Umm, Hey. How's it going?

You’re too kind-hearted, Aaron thinks sometimes. Too soft for the world put before you and too sweet for the horrors you see on a day to day basis.

He used to doubt that you’d make it in the BAU, that you’d buckle and be swallowed whole by the cases and their victims.

But you don’t, you seem to thrive in it. It’s like you need somewhere to channel all of your energy.

You’re still soft, going into situations with warmth and empathy in place of Aaron’s stoicism and cold practicality.

But you’re effective all the same, families are more willing to trust, and unsubs are more easily disarmed with you.

You’re a great asset to the team, Aaron knows that. He respects you not just as an agent but as a person as well.

To have seen what you have and to still be as kind and loving as you are, takes talent.

Most of the team has hardened during their time at the BAU, having chiselled all the soft parts of their personality into jagged edges.

But not you, you’ve stayed just as sweet and bubbly as the day he first interviewed you.

He’s simultaneously grateful and annoyed by it.

Because just as he knows how lovely you are, so does everyone else.

It’s no longer something he cares to admit—having come to terms with it long ago, but he’s a jealous man.

A ridiculously possessive and jealous man that hates when anyone gets to see the parts of you that he cherishes the most.

Even if it’s his own teammates.

“Oh, Spence honey, what happened to your face?” You can’t help but coo as the youngest member walks in with small scratches over his face.

“N-nothing—” The young doctor stutters are you grab his face and Hotch can’t keep his scowl at bay.

He hates watching you fawn over someone else. Hotch calls your name with frustration edging his tone.

You startle slightly, leading to you pressing into Spencer’s bruised skin too harshly. Whispering scattered apologies, you turn your blinding smile back onto your husband.

“Yeahhhhh?” you call back. To anyone else, it might seem like you’re teasing him, but he knows you’re being genuine.

“Lunch.” He informs you. You give him a funny look. He realises he had told you that he’d had a lot of paperwork to catch up on and couldn’t spend his lunch break with you.

While that was heartbreakingly true, the other option of having you coddle his much younger and age-appropriate subordinate just steps away from his office is unfathomable to him.

He’d like to pat himself on the back for not bursting a blood vessel from holding himself back vocally.

He’s a good man, honest. Just not one willing to share you at this current moment. If anything, he has more of a right to your affection than anyone else in the room.

You make Reid promise to ice his face and that you’ll bring him some scar ointment you have at home before making your way back up the stairs to Aaron’s office.

He’s opening the door and shuffling you into the room with little to no patience.

“What’s up?” you ask, smiling softly at him and completely unaware of his inner turmoil. It’s moments like these that would normally bring him shame, yet it seems he’s grown more accepting and accustomed to the less inviting parts of himself.

“I thought you had reports due.” You murmur concernedly, your brows furrowed as you walk over to where he’s standing. Your arms encase his hips, and he can smell your perfume.

He indulges himself slightly by leaning down and hugging you tightly, inhaling reflexively as if commemorating your smell to memory.

“Did you just sniff me?” you ask suspiciously, your voice muffled by still being held into his chest.

His apparent shamelessness is made aware to you when he just hums, “Yes. You smell good.”

He’s smirking, you probably can’t see it because he’s about 2 heads taller than you, but he takes pride in his unabashed nature.

He’s your husband, he’s allowed to indulge every once in a while.

You take a peek out of his hold to catch a glimpse of the window showcasing the rest of the bullpen to see the rest of the team watching you both.

You squirm, “They can all see us you know” you whisper, embarrassed.

He huffs a laugh, “Us hugging is barely the worst thing they’ve seen” he teases.

You huff, pushing against his chest in playful frustration, “Whatever.”

Your complaint is muffled by his shirt fabric and Hotch would like to have it known that the rumbling from his chest was not a laugh.

“You’re very wriggly today,” Hotch remarks, a smile still on his face as his hold on you tightens. You groan, twisting back and forth to have him let go of you.

“You are annoying.” You snark back. He snorts. “You also have work to—stop it! You have work and I also have work to do. Reid and I—"

“Reid and nothing.” He complains, tucking his head into your neck without further adieu and pressing a small kiss into the crook of it. It must look weird considering your heigh difference, Hotch having to basically contort himself in order to do so.

“What?” you laugh, as if Aaron has just said something unintelligible. “You have a problem with Reid all of a sudden?”

“…No.” His answer is muffled into your skin, and you squirm again from the sensation.

“Oh, you so have a problem with him, what did he do?”

“Stop it.” He huffs.

You laugh, “Uh uh, you brought this up—spill, what did he do to get on your shit list?”

He pauses.

“He didn’t do anything.” A lie.

“Let’s try that one again.”

He takes his face out of your neck to glare at you reproachfully,

“It’s dumb.”

“Tell me anyways.”

“You called him honey.” He says at last, his tone petulant and achingly familiar to a brown haired toddler you both know.

“Did I?” you ask quizzically, looking perplexed.

“When he hurt his face.”

You look as if you’re trying not to laugh, “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He deadpans.

You can’t help but let a small smile break through, “I couldn’t help it, the only person I get to take care of is Jack—forgive me if my toddler bedside manner isn’t up to par with how we’re supposed to treat our colleagues.”

“You’re making fun of me.” He frowns.

Your smile widens, “Only a little.”

You soften at the sight of his troubled gaze, “Honey, I didn’t even realise. You know I didn’t mean it like that. I was just worried—when was the last time Reid got hurt outside of work?”

Hotch contemplates your question as he realises he can’t recall. You nod, “See—its rare. I was just concerned; there’s nothing more to it than that alright?”

He’s sure he’s still got somewhat of a frown on his face, “You never call me honey when you patch me up.” He mumbles prickly.

Your gaze turns pointed, “When you get hurt it’s because you take down unsubs without back-up, Reid probably got injured tripping over one of his novels.”

Hotch rolls his eyes, “No it’s fine, I understand. You just hate me.”

You jaw slackens in shock before you swat his chest, “Take!” smack “That!” smack “Back!” smack

“He’s staring at you again.” Emily remarks from where she’s standing next to you at the bar whilst you both wait for your drinks.

You turn towards her with a confused expression and she nods her head in the direction of the table where the rest of your coworkers sit.

Your eyes seem to haphazardly scan the group before you catch eyes with him. Aaron is staring at you whilst seemingly ignoring the commotion happening around him.

His gaze softens imperceptibly when your eyes meet. A smile blooms on your face. You fight the urge to giggle like teenage girl and instead bite your bottom lip, lifting your hand for a small wave.

He smiles softly, lifting his whiskey glass in response. Miss you he mouths and you swear you can hear your heart thudding in your chest.

Love you you mouth back and watch as his face lights up. He’s about to say something else when you’re interrupted by Emily still next to you.

“You two are sickening to watch” she says teasingly. You can’t help but roll your eyes as you turn to her.

The bartender drops off your refills, and you both gather them in your hands. You open your mouth to respond but you’re cut off by her, “If the next words out of your mouth are something equally as sickeningly sweet, I don’t wanna hear it.”

You scoff, knocking your shoulder into hers jokingly.

“You just hate that we’re in love.”

“Took you both long enough to get your heads out of your assess” she remarks as she pushes off the bar to walk back to the table.

“I resent that! We were not that bad!” you complain, following behind her.

The group seemingly catches wind of your conversation.

“What’s not that bad?” Spencer asks curiously.

You give Emily a look that she seemingly ignores as she answers Reid’s question. “How badly Hotch and y/n were in denial about their own feelings.”

“Emily!” JJ admonishes, looking slightly shocked yet amused.

“What! Was I wrong??”

You turn to look at Aaron, and you’re surprised to see him not affected by Emily’s statement.

If anything, he’s not even paying attention to the conversation. It’s like his gaze had never left your form from the bar from the looks of it.

You shuffle past Emily and JJ as they start bickering to find the seat next to Aaron pleasantly empty.

He’s passively nodding to whatever Rossi seems to be saying but the minute you’re seated, he turns his full attention to you.

“Hi.” You whisper as your hands find each other’s under the table, fingers intertwining and squeezing in reassurance.

“Hi Honey.” He says, his voice gravelly yet soft.

