttering around him. Your hips moved before you could control them—bucking up to meet his fingers, wanting him, begging for him.

“Please,” you breathed so quietly, as if it were a plea to yourself.

His fingers stilled, tucked between your folds and pressing against your entrance—but not with enough pressure to slip inside.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re begging?” he smiled cruelly. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘please’ in the office.”

He upped the speed of the vibrator, and your eyes shot open wide. You moved your hips in rhythm with the vibration, your cunt fluttering against his finger, trying to sink yourself onto his touch.

“I hate you,” you hissed through clenched teeth. “I fucking despise you—”

“So, now you hate me?” he cut you off, his voice disappointed as he turned the vibrator off and pulled it away from your clutching heat. “I can never get through to you, can I?”

Bucky took a step back from the desk, and the warmth from his arms and chest that had once enveloped you disappeared, leaving you immediately aching for him. You quickly turned around, your clothes rumpled and your legs trembling.

“Hey! W—wait, what are you doing—!” you gasped.

Before he could take another step back, your hand shot out to grab his tie.

“Don’t go,” you hissed, frustrated. “You can’t just—touch a woman like that and leave her like this. For fuck’s sake, did the book teach you nothing, Barnes?”

Bucky looked down at you, his eyes trailing over your body sprawled out on the desk. Your hair was tousled, your skirt was pushed up messily around your thighs, your blouse was torn open, and you were wet.

Soaked. Dripping all over the desk.

Yet, here you were, a hand tight around his necktie, demanding him.

“I’m sorry?” he narrowed his brows, setting the vibrator down on the desk. His hand circled around your wrist, giving it a tight squeeze to pry your hand away from his tie. “You’re barking demands at your boss?”

You swallowed hard. Your eyes dropped to his hand—his fingers wrapped around your wrist making your pulse thud faster. The contrast was startling as his grip was firm and steady, while your wrist looked almost delicate between his fingers.

You hated that. You hated feeling small next to him.

And yet, your stomach flipped anyway.

His expression didn’t help either. Bucky’s face was tense with irritation. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes so dark in a way that should’ve warned you to stand down. But instead, it only made you want to test him more.

You wanted to see how far you could get under his skin, after all the times he had gotten under yours.

Even though you were clearly in the more vulnerable position, a wicked little smile tugged at your lips.

“I see how it is,” you spoke coolly. “You’re chickening out because you don’t have it in you to finish a job you started.”

Your eyes trailed down from his brooding face to his chest, then lower, to the unmistakable tent straining against the fabric between his legs. He was hard—that much was painfully obvious. The heavy outline of him twitched against his slacks, almost as if he were begging to touch you as much as you were begging for him.

“Is it the lack of confidence,” your eyes fluttered back up to his, meeting a gaze that was equal parts angry and hungry, “or… the lack of experience?”

An agitated tick in his eyebrow caught your attention. It was small, subtle enough that anyone else could easily glaze over it, but to you, it was a victory—motivation to keep going.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you grinned wider, voice turning into a purr. “Did I upset you—?”

Before you could finish, the vibranium hand around your wrist tightened. He hauled you forward until your chest collided with his, and then, with a sudden force, he shoved you backward. You let out a small cry as your back hit the hardwood of the desk again, the impact rattling the pens and papers scattered around you.

By the time you blinked your eyes open, he was already over you. His metal arm slammed onto the desk right next to your head, caging you in while he supported his weight. He leaned even closer, his full, heavy weight pressing into you—right in between your legs, pinning you flat against the surface. His other hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Lack of experience?” he snarled.

He rocked his hips, the feeling of his erection pressing against your bare split making you gasp.

“You think that’s what this is?” He rocked his hips again harder this time, making your body jolt against the desk. “You think I’m some pathetic, incompetent man who gives you tasks all day—that I don’t have the ability to please a bratty woman like you?”

“Barnes—”

He released your face, standing up straight as his hands flew down to the buckle of his belt, then to the zipper of his pants. With a clumsy, eager fumble, he pulled himself out, one strong hand circling his shaft as he gave himself slow, steady pumps.

You tried to sit up to get a good look, but he was back on you before you could move. His left arm caged you against the table again, his body completely enveloping yours as he pressed his weight into you. Bucky rubbed his cock up and down your slit, coating himself in your sweet arousal.