The lights of the bar twinkle around you, casting shadows around the table but they seem to light up Aaron’s face perfectly. They cast a warm glow over his fond expression which lights a fire in your gut.

I’m so stupid in love you can’t help but think to yourself.

Aaron’s face is flushed pink from the alcohol, and his pupils are slightly dilated. You think you might just be content to look at him forever.

Conversation around you flows freely, everyone having filtered off into their own. Which leaves just the two of you.

Emily’s not wrong, you’re both probably a walking hallmark movie ad. You’d both been dancing around your feelings for a far too long time. However, since a slight mishap with an unsub and what was later discovered to be an unloaded gun, Aaron had worked up the nerve to confess to you.

So, for the last couple of months, you could confirm that the both of you were existing in what could only be described as honeymoon bliss.

“You look as beautiful as the day I met you.” Aaron says, shaking you from your train of thought.

You smile as you bite your bottom lip shyly, “yeah?”

“You were called in for that consultation in Boston,” he says.

You light up and recall, “and I tripped over your briefcase!”

Aaron huffs a laugh, nodding. His arm lifts up in your peripheral vision as he grabs a piece of your hair to tuck it behind your ear. His hand hovers there.

“You spilt your coffee all over the precinct floor,” you both laugh.

“And you offered to get me a new one.” You finish off. He nods as he scans your face as if trying to cement it into his memory.

“I knew I loved you then.” He confesses. You startle slightly as you give him a confused expression.

“Not that I knew it was love then,” He corrects himself. “But I knew I wanted you in some capacity, I just didn’t know how much you’d ending meaning to me. At first it was just, ‘I should probably replace her coffee’ and then it just all started becoming, ‘I wonder what she had for breakfast’ or ‘she would probably like this book’ or ‘I wonder if she’s thinking about me’”

“Yes.” You speak.

He tilts his head in confusion.

“Yes. I was. Thinking about you I mean.”

He smiles before his gaze drops to your lips. The sounds around you seem to muffle and the only thing you care to pay attention to is the smell of whiskey on Aaron’s breath and the feel of his chapped lips on yours.

He groans into your kiss, as if it’s hurting him. You go to pull back but the hand that was idly playing with your hair tugs you back to him.

You muffle a laugh into the kiss, “Aaron—mmf! the team!” you giggle.

He detaches from your lips looking slightly debauched. You chance a look to the rest of the table, but everyone seems to be paying you both no attention. Except Rossi, who gives you both a look.

You smile, knocking shoulders with Aaron as you both rejoin the group in conversation.

It turns out that tipsy Aaron is a lot less strict that sober Aaron as he starts making light-hearted quips during conversations and cracking jokes. You don’t think you can remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

A while later, when the conversation has somewhat lulled and you take note of Aaron teetering on the edge of slightly drunk, you decide to call it a night.

“I think Aaron and I are gonna head home.” You announce to the group. You’re met with various protests as you gather your things.

Aaron doesn’t stray far from you, keeping one hand or arm wrapped around you at all times. With scattered goodbyes, you’re pulling Aaron into the backseat of a taxi.

As soon as you’re finished rattling your address, Aaron has both of his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you into his lap.

Those whiskeys were probably a lot stronger than you gave them credit for.

Aaron nuzzles into your neck, “Missed you.” He mumbles into your neck.

You giggle at the sensation, “I was right next to you!”

His grip tightens slightly

“Couldn’t hold you and touch you the way I wanted to.”

You hum, stroking his arm with your nails, “We’re almost home.” You reassure him.

He hums into your back, rocking you both slowly.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

When the taxi pulls up onto the curb, you thank the driver and pay for the trip before exiting the car as Aaron tugs on your arm.

You’re all but pulled into the house, barely having time to take your shoes off before Aaron is tugging you onto the bed insistently.

“Baby!” you chide with a laugh as his tugs get firmer. “Aar, I have to take my makeup off, I can’t get makeup on the sheets—it’s a bitch to get out” you insist.

He grumbles but follows you to the bathroom. He sits not so patiently  on the toilet seat as you wash your face, hands still attached to you.

You’d have never thought to use the word ‘clingy’ to describe Aaron Hotchner, stoic and well known hardass Chief of the BAU. It seemed there was always new things to learn.

Aaron had seemingly given up on waiting as soon as he saw you reach for your skincare, wrapping an arm around your waist and dragging you out of the bathroom despite your protests.

“I let you wash your face, you said nothing about skincare” he responds smugly as he snuggles into the covers as he essentially holds you hostage in his arms.

You swat at his chest half-heartedly, but you can’t deny how comfortable you feel.

✧ one-shots:

✧ Lockjaw - explicit - Robert Robertsonxfem!reader, ex-villain medic!Reader, belligerent sexual tension, banter, awkward flirting, unrequited crush on both sides that's not really unrequited, Robert is depressed but denies it, Reader is doing her best. AO3

✧ Lord Knows It Would Be The First Time - explicit - (a loose part 2 to Lockjaw) Robert Robertsonxfem!reader, established relationship, sub!Robert x dom!Reader, rimming, anal fingering, pegging, enthusiastic consent, d/s etiquette (safe word mentioned but not used), praise kink, aftercare and love confessions. AO3

✧ Wicked Glitter - explicit - Robert Robertsonxfem!reader, sex pollen (no dub-con), semi-public sex, shower sex that's a bit rough, unsafe sex (but he pulls out), sub-leaning Robert, dirty talk, power play (Robert is verbally dommed but ultimately Reader needs some good dicking so the lines are blurred), come eating. AO3

✧ Lizard Brain - explicit - Robert Robertsonxfem!reader, co-workers (friends) to lovers, panty sniffing, underwear theft, mild humiliation, Robert is yearning yet again because I'm delulu, banter, awkward flirting, Bob-Bob is a boob man -> boob play, handjob, a smidge of overstimulation, fluff, dynamic in it is a bit vague, they are just adventurous. AO3

✧ lovemelovemeloveme - general - Robert Robertsonxgn!reader, Robert's POV, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, guilt and self-deprecating thoughts soothed by the partner, Reader comforts Robert at Chase's hospital bed.

✧ multichapters:

✧ Crash-Test Dummies -> masterlist

Robert’s beast keeps him on a narrow ledge between heart-on-sleeve and padlocked shut. He’s not hiding the soft bits that make him a fool for second chances and best intentions; everyone can see those, they’re practically in the job description. What he buries is worse. The part that’s convinced he deserves every bad thing that happens. The part that thinks his job is to work himself to the bone for whatever scraps of good land on his desk, then apologise for wanting even that.

And while he’s mastered the game of hide and seek in front of almost everyone, there’s at least one person (besides Chase) who can see straight through him. The doctor.

The doctor, whom he managed to offend on day one by making a crack about not trusting anyone who’s probably closed wounds with a stapler. The doctor, who got her experience stitching up goons but still has the softest touch that’s ever landed on his forearm. Who caught him out on two half-hidden colds and one not-at-all-hidden burnout with nothing more than a glance. The doctor, who answers every attempt to shrug off his long-standing depression and desperate scrabble for purpose with that infuriatingly calm, all-knowing look that says: I see what you’re doing, and it’s not working.

It would be fine if it stopped there—professional irritation, bruised pride, a healthy dose of avoidance. But somewhere along the way self-preservation seems to have grown a rival instinct. Not at all beastly this time. Just a sad, wet dog lodged under his ribs, scratching at the door it thinks hides comfort. It wants things he doesn’t have the language for: fingers at pulse point with no intention of measuring pulse, frown of concentration aimed at his chart (or somewhere closer to his body, were he so bold) instead of his latest screw-up, your voice saying his name in something other than exasperation. It’s needier than Beef and nowhere near as charming. It’s a completely unnecessary thing. A whim. A complication. Some idiotic yearning he’s much too tired and too old for.

So he does what he’s good at: he pretends. Pretends he’s annoyed by you. Pretends he doesn’t notice the whiff of your perfume on Colm when that one comes back from a check-up. Pretends the reason he dodges your appointments is purely bureaucratic and not because sitting on that exam bed under your scrutiny makes him feel naked in ways no HR form has a tick-box for. He does all of that while smiling.

You are the person who kicks his creativity up to cosmic levels. He’s never come up with so many excuses to miss a check-up. But even that has a limit—the moment an old-school paper notice appears on his workstation, stamped in glaring red capitals: OVERDUE. Right in the med-check row, under his ridiculous name.

So he drags it out to the bitter end. Answers every last pointless query on the board. He checks, double-checks, and triple-checks handover notes no one will read. Solves a printer jam that was in no way his problem. One by one, people peel off: Chase with a clap to his shoulder, Galen with a muttered ‘night,’ the floor supervisor with a reminder about the staff survey he is absolutely never filling in.

Comms taper from overlapping chatter to the occasional bored check-in. Then even that dies. The city, miraculously, stays quiet. The big wall clock over the dispatch screens drags its way to seven and tips over it.

There is still a chance you’ve gone home. He sits with that for a minute. If you’ve left already, it’s not his fault, is it? He tried. He had to stay late, had work to do. He can come in early tomorrow and—

He peels the slip off the desk. Two instincts pull in opposite directions as he walks the empty corridor towards Medbay: the well-trained one that keeps his head down and his mouth shut, and the younger, needier thing that sits up whenever it hears you stifling a laugh.

He stops outside, hand hovering for a second. He’s not even sure what he’s hoping for—for you to be gone and grant him a temporary stay of execution, or for you to still be there so he can stop thinking about this and just… get it over with. Or not just that. He doesn’t look too closely at that part.

He knocks before he can think better of it.

“Yeah?”

Your voice, muffled through the door. Still here, then. Of course. A fellow overachiever at everything, including giving him nowhere to hide. The door creaks when he pushes it open, and the sigh punches out of you on instinct.

Robert fucking Robertson.

He looks exactly as you’d expected him to if he ever turned up this late for an overdue med-check: headset finally off, hair a little flattened where it sat, SDN polo rumpled and half-untucked, smile apologetic around the edges.

You’ve never met a man who seemed to file you under definitely not so quickly. From day one he’s kept you at full arm’s length—baseline polite, a bit wary, doing his level best not to need you. Apprehensive at best. Most likely just plain resentful, and for reasons that would be very valid if he ever bothered to voice them.

You know what you look like on paper. Ex-villain medic, Phoenix Programme intake, years spent helping people he used to fight. First day had set you on a certain path with his joke, technically. You laughed. Then you watched him flinch away from your hand when you reached for his arm.

Since then, he’s dodged you with an agility most capes would envy. Barely makes eye contact in the hallway. Sends messages through the Z Team when he can. So when he appears in your doorway at seven p.m. with that sheepish, caught-out expression and a crumpled notice in his hand, your first instinct is not concern. It’s exasperation, sharp and familiar.

“You're joking,” you say, caught mid-way packing up your bag. “Robert. It’s seven. I was about to leave and this close to pretending I didn’t see that form.”

“I, uh… Exciting life you are in a rush to get to?”

Standing there with the screens in sleep mode behind you, you realise this very overdue dispatcher is trying to make it look like this is an inconvenience for you. Of course he’s late. Of course he waited until everyone else had gone home to come and sit on your exam bed like a sulky teenager.

You frown. Fucking asshole. “What a fantastic approach to asking for an off-the-clock favour.”

“I thought it was your job.” He shrugs, flaps the crumpled notice at his face like it’s a fan, already half-turned as if he’s doing you a favour by leaving you to whatever thrilling plans you were ‘in a rush’ to get to.

Ignoring the attempted escape, you turn to the sink and start scrubbing your hands. “It is. But my shift ended at five.”

“Well, it’s ten past seven now. What are you still doing here?”

You catch his eyes in the mirror—big, sad, hopeful. Hopeful for what, you’re not sure. Probably for you letting him off the hook. But… that’s not happening. “Are you willing to answer the same question for yourself?”

“Oh, I was just fully avoiding you.” He laughs, scratching the back of his head, like that’s a charming confession and not a reason to sedate him.

“Hah. I should’ve seen that coming.” You dry your hands, reach up to the cabinet for test tubes, needles, tourniquet. He’s still hovering in the doorway like a particularly dim ghost. “Just… sit,” you sigh. “You can speed things up by taking your shirt off.”

He perches on the exam bed and reaches for his buttons with all the enthusiasm of a man about to be flayed. “You could at least buy me a drink first.”

You scoff. “I can let you sniff some disinfectant while I draw your blood. How does that sound?” Gloves on.

“Like an HR violation,” he mutters. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Flirting as self-defence, maybe. Flirting while hoping for something? Definitely not. Not him.

“You started it,” you bite back, turning with your tray of things—only to walk straight into the sight of him sitting shirtless and hunched, all innocent and mildly terrified on your bed.

There are so many scars on him the canvas of his body is barely enough. Old and new, white and pink and angry, overlaying each other until he’s less man and more atlas of every punch, blast and cut he’s ever taken. He wears it like it’s nothing. You feel heat flood your face and hope to God he can’t read skin temperature as well as you read his.

Eyes down. Professional. You hem your throat and steer hard back into safe waters. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch time.”

“So, like… six hours ago? Eh. It’ll do.” You loop the tourniquet around his upper arm and cinch it tight.

“Very heartwarming to know we’re equally eager to get rid of each other,” he says.

“I have nothing against you,” you reply, checking his vein with your thumb. “I just want to go home. To my exciting life.”

“What does that entail?” he asks, the fool that he is. He has no idea what the survival limit is on possible answers. A boyfriend? He’d probably take that hit, sulk about it, then mull it over within three to a hundred business days. Anything heavier might be lethal.

Salvation or damnation—he doesn’t know yet—comes packaged as one of your softest smiles.

“One very needy and lonely cat,” you say, patting the vein into prominence.

He inhales the sterile air like it’s personally betrayed him.

“What?” you ask. “Did you think I hustle black market organs on the side?”

“Something like that,” he says, because of course he did. He’d hoped for it, secretly. Something clean to work with. Villainy. An excuse to file you off under evil once and for all and stop stumbling over this ridiculous crush.

Instead you hand him something else to work with—a small, ridiculous domestic detail, a gentle crumb. An opening. The sad wet dog part of him immediately starts figuring out how to squeeze every drop of hope out of it. Breath stutters, arteries tighten.

“Are you afraid of needles?” you ask, the pad of your thumb caressed by the flutter of his pulse.

Body a traitor, the beat jumps under your touch. He tries to swallow it down and pukes up a deflection instead. “No. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Just doctors, then.” You smirk. “Or is it a personal animosity?”

“No,” he says. “I hate you all equally.”

Your eyes meet. There it is again—that flicker that could be humour, could be panic, probably both.

“That’s reassuring,” you say, holding his gaze, and slide the needle into his vein making it absolutely, painfully erotic.

His mouth parts on a sigh, lids lowering. Under different circumstances you could probably sell this as a relaxation exercise. You watch the line of his lashes settle, the sputter of freckles across his cheeks, and pretend you’re paying attention to the tube rather than his face. His blood winds into the plastic in a slow, lazy thread.

“You’re dehydrated,” you say, rubbing your latexed finger over the firm line of his bicep.

“I had a lot of fluids,” he murmurs. “Coffee, mostly.”

“That explains it.” You drop the full tubes into the rack, strip off the needle, and reach for the stethoscope. “Alright, I need to listen to your breathing. It requires you to be silent. Are you able not to talk for two minutes?”

He fails to not notice the careful details. The way you hang it over your neck and pick up the diaphragm into your palms to warm it up for him. “Two minutes?” he whispers. “How will I cover up my discomfort?”

“I guess you won’t be able to,” you say, enjoying this more than you should. “It’s alright, just auscultation. Procedure known for its low lethality.” You rest the bell on his chest, right over where his heart thrashes around the ribcage. “Deep breaths for me.”

For you, he’d do either. Breathe deep or hold his breath until you tell him he can come up again. With the room gone quiet, the disobedient muscle pounds up into his ears. He closes his eyes again to salvage at least a little dignity.

You drag it out. A little longer. A little longer still. The stethoscope roams across his chest, then around his back, your fingers brushing here and there, cataloguing the topography of his scars and imagining the architecture underneath. Millimetres of latex have never felt so thick, or so useless.