“That book wasn’t meant to taunt me,” he rasped, his eyes locked on yours as he continued torturing you with his teasing. “It was an invitation—an invitation to fuck you. Is that right?”

His tip would catch against your entrance, but it was never enough to push himself in. Every time, you would buck your hips up for that sweet sensation, but he never gave it to you.

You choked out a laugh despite your desperate movements. “You’re so full of yourself, Congressman. I would never—”

He pushed his hips forward. You were already so wet—it was easy for him to slide right in. Once his tip stretched past your entrance, your walls immediately fluttered around him.

“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, still desperately refusing to let him hear you.

“Fuck,” he grunted in frustration. “You’re wet, but you’re still so tight. Too damn tight.”

He tried pushing his hips forward, trying to let himself sink deeper into you, but your walls were restricting around him, clenching instinctively. You hadn’t pleased yourself in a long time, and you hadn’t let anyone else do it for you, either. The sheer size of him suddenly stretching you out like this was almost more than you could take.

But you would never admit defeat in front of your boss.

“Maybe you just—” you swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, “don’t know how to put it in right.”

Another irritated snarl escaped his lips as he bucked his hips harder this time. He pushed himself halfway in with one shallow, punishing thrust that made you arch your back against the desk. Your chest pressed flush against his as his heavy body completely covered yours.

“That stupid book told me to go slow,” he mumbled against your skin. “That I gotta ease my way inside. Be gentle with you. Savor you. Make it last—but fuck, when you’re taunting me like that, I don’t want to be gentle.”

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes defiantly locking onto his. “Oh, please. I don’t think you know how to fuck a woman hard, even if you wanted to.”

“You goddamn brat.”

Without a second of warning, Bucky pulled back slightly. Your cunt was already grasping for him as just his tip remained inside, and then he slammed his hips forward, burying himself in one heavy, punishing stroke. He bottomed out so hard your breath hitched in a silent, high-pitched scream. The impact rattled the desk, the wood groaning under the sudden violence of his weight.

“A woman like you doesn’t need ‘gentle,’” he hissed, his body collapsing on top of yours as you were sandwiched between his heavy frame and the cold hardwood.

“A woman like you, with that smart mouth and fucking attitude, needs a good dick inside you—fucked so hard until you’re a babbling mess.”

Bucky didn’t wait for an answer.

He began to fuck you with a desperate, angry rhythm, each thrust growing deeper and more frantic. He wasn’t being gentle; he wasn't easing his way in like the book told him to.

He was claiming every inch of you, his large frame smothering yours against the desk. His vibranium hand clamped down on the edge of the wood right next to your head, the metal clicking sharply as he used it for leverage to drive himself even deeper.

“Is this hard enough for you?” He hissed, his voice ragged. “Answer me, doll,” he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Does this feel like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

You couldn’t answer.

Your hands, which had been jabbing a finger into his chest moments ago, were now clawing desperately at his shoulders, your nails digging through the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

You were a mess of contradictions—hating him, hating the position he had you in, but your hips were bucking up to meet him with a shameful, starving urgency. Every time he slammed into you, your head knocked back against the desk, your eyes rolling back in sheer overstimulation.

He was relentless. His other hand found your waist, his fingers bruising your skin as he held you still, forcing you to take every inch of him. The sounds in the room were a chaotic blur—the wet, frantic slapping of skin on skin, the creak of the desk, and his heavy, jagged breathing in your ear.

“You piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever worked with,” he rasped, his pace turning fast and mean. “You’re a nightmare. And that should make this easy. It should make you disposable—fuck, but it doesn’t. It only makes me want you more—and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.”

“Congressman,” you gasped, trying to collect your words, but only a rambling mess came out instead. “I—ah!”

He shifted his grip, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even more. The new angle was devastating. He was hitting so deep it made your entire body vibrate, a white-hot pressure building behind your navel that made you want to shatter your pride once and for all.

“Tell me,” he commanded. “Tell me who’s in control in this office.”

Even with your body shaking and your walls spasming around him, you forced a sharp, mocking sound from your throat—a jagged imitation of a laugh.