“H–how much longer?” he asks, all choked up.

You pull yourself up short. His breathing is exactly as fine as it was three minutes ago and, yes, his heart’s running a little fast, but you’d be a hypocrite to point fingers. Yours is, too.

“Just blood pressure left.” You peel the Velcro of the cuff loose. “So eager to flee. Almost as if I’m a dentist.”

He smiles, caught. Offers the unpunctured arm. You cinch the cuff tight, start pumping it tighter still until his fingers begin to buzz.

“Last time you wrote me up, I got three months of weekly psychs,” he says, sounding more betrayed than he intended.

You chuckle between the hisses of air filling the sleeve. “Ah, so that’s the issue. I only recommend what I think is fitting. Do no harm, remember?”

He snorts at that, a sharp, humourless sound. Wonders how much harm you’ve done indirectly by dragging the wrong people back from the brink of death. “Do you even have some basic training in psychology?” he asks.

“No. But I have experience and knowledge of how trauma shows in the body.”

“Really?” He scoffs, seizing on it. Finally—something he can take you on. An opening his embarrassment-beast latches onto, mean and unprompted. “Were the goons traumatised after getting their asses kicked?”

It lands clean. A poisoned seed planted neatly in soft tissue.

“Not that I’m trying to justify villainy,” you say, smile turning sharp, “but not everyone can flex an epically tragic backstory where your genius, absent father gets killed by your arch-enemy.”

Straight for the jugular, no less. All the resentment of everything he brought in here today—freckles, pouty mouth, big brown eyes and that lickable stretch of stomach that would probably withstand you slicing your nails through it—compressed into a tight little ball and hurled right at his face.

His expression dims half a shade. It’s all it takes. Guilt floods you before the sentence has fully cooled in the air. “Sorry,” you blurt. “That was uncalled for.”

Well deserved, though. “A little,” he agrees. The pout twists into a smirk. “It might have triggered my trauma back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re such a stubborn ass.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his free hand, a white flag of sorts. “I’m teasing. It’s self-defence.” His gaze drops to your fingers still curled around the pump. “What do you recommend?”

Your hand stills. “Just talk to someone. Doesn’t have to be a shrink, can be a friend. Otherwise your pep-talk well might dry out.”

“Can’t be my doctor, I suppose?” he asks quietly, hating himself as the words leave his mouth.

“I thought we’d already established I’m not qualified, Robert.”

He tilts his head, studying you, as if there’s a loophole he’s missing. “What good are you for, then?”

“Please make up your mind whether you’re going to be awkward or cocky,” you say. “Those two don’t fit together.”

“I wasn’t aware I was.”

“Cocky?” you repeat, and he lights up in a way he absolutely shouldn’t.

If he were a worse man, he’d ask you to drop everything after the ‘cock’ and say it again, clean and unadulterated, just to hear how it sounds in your mouth. As it is, he saves the moment under: things to think about at three a.m. when loneliness and shame tag-team me.

“No. Awkward,” he corrects, sheepish. “I thought I was incredibly cool.”

You’re barely holding it together. The laugh punches out of you, unbidden—charmed, disarmed by this absolute mess of a man who keeps turning up with a martyr complex.

“Will you stop fucking with me while I’m checking your blood pressure?” you say, because you need the ground back under your feet.

“Of course.” A beat. And then he just can’t help himself. “When you’re done, though—?”

You raise one eyebrow, the kind of eyebrow that has shut down far more dangerous men than him. He aborts mid-suggestion like you’ve hit the big red button.

“Alright, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His shoulders hunch. “I hope you understand that all I am is awkward and this is just a smokescreen.”

“Real smooth, Mr Robertson,” you say, peeling the cuff off his arm. “Blood pressure slightly elevated. I can file you under ‘future risk of cardiovascular failure’ or you can admit you’re nervous around me.”

“I am nervous around you,” he says, instantly.

A beat stretches. Long enough for him to mentally draft his will, choose hymns and coffin type, just in case this whole encounter kills him on the spot.

“Nice try,” you say at last, and turn away to scribble the last note on his chart.

The script says this is the part where you tell him he’s free to go. He feels the moment coming like a drop on a rollercoaster. Which is exactly why he grabs the razor and holds on—figuratively, this time. Desperation works like that: a hand sliced open is better than drowning.

“What does my body say about me?” he blurts.

You look up, caught. For a heartbeat your mind serves up the truth: that you need to be kissed senseless. That you should have your brains fucked out while you say please, please, please. That you take too much on and push too hard, and there’s never anyone there to catch you when you fall. That you collect damage like it’s a hobby.

“What do you mean?” you ask instead, blinking the depravity away.

“How much can you tell about me from me,” he gestures at himself, bare-chested on the bed, “just sitting here in this compromising position?”

Challenge accepted, you strip your gloves off and drop them in the red bin. Then, you move behind him, fingertips skimming very lightly down the line of his spine. Goosebumps rise in their wake before he can order his body to behave.

“Either your mattress is made of planks,” you say, clinical, “or you sleep on the floor. Softest thing this back has seen is your desk chair.”

Your hands slide up to his shoulders, warm and slightly damp from the gloves. You knead once, thumb catching in the hard knot where muscle refuses to unclench. “You lift too much,” you go on. “Some anger, or… frustration?”

When you brush the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, his body shudders. Completely involuntary. Excellent.

You circle back around to face him, take his hand. His knuckles are faintly bruised, skin roughened where it keeps meeting things that hit back. You raise an eyebrow. “Does punching things help?”

The way his face twists, confused and defensive, is answer enough. Before he can scramble for a lie, you let his hand go and cup his face instead, both palms bracketing his jaw as you press your thumbs into the hinges.

“Stress,” you diagnose. “Or tetanus, given the number of scars on you.”

Oh, God. You’re too close. He can smell your breath, which is just breath—no coffee, no mint, no cheap sweets—just mouth. Mouth that should, by rights, have his tongue in it right now if the world were at all fair.

He counts your lashes instead while you stare at the tendon, pretending this is still medical. Merciful, in its way.

“My bet is on stress, though,” you say. “Some serious lockjaw.”

He swallows, the muscles shifting under your thumbs. When you glance up to check you haven’t actually hurt him, his eyes are gone nebulous—brown eaten away by black.

You’re both stuck in the same narrow strip of air. You between his knees, him perched on the edge of the cot, your hands framing his face like you’re about to break bad news instead of bully him into therapy. His skin is warm under your fingers, stubble just starting to rasp at the pads of your thumbs. He looks equal parts startled and wrecked, like he’s been caught out in something much more serious than lying on his wellness form.

You should let go, but how could you?

“Serious… lockjaw,” he echoes, a little hoarse.

One of his hands comes up, fingers curling around your wrist. It’s not restraint; it’s a small, desperate appeal, a please stay. The other finds your second wrist a moment later, grip faintly trembling.

“This is very…” he starts, but the rest gets lost somewhere between his teeth and his courage.

He cranes forward instead.

It’s very unpretty. His neck protests, shoulders hitch, nose bumps yours on the first attempt. But he gets there, mouth brushing yours in a quick, clumsy press that’s more question than kiss. You feel the breath desert him against your lips like he’s just stepped off a ledge.

He pulls back half an inch, eyes wide, as if waiting for the inevitable slap / formal complaint / HR seminar.

You answer by closing the distance yourself.

This time, it lands properly. Softer, more sure. He holds onto your wrists, but the tension shifts; his thumbs stroke along your pulse points as if he’s checking your heart rate by touch. (Elevated, you could tell him, if you trusted your voice right now.)

He makes a tiny, incredulous sound into your mouth when you part your lips for him. That’s all it takes for something to snap the other way. His grip loosens, slides down the length of your arms, slow enough to ask permission without words, then settles at your hips.

“Okay?” he breathes, barely a syllable against your mouth.

You nod, the movement brushing noses, and then he’s tugging you in.

The exam bed creaks under his weight when he drags you closer. Your hips meet the inside of his thighs; your knees bump the metal frame. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other climbs up your spine, fingers spreading warmly between your shoulder blades before curling around the back of your neck.

You step in, automatically. There’s nowhere else to go. You hook an arm over his shoulder, fingers sliding into the hair at his nape, making his face meet you properly.

From this angle, you’re suddenly almost towering over him. Your chest lines up with his throat, soft weight of breasts brushing against the base of his neck every time you breathe. For a man who spends most of his life haunted by bad luck, Robert spares half a wild thought to thank whatever fickle force arranges these things that he chose now to finally kiss you.

You tilt his head a fraction more, directing the kiss like you’re adjusting an angle of approach, and he follows without question. His mouth opens under yours, hungry now, the earlier hesitation melting into something that feels dangerously like relief.

He kisses like he does everything else: too hard on himself, too careful with everyone else. You feel the restraint in the way he keeps checking his own grip, the way his fingers flex on your hip and then ease, like he’s terrified of overstepping even while his tongue is mapping the topography of your molars.

It stops being sweet somewhere around the moment you nip at his top lip and he finally lets himself react. He makes a low noise, and answers with a sharper pull of your hips into his, a firmer grip of his hand over the back of your neck. You gasp into him, surprised that you’re the one making the needy sound, and that seems to give him permission to stop holding back.

It tips over from tentative to messy. Your teeth catch, noses bump again, neither of you cares. Heat floods up the column of your spine in waves. He tastes like bad coffee and mint gum and the faint ghost of a Twinkie. You’re suddenly acutely aware of every place your body is touching his: his thighs next to yours, chest pressed to your ribs, thumb stroking tiny, absent circles against the base of your skull like he’s trying to soothe both of you at once.

Then, he bites.

It’s not hard. Just a quick, sharp catch of your lower lip between his teeth, paired with a tiny tug. A hot, startling carnality that has the grooves of your brain smoothing by degrees. You hear yourself make a sound you do not recognise—high, broken, utterly unprofessional.

The realisation hits a half beat later. You jerk back, breath tearing out of you, but you don’t go far. His hand on your neck stops you, just holding you close enough that your foreheads almost touch. Your palm finds his cheek on instinct, thumb brushing the line of bone, and you feel the way his jaw is working, still too tight, breathless for an entirely new set of reasons.

“That’s very unprofessional,” you manage, voice rougher than you intended.

“Mhm.” He gives one tiny nod, like he’s agreeing to a meeting note. His eyes, those big sad brown eyes, have gone soft and heavy-lidded, well on their way from dispatch edition to bedroom version. They lock on yours like he’s bracing for impact and, at the same time, staking a claim.

“Do it again,” he says. “Please.”

You laugh, just to get some air into your lungs. Round two is stripped of neatness. His hands rediscover your pelvis like he’s lost his place, fingers digging in just enough to drag you back into the heat of him. You feel the tension in his shoulders ease by degrees as you kiss him again, like every slide of your mouth over his sands down a layer of panic. His thumbs press into the soft dip above your waistband, and your mind briefly whites out at the reminder that, yes, there are nerve endings there.

You break away, just by a few centimetres, breath sawing. The room feels smaller. Warmer. Too much air, too much skin.

“I thought you don’t trust me,” you hear yourself say. It comes out thinner than you’d meant, challenge stumbling over a confession.

He blinks, drag-slow. His pupils are huge. “I don’t—” he starts and feels you stiffen. The grip on you loosens instantly, like he’s bracing for a step back, getting called an asshole and thrown off the bed. He rushes the rest out. “I don’t trust myself around you,” he adds, voice low and rough. “That’s entirely different.”

Your brain tries to catch up with that while your body does something unhelpful like shiver.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against your chest. “And you know way too much for a person I tried very hard to keep my distance from.”

That lands. You can’t help the small, sharp smile.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he says, quieter.

It’s a ridiculous thing for a man currently groping your ass and wearing your lip balm to say, but there it is: naked, awkward, painfully sincere.

You snort. “You sure worked hard for that,” you tell him. “But I’m not easily discouraged, Mr Robertson.”

His mouth twitches, half way to a smile, half way to disbelief.

You feel something unfurl in your chest. The admission’s out. Both of them are. No going back to pretending this is purely professional irritation now.

You study him for a beat—the flushed cheeks, the mussed hair, that earnest, worried line between his brows that hasn’t gone away even now—and the next words tumble out before you can filter them.

“I hate how hot you are,” you say.

His eyebrows shoot up. For once, he’s the one caught flat-footed.

Then he laughs, short and startled. It spills out of him in a breathy rush, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear in this particular hellscape of a day. “Yeah,” he says, tugging you closer, greedy for ballast. “It’s a real curse. I can’t get a break.”

You roll your eyes and, because your dignity has clearly fled the building, let your fingers slip into the hair at the back of his head again. “Shut up.”

He grins up at you, all crooked teeth and ridiculous bravery. “Make me—oh—”

The oh breaks on a different note entirely when you slide your hand down, down between your bodies, and press your palm over the front of his trousers.

Heat. Solid weight. The faintest, involuntary jerk of his hips up into your touch, like you’ve hit a secret button to Robert Robertson’s dilapidation.

“Good—” His breath stutters; his fingers convulse on your waist. “Good tactic,” he manages, a little strangled.

“You talk too much,” you murmur, watching his face as you apply the smallest amount of pressure, thumb tracing an idle line along the seam of his fly like you’re drawing on a chart.

His head tips back, throat bared. There’s a flush creeping up from his clavicle, crawling over his neck, turning his ears pink. He looks wrecked. He looks like the kind of man who has not, in fact, been told often enough that anyone finds him hot, curse or otherwise.

“Occupational hazard,” he says weakly. “Radio etiquette. Fill the dead air.”

“Consider this… an intervention,” you say, giving him the kind of look you reserve for stubborn patients and malfunctioning equipment. Your fingers flex, and his breath hitches again, audible this time.

“Noted,” he says, voice gone low and ragged, the word like sandpaper. His gaze drags back to your lips. “I can… work on that.”

“Less talk, more—”

You don’t finish the sentence because he leans in and takes the hint, catching your mouth again. This one is all forward momentum, like he’s afraid if he pauses you’ll change your mind and send him back to the safety of terrible coffee and unfiled incident reports.

You kiss him back because you’ve clearly gone completely mad.

He shifts his grip, fingers doing that delicious tug on waistband about to denude you, about to touch where you’ve imagined different parts of him more times than you’d like to admit, and you let him. You let him, and set your own payback into motion, clawing at his belt, his fly, seeking out the very thing you can almost imagine from the way his crotch bulges.

There he is, warm, hard, heavy, perfect—you can tell by touch only. You lean in, just to have his face close to yours. He doesn’t waste time. It all goes; your trousers with the underwear alike pooled around your ankles, ready to be stepped out of. Likewise, his hand is wandering between your legs. Checking, assessing. Holding you while you hold him, he sighs; a lovely bare sound.

“Careful,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I’m… not going to be very dignified about any of this.”

“It’s much overrated, the dignity” you say, a little out of breath.

He laughs once, and then you perch your knee on the edge, swing your other leg over and just commit, straddling him properly. The bed complains, loud. His hands fly to your hips on instinct, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise.

“Okay,” he says, like you’ve just given him a complicated instruction and he’s trying to follow it to the letter. “Okay.”

Another meeting of mouths before he overthinks his own access to gravity and the fact that your bodies are kissing elsewhere, too.

Time slows in that cheap, fluorescent way it sometimes does on shift. You take every sluggish second you’re given to just feel him, to just look. When you lean back, drag your mouth away to breathe, his cock slots against your groin, pressing insistently, begging to be let inside. The gasp that punches out of him, the sweet little draw of his brows—those you ignore. You have other data to collect.

You let your hands explore instead, the way you’ve longed to since he lost his shirt. Your fingers press to blemishes, red and pearly alike, mapping the mess of him like a new continent, inventing your gentleness from scratch.

“You don’t have to be this nice,” he says, poor bastard. His voice comes out thin, frayed at the edges. “And this is quite unfair.” There’s a little tug at your shirt, as if to underline exactly what the injustice is here.

“Oh, I think we’re rather even, no?” You pinch the waistband of his trousers between thumb and forefinger, then flick it, a tiny reprimand. Together you make about half of a respectably dressed person.