“Did… did the book tell you that you had to talk this much during sex?” you wheezed, trying to sit up with your elbows. “You should—hah—spend your efforts learning how to talk right in interviews instead of wasting them here, buried deep inside your assistant—”

The sound that left Bucky wasn’t a growl or a pant. It was a pure, animalistic snarl of rage. His hand shifted from your waist to the center of your chest, pinning you down.

“Jesus, you never fucking learn.” His hips snapped harder and faster against yours, the velocity so intense it made your vision go white. “You want to see what happens when I stop caring about being a Congressman and start being the man who owns you?”

He leaned down, his mouth inches from your ear. His voice was smooth and calm, a terrifying contrast to the way he continued to punish your body with every heavy slam of his pelvis.

“I’m going to fill you so deep that you won’t be able to stand straight,” he rasped, his teeth grazing against your earlobe.

“I’m going to pump you so full of my cum—I want to see it drip down your pretty legs while you take notes in the next meeting,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, and violent. “I want every man in this building to smell me on you. I want you to feel it sliding down your thighs while you look them in the eye, knowing that your Congressman claimed you right here on this desk.”

You let out a broken whimper as he hit your sweet spot again and again, his pace becoming a blur of friction and heat. The way he was filling you, combined with the nasty, filthy litany of words leaving his lips, was enough to make you feel dizzy.

Bucky groaned, desperate and uneven breaths hitting the crook of your neck as he felt you clench around him.

The book mentioned that the man would likely feel a fluttering, uneven clenching sensation around his manhood when the woman was close to climax—it was hard to imagine that when he jerked himself off with his hand, but now, deep inside you, he was feeling exactly that.

“God, you’re gonna cum for me, baby?”

But despite how close you were, you remained stubborn. You squeezed your eyes shut, a jagged, defiant breath catching in your throat as you fought the sensation off. Refusing to give him the satisfaction, you hissed through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shook your head, glaring up at him. “You’re gonna have to work harder than that.” You added, your voice trembling slightly.

Bucky gave you a sharp, threatening look. He realized exactly what you were doing—denying him the one victory he wanted most. “You think you can play games now?” he snarled, his vibranium arm shifting to pin both of your wrists above your head. “You think you’re in control of your own body right now?”

His other hand swept across the desk until his fingers brushed against the silicone toy he had discarded earlier. He snatched the vibrator, thumb clicking it onto the highest setting.

“You’re going to cum,” he threatened into your ear. “And you’re going to do it while I’m buried deep inside you.”

He pressed the buzzing head of the toy directly against your sensitive, swollen clit while simultaneously slamming his hips forward to bury himself to the hilt. The double-sided assault was overwhelming. The vibration combined with his thickness stretching you out sent a violent jolt through your body, your fingers grasping helplessly at nothing as he pinned your wrists down.

You writhed pathetically beneath him, trying to keep yourself from coming—but fuck, it was impossible.

“Ah!” you cried out, your legs shaking uncontrollably from the pleasure as you squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m not—I’m… not…”

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he commanded, his own face twisted with the sheer effort of trying to hold back. He kept the toy pinned on your clit, vibrating relentlessly against you. “I feel you getting close, baby. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. Shit—I’m going to cum too—”

Your pride was the first thing to go, followed immediately by the control of your own body.

A loud, broken cry ripped from your throat as your whole body tremored beneath him. You clenched down, convulsing as you came hard and violently around his cock. It was hot, blinding, and enough to make your head spin.

But Bucky didn’t stop.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, your body bouncing against the wood as he kept fucking you deep.

He kept the toy pressed against your clit. The overstimulation, the way his cock was twitching inside you and hitting you in all the right, oversensitive spots, was enough to make you cry out. You looked at him, your brows furrowed in a silent, desperate plea.

“C-congressman,” you gasped, the sound ragged. “P-please…”

Bucky’s eyes, which had been burning with rage, suddenly glazed over with a desperate, almost hopeful look. He didn’t hear the word please; he only registered that your defiant voice had finally broken.

“Goddamn,” he grated out. “I love it when you sound broken like that.”

He pulled the vibrator away, tossing it aside, but only to free up his grip for the final, ruinous thrust. He grabbed your hips and slammed into you one last, violent time, his thick shaft hitting your core as he completely unloaded inside you.

“Fuck—take it, doll. Be a good girl for once and take it all for me.”