He smiles—doomed, askew—and slides his palms under the fabric instead, working with what he’s been given. His thumbs climb, rough pads dragging over your ribs until they find the edge of your bra and hook under it, pulling the cups down to bare you to his warm hands.

“I don’t have to be nice, hm?” you tease, arching a brow.

You tangle your fingers into his hair and tug, puppeteering him with a practiced pull. His head tips back, throat offered. You take your time, lifting your hips, shifting just far enough that you can reach between you. It’s easy to find him; you’ve already memorised the shape through cloth.

You line him up with one steady hand. “Is that mean enough?” you ask, and start to sink down on him, painfully, arduously slow.

Plethora of blood abandons all other posts. Whatever was left in Robert’s brain drops rank and flees south in a rout. For once you see white instead of brown as his eyes roll, lashes fluttering.

“Yes,” he breathes, mouth falling open before you’ve even taken him fully. The word cracks halfway. “Oh, God, yes.”

You keep going, inch by inch, taking every twitch and stutter of muscle as a personal victory. When your body finally seats itself around him, snug and complete, his hands are gripping your breasts like he needs something to hold onto.

“Fuck me,” Robert says, and only realises it was out loud when your mouth twitches.

Too late to take it back. Too late to take any of it back.

He’s lost this battle in every possible way. He told himself he wouldn’t end up here—on the med bed, half dressed, fully pathetic—but there you are, in his lap, and here he is, buried in you up to the hilt and hanging on by his fingernails.

It still feels like winning.

Nothing he did alone ever came close. His own hand is a bad cartoon compared to this: the heat of you around him, the steady clasp of muscle that says mine every time you move. It scrubs him clean from the inside out—worry, guilt, whatever thing he’s been clutching to his chest since breakfast all shaken loose and sliding towards the one place in his life that currently makes sense.

You.

You sit properly, spine straight, thighs braced either side of him, and he can feel every inch of you. The weight of you. The way you take him all the way in and hold, like you’re testing what his nervous system can take before it shorts out.

“Robert,” you say, hand smoothing down his chest, over the frantic rhythm drumming underneath. “Look at me.”

He obeys. Of course he does. Whatever ragged little instinct he calls self-preservation is curled up whimpering in the corner by now; the dog is running the show.

Your eyes are dark and careful. He realises, distantly, that you’re watching for signs he’s hit his limit. He wants to tell you he passed his limit three kisses ago and is somewhere entirely new now, but speech is… not a strong option.

You roll your hips instead of asking. Deep, then forward, then back again. It drags his full length along you, thick, thick pressure that makes his breath fail and his fingers dig past your tits, into your ribs.

He makes a sound that has no business coming out of a grown man with a mortgage and a dog. “Please,” he gasps.

You go still. Tilt your head, interested. Then, your mouth curves, part fond, part wolfish. Your thumbs find his temples, stroke gently, grounded in a way that threatens to undo him more than the sex.

“How good you are,” you say, bewildered. It sounds like you didn’t mean to let it out.

He almost laughs. If only you knew. He’s never been good a day in his life; he’s just tired and malleable and so relieved to have someone else managing the disaster that is him for five goddamn minutes.

“Say it again,” you tell him.

He should be ashamed of how fast it comes. “Please.”

You rock down on him, slow, purpose and all, and the word turns into something broken halfway through.

“Again.”

“Please,” he repeats. “Please.”

The rhythm you find is ruinous. When you lean forward, the angle punches him deep; when you pull back your hips snap against his, tight and filthy and loud in the small room. Deep, then hard. Deep again. His brain keeps trying to process, to file, to make sure he’s not doing anything wrong, and you keep riding those thoughts right out of his head.

“More,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t know if you mean words or feeling. He gives you both.

“Please,” he whispers. “God, please—don’t stop, don’t—”

Your hand slides from his temple into his hair, back to tugging, just enough to tilt his head back, to open his throat under your mouth. Your other braces on his shoulder, keeping him exactly where you want him.

It’s not rough, not really. Just… anchored. Controlled. You move on him like you know exactly what he can take and exactly how close to the edge you want him.

“The way you’re taking this,” you murmur against his jaw, voice low, warmer than the words indicate. “Letting me—” you punctuate it with a hard slam of your pelvis that knocks the breath out of him “—do all the work.”

He shudders. “Happy to… delegate,” he manages, fingers flexing. “You’re… highly qualified.”

You laugh, short and surprised, and he feels stupidly proud of that too.

He clings. That’s the truth of it. His hands travel, to ribs and back, seeking the slide of your muscles under skin as you move. He lets you set the pace, take what you want, use him as leverage. Just use him. Every time his palms try to guide, your fingers close over his and push them back where you like them—here, on your ass; here, at your ribs; here, flat against the mattress so you can ride him without interference.

“Please,” he says again, because you haven’t told him to stop, and because begging feels less like humiliation and more like offering you something he’s never given anyone else. “Please, please…”

“Look at you,” you murmur. Your thumbs come back to his temples, like you’re soothing a fever. “So good.”

That shouldn’t go straight through him like that, but it does. He feels it hit, low and sharp, tangled up between need and relief. “Yeah?” he asks, dazed.

“Yeah,” you say, and there’s no edge to it. Just honest astonishment. “You’re being very good for me.”

He swallows hard. That’s all he’s ever wanted: to be told he’s doing it right, that he’s not making everything worse by existing in the room. If the price of that is his dignity, he’ll pay in full and tip generously.

You change the rhythm again, chasing something in yourself now; he can feel it in the way your thighs tighten around him, the way your breath gains weight on the upstroke. You ride him in a rougher pattern—no prettiness, just grit and need.

He meets you as best he can, hips jerking up into yours, but it’s still you doing most of the work, using his body like a solid thing you can trust. He lets you. He will let you do whatever you want to him, as long as you keep that look in your eyes, that intent, focused thing that says stay instead of go away.

“Robert,” you say, and his name in that voice is a command. He drags his gaze back from where you’re joined, from the slick slide of you on him, and up to your face. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he says quickly. “I’m—I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” You slow for a few strokes, roll your hips in a way that has his vision greying out at the edges. “If you need to stop, you tell me.”

He huffs a laugh, half-strangled. “Not… a risk.”

“I mean it.” Your fingers tighten in his hair, just enough to get his full attention. “You say stop, I get off. Understand?”

He nods, throat thick. “Yeah. I—understand.”

It hits him then, properly: the line you’re walking. The fact that he’s not just being swept along; he’s choosing this, handing you the reins and trusting you not to jerk them hard enough to break his neck. His chest squeezes. Something in his spine unwinds.

“I trust you,” he blurts, before he can talk himself out of it.

You falter, just for a moment. Your eyes search his face, and for a terrifying second he thinks he’s ruined it, said the one thing too heavy for this space.

Then your expression goes soft in a way he’s never seen. You lean in, kiss him once—slow, almost chaste compared to the rest of it.

“Good,” you whisper against his mouth. “Now, beg again.”

He laughs, choked and delighted, and does exactly that.

“Please,” he says, the word decomposing as you start to move in earnest. “Please, please—fuck, you feel so good—please don’t stop—”

Your breath stutters on a shaky laugh. “God, you really are,” you say, half to yourself. “Better than anything your charts say about you.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he files it under positive results and lets go of whatever scraps of composure he was still clinging to. He gives you every please you ask for and then some, sheds his worries into your skin, the rhythm you set, the praise you’re stingy with and therefore priceless.

He can feel it building, low and huge, like a wave with his name stamped on it. If you tell him to hold it, he will. If you tell him to let go, he will do that too, without question.

For once in his life, Robert Robertson is not steering the disaster. And it feels—against all his instincts—like safety. 

You change again—less showy now, more focused. Shorter strokes, tight and vulgar, grinding down at the end so he can feel the drag of you around him, the wet heat that is absolutely going to break his spine if you keep this up.

“Robert,” you breathe, and he’s so far gone he almost comes just from that. “You close?”

He lets out an undignified sound that could be yes, could be help. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I’m—I’m really—”

“Hold it,” you say.

Just that. Calm, but fond. His whole body spasms. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?” Your hands tighten on his shoulders. Your hips keep moving, slow and deep, rolling down in a way that wants to wring him out. “Stay right there. For me.”

He was going to be obedient anyway; you didn’t need to weaponise it. “I—okay. Okay,” he says, because that’s all he’s ever had to offer anyone. Try. “God, I’ll—”

You change angle, and whatever he was about to promise burns up on re-entry.

It hurts, in a good way. Like holding a heavy weight just past the point where his muscles want to give in. Sweat beads on his brow, trickles down his spine. He clamps his teeth together, fists curling in the meat of your ass, and breathes like a man doing fire suppression on his own arousal.

“Good,” you murmur when he doesn’t immediately explode. Your forehead presses briefly to his, your breath hot and uneven. “So good. Just like that.”

He clings to the words like they’re a harness. Good. Just like that. He can do that. He can hold the line if that’s what you want. If you tell him to stay, he’ll stay. Even if it kills him.

Your rhythm starts to fray. He feels it before he hears it—the way your hips stutter, less precise, more desperate. Your hand, which had been steady on his shoulder, slips, fingers digging in for purchase.

He looks up. Your eyes are unfocused, lashes wet, mouth parted around breaths that keep catching on invisible edges.

“That’s it,” he pants, half encouragement, half prayer. “Come on, I’ve got you. I’m not—I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a laugh that’s about three parts wrecked. “Thank you.”

You bear down on him, again, again, chasing something only you can see. Every squeeze, every clench around him is both agony and reward. His balls are screaming; his pulse is a shrill alarm in his ears; every cell in him is screaming now, and still he holds, because you haven’t said he can let go.

“Please,” he rasps, not even sure what he’s asking for any more.

“Hold,” you say again, voice thin and high. “Just—just a bit longer. I’m—”

The sentence dissolves into a broken noise as it hits you.

He feels it. Every shudder of muscle, every tight, frantic clench around him as your body locks down and rides the wave. Your head tips back; a string of sounds spills out of you, not words, just grunts and whimpers and a raw little oh that sounds like it’s been punched out of your lungs.

It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever heard.

He has to hold you, then, because you’re shaking and clinging and he’s the only solid thing within reach. His arms wrap around your back, crushing you to his chest as if he could hold you together by force. Your nails bite into his shoulders. Your whole body shivers through the aftershocks, bearing down on him in involuntary pulses that push him right up against his limit and balance there.

“Okay,” you breathe, eventually, forehead dropping to his. “Okay, you can—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to. He’s already nodding frantically.

Before he can tip over inside you, you shift. With a quick, efficient twist of your hips, you lift yourself off him. The sudden loss of pressure makes him groan, low and guttural. His cock slips free, wet and slick and flushed dark, twitching helplessly in the cool air.

He’s so close it hurts. His hands scrabble for something to hold onto that isn’t you dragging yourself out of reach.

You don’t go far.

One hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers slotting into damp hair, tugging him forward until his mouth is a breath away from yours. The other wraps around him, sure and slick and merciful, stroking from base to tip with a grip that makes his hips jerk without his permission.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasps, forehead thunking against yours. “Oh, that’s—”

“Shh,” you murmur, thumb circling the flushed head, spreading what’s already there into something obscene. “I’ve got you. Just like this.”

You kiss him then, properly—no angle, no wrestling for control, just a long, open-mouthed drag of lips and tongue that he feels all the way down his spine. Your hand works him in steady, firm pulls, squeezing just a little at the top, twisting on the way down. It’s too much, too perfect, like you’ve taken a lifetime of fumbling and rewired it in thirty seconds flat.

“Come for me,” you hum into his mouth.

There’s nowhere for the command to go but straight through him. He breaks.

It rips out of him in a rush, the tension snapping all at once. “Yes, yes, yes—God—thank you,” he cries out into your mouth, the sound mangled by the kiss, hips jerking up into your fist. Hot, ridiculous relief floods him as he comes in thick, helpless spurts—half across his own stomach, the rest striping your abdomen and the inside of your thighs. “Thank you, thank you.”

He has no idea what he’s thanking you for. Existing. Making a spectacular mess of your very sterile med bay. All viable options.

Before you can issue any commentary on said mess, he folds around you, arms wrapping tight, dragging you in against his heaving chest. His whole body is trembling, post-adrenaline, post-orgasm, everything. He tucks his face into the curve of your neck like that’s where it’s always meant to go.

“Hey,” you say softly, one hand coming up to his cheek. You thumb the sweat from his forehead in small, absent strokes. “You okay?”

He laughs once, breathless. “More than,” he manages. “Kind of… illegally more than.”

“Hm.” You lean back enough to see him, properly, and he hates how much he already misses the contact. Your expression is dazed but wry. “I guess it’s you who should buy me a drink now, so this isn’t doomed under professional malpractice forever.”

“Oh, I can do that.” His voice is still wrecked, but a bit of his usual rhythm sneaks back in. “I know just the place for a lady like you.” He swallows, nerves pricking under the afterglow. “Have you ever been to The Sardine?”

You snort. Actual fondness, all teeth bared, honest and bright, flashes across your face. It hits him harder than anything else tonight.

“Even The Sardine will work today,” you say.

You press your face to his again, cheek to cheek, natural and sweet. Your hand comes up in a light smack to his face—not a slap, not really. More of a pat. A gentle thing right on the border between reprimand and affection.

He thinks, absurdly, that he might like to find out what it feels like pushed a notch further. He puts that away for after the drink.

For now, he lets himself breathe. Lets himself feel the way all the old tensions—the clench, the hunched shoulders, the constantly buzzing nerves—have loosened, dissolving somewhere between your hands and your mouth and the way you told him he’s good without laughing.

Lockjaw, at least, is gone. So are a few other things he dragged in here.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis. 

None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards. 

“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”

“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows. 

Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips. 

“What’dya need?”

Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”

Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”

Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”

Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what. 

With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said. 

Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise. 

The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit. 

Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop. 

“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”

He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer. 

Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight. 

Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash. 

He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you. 

You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others. 

“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular. 

But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”

They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you. 

You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days. 

Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing. 

It’s just another way of keeping you quiet. 

When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair. 

You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom. 

You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up. 

You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts. 

Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay. 

No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate. 

None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you. 

You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role. 

Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop. 

You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map. 

If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom. 

You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it. 

Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him. 

Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion. 

Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for. 

“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden. 

Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing. 

“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”

“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”

You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”

Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”

You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers. 

But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow. 

“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”

Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble. 

“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust. 

“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs. 

Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned. 

He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head. 

It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house. 

The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in. 

A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”

Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”

Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”

Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit. 

“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?” 

“He has,” Arthur grouses. 

At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and  Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.

“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing. 

But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all. 

This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good. 

Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward. 

You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over. 

At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting. 

He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?

Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”

Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either. 

None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this. 

Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”

You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”

Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch. 

Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.” 

“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face. 

Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage. 

Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”

Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him. 

He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle. 

His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”

Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care. 

They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”

His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off. 

He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night. 

Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all. 

Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer. 

The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done. 

And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle. 

His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh. 

He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him. 

He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes. 

Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh. 

“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty. 

He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house. 

Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room. 

They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes. 

You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you. 

When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing. 

He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway. 

He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified. 

You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined. 

You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable. 

It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not. 

You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful. 

You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies. 

The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours. 

There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes. 

“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee. 

“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.” 

You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.” 

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”

Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind. 

“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”

Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”

“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh. 

He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence. 

“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.” 

He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion. 

Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you. 

He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows. 

The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind? 

No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant. 

He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”

He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily. 

Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”

“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”

Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful. 

You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.” 

He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”

He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo. 

The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it? 

“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you. 

But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”

You shake your head, “No. I told you.”

He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.” 

He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey. 

Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller. 

The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met. 

The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try. 

Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso. 

You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment. 

You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man. 

It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save. 

Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him. 

As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories. 

You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you. 

He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.

It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be. 

None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score. 

You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees. 

His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God. 

“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction. 

You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.” 

He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture. 

“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore. 

“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling. 

Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”

You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”

“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”

“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”

He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both. 

Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now. 

Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you. 

You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.

Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again. 

“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”

You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up. 

“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep. 

You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”

You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous. 