He shuddered uncontrollably, tucking his nose into your neck as his muscles tensed. Your body shook as warm cum pumped deep into your core, spilling down your slit.

You could feel his cock twitching deep within you, pulsing the last of his seed inside, marking you in the way he promised. He stayed buried, his breathing turning into rough, staggered gasps.

You figured he’d pull out soon and leave you here to clean up the mess he made.

That was the kind of boss he was.

But instead, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. One hand trailed up to your face, his thumb swiping gently to wipe a tear that had trickled down your cheek without you even noticing.

“Are… are you okay?” He asked, voice shaky.

And for some reason, the sudden tenderness in his voice—that soft, shaky tone coming from your usually cold-hearted boss—made a silent sob hitch in your chest.

“I’m okay.”

His body stiffened, his eyes going wide at the sudden sight of tears slipping down your cheeks from his simple question. He slowly slid out of you, the wet, suctioning sound of his withdrawal replaced by the immediate, empty rush of cold air. His big, strong arms circled behind you and hauled you up, settling you gently at the edge of the desk. His metal arm gently supported your back as he pulled your ruined blouse closed over your exposed chest.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his fingers moving from your chest to cup your face gently in his palm. “Don’t cry. Shit. I’m sorry for hurting you. Fuck—”

“You didn’t hurt me, Congressman,” you shook your head, the denial weak. “I just—I didn’t expect—” You hiccuped. “I didn’t expect you to stay.”

“You didn’t expect me to stay,” he repeated, the words slow and hollow.

His mind raced back over the last several months; the impossible deadlines, the late nights, the constant demands and dismissive tone he had used with you in the office.

He had treated you like a machine, not a human, and certainly not the person he now had ruined on this desk.

“Fuck. I am an idiot,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been working you like a dog. I’ve been crushing you with all this meaningless work, I know. I can see it now. I see you in here at six a.m and still here at ten. You’ve been living in this office because of me.”

He looked at you with deep regret in his eyes, his lips tugging down into a faint pout as he ran his fingers over your cheek reassuringly.

You instinctively leaned into his touch.

“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice quiet and soft. “I’m sorry for all the work. I’m sorry for the immature gifts. And I’m sorry for—” he swallowed. “Ruining you. And I’m even more sorry for making you think I was the kind of asshole who would just leave you like this.”

He sighed softly as he leaned in, his touch now entirely different. He was gentle and soft, as if you were a fragile little thing.

Hesitant, he settled his lips softly on yours—a slow, sweet kiss that held none of the demands and frustration he had earlier.

It was a kiss that told you he was truly sorry, and it was an apology you knew you were going to forgive.

He pulled back, looking into your eyes, but as you lifted your head to look into his, your gaze snagged on the clock perched right above and behind him.

“Sir,” you quickly scrambled up, but his arm held you still. “Your Oversight Committee is in less than ten minutes! I need to finish the packets you—”

He held you tighter against his chest, the air nearly knocked out of your lungs as he practically crushed your frame against his.

“No,” he mumbled into the top of your head, his nose tangling in your hair. “No meetings. No packets. Just relax, and stay with me. Okay?”

The last gasp of air escaped your lungs in a shaky sigh of surrender and relief. You didn’t fight his hold; instead, your arms slowly rose from your sides, circling his waist and pulling him closer. You nestled your face against his collarbone, allowing yourself to be utterly supported by his strength.

The silence was uncomfortably thick, very awkward, and filled only by the uneven rhythm of your joined breathing.

The tension, however, was too profound to last.

The need to regain some semblance of normalcy, some piece of the defiant, joking assistant he thought he’d crushed, finally came crawling back.

“I guess that vibrator isn’t returnable now, huh?” you mumbled against his chest, trying for lightheartedness, though your voice was still shaky.

A slow smile, one you felt stretching against your temple, spread across his mouth. “Never planned on returning it,” he murmured. “And especially not the lace lingerie. I’m still planning on having you wear that for me.”

Your face flushed, but your pride—though crushed a long time ago—couldn’t help but want to tease him right back.

“Are you sure the extra small condom won’t fit—”

“Shut the hell up.”

chest naurts roapin on an open pire.... merry christmas, erin. i hope you enjoyed this fic thank you for being my friend and thank you for reading. hit that like and subscribe button while you're at it. jack prost nipping at yur nosee.....