His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants. 

You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?” 

“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle. 

Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”

He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush. 

“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”

Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died. 

You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know. 

“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.

“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”

You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”

He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”

You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea. 

So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him. 

“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”

You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement. 

“Caught on quicker than I thought.”

You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you. 

Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen. 

You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water. 

You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight. 

Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”

He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.” 

It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.” 

It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you. 

He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly. 

You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur. 

“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”

“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye. 

He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon. 

He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him. 

Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you. 

You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you. 

Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough. 

You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you. 

Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass. 

You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath. 

“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet. 

“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”

The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up. 

He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name. 

He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you. 

“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it. 

“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods. 

“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit. 

He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”

Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head. 

You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off. 

He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror. 

“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”

You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground. 

You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks. 

You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying. 

You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck. 

Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him. 

You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath. 

His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening. 

Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you. 

You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you. 

The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about. 

You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again. 

You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath. 

You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently. 

You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up. 

He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals. 

For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose. 

His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves. 

His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest. 

He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken. 

He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground. 

He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town. 

An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much. 

You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge. 

He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?” 

You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”

He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”

A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.

He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty. 

“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body. 

He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little. 

The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation. 

It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it. 

He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt. 

He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash. 

Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him. 

There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right. 

He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time. 

Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?

Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room. 

He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is. 

It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself. 

Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep. 

When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light. 

“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”

You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”

You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly. 

You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”

You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground. 

“Well, what’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.” 

You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?

“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”

His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”

“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?” 

“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor. 

“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger. 

“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort. 

He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him. 

He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy. 

He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is. 

He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away. 

He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again. 

Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day. 

You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw. 

You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from. 

You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way. 

But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”

He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”

You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude. 

“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully. 

“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”

Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”

Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”

“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses. 

You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”

“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”

You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to. 

He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to. 

A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that. 

You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life. 

Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”

“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.” 

“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”

You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”

“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.

A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice. 

He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate. 

“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”

“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance. 

“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity. 

“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”

You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses. 

The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”

You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you. 

Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint. 

“Name her?”

You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly. 

“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous. 

You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused. 

He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.

“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”

“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”

“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth. 

“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure. 

You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore. 

Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”

“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles. 

“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire. 

He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time. 

There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house. 

Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in. 

You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself. 

But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him. 

He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife. 

He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”

He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”

“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river. 

“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare. 

“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.

“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer. 

“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”

He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”

You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”

You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up. 

You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool. 

He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it. 

He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future. 

You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”

“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had. 

Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.

You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face. 

The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”

He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”

You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye. 

Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him. 

“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches. 

“Arthur Morgan.”

Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”

Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised. 

“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out. 

“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment. 

His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat. 

You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy. 

“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station. 

“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”

Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train. 

Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past. 

“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go. 

Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon. 

He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins. 

“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”

“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily. 

His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach. 

“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”

Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”

He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train. 

You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy. 

He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto. 

As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life. 

You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose. 

There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man. 

Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach. 

You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went. 

You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear. 

“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here. 

God, what have you done?

You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living. 

There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here. 

You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail. 

Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train. 

“What the hell are you doing, woman?” 

Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”

His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train. 

You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you. 

It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms. 

He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage. 

Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it. 

“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent. 

He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”

You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”

He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him.  “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.” 

You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have. 

“What if we don’t go back?”

Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no. 

“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin. 

“Did you steal his money?”

“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”

“I don’t know, kid.”

“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”

He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is. 

“Just a little while?”

You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.

“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home. 

Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away. 

Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work. 

You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.

You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down. 

Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”

Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks. 

“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”

“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”

Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”

“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night. 

Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes. 

“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”

John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”

“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head. 

“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”

Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters. 

“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”

“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him. 

“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”

You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present. 

But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon. 

He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh. 

“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn. 

You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”

“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him. 

“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”

Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses. 

“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”

“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”

John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word. 

Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”

John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”

“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”

Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home. 

“You’ve got a nice life out here.”

You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”

Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”

You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while. 

You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”

“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”

“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”

She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”

John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”

Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look. 

“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers. 

“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”

You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”

There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”

You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another. 

You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”

He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?” 

You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”

He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh. 

You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

Somehow that had led to where you were now — locked in a bathroom stall with your back pressed against the cool wall, the pants of your sweatsuit down your legs. You weren’t exactly sure how you’d even got into this predicament. Maybe it was the feel of Thanos’ body pressing against yours, maybe it was the attention from the most handsome guy in this place — you had no idea. All you knew was that Thanos was on his knees, his mouth between your thighs devouring you like a man possessed.

His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your folds. Your fingers tangled in his purple locks, tugging on them as his tongue swirled around your clit, flicking the sensitive bud. The moans falling from your lips were breathy as you tried to keep quiet. The last thing you needed was to get caught. Having sex in the bathroom was surely grounds for elimination. 

“You’re fuckin’ dripping, baby,” Thanos mumbled against you as he lapped up your juices. “You taste so good, Senorita. Could do this all day.”

His tongue alternated between teasing your clit and licking along your folds before he dove the muscle into your tight hole. A gasp emanated from your lips, your fingers tugging on his hair even tighter as he fucked you with his tongue. 

“Fuck, Thanos,” you panted. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna come.”

Suddenly, he pulled away from you, wiping your juices from his lips with the back of his hand. Damn, could this man get any hotter? He rose to his feet, hand sliding to the back of your neck as he crashed his lips against yours. You could taste yourself on his tongue as he shoved his into your mouth, tangling with yours. Moaning into the kiss, Thanos used his free hand to pull his own sweatpants down just enough to free his aching cock.

“Jump,” he mumbled against your lips. Instantly, you obliged. His hands caught you as you wrapped your legs around his waist. His length brushed against your folds causing a shudder to run through your body. Was it just this place? Because you had never wanted someone so badly before in your life. Never had you felt so desperate. The lingering fear of death was probably a factor – making you crave as much intimacy as humanly possible. “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget all about these games, senorita.”

Before you could even reply, he nudged the head of his cock at your entrance, pushing into you with one hard thrust. His hand flew up to cover your mouth, hiding the loud moan you’d let out at the feeling of him bottomed out inside you. He drew his hips back until he was almost all the way out then thrust back in, hard. He set a fast past, withdrawing his hand from your mouth so he could grab at your hips. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough he was sure to leave bruises but you didn’t care. The feeling of him pistoning in and out of you, the draw of his cock along your walls was enough for you to feel like you were in heaven. Nothing else really mattered in that moment.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight. Taking me like a champ,” he groaned, his eyes glancing down to watch his dick move in and out of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the bathroom stall. His hands slid down your back to grab your ass, pulling your body into him as he fucked into you to take him deeper. 

“Oh, right there, right there,” you whimpered as he hit that spot inside of you that made you see stars. Thanos smirked, covering your whimpers with his mouth as he picked up his pace. He made sure to angle his hips so he hit that sweet spot over and over again to the point you were a whimpering, moaning mess babbling nonsense about how good he felt inside you.

Your hands clawed at his back, head thrown back against the wall as he pounded into you with animalistic speed. He was like a man possessed, fucking you with an inch of your life to bring you both to ecstasy. One of his hands reached up into your hair, yanking your head back roughly. “Come for me, Senorita. Show me who’s making you feel this fucking good.” 

He could feel your walls clamping down around him, bringing his own climax closer. He redoubled his efforts, covering your mouth once again sensing how close you were. His body felt like it was on fire as he thrust his hips relentlessly against yours. His forehead rested against yours as his grunts came more frequently, trying his best to keep quiet himself. Then, he felt it, his balls tightening as he toyed on the edge of ecstasy. 

“Oh fuck,” you cried out, though it was a mumbled against his hand. Your body shook as your orgasm crashed over you, hips bucking wildly against his. The feeling of you coming undone around his cock finally pushed him over the edge.

“Shit, I’m coming. Fuck,” he groaned, burying his head in your neck, his teeth biting down on your skin as he thrust into you one last time, hips stilling as he painted your insides with his release. After a few minutes, he finally caught his breath back, pulling out of you with a hiss. He tucked his softening length back into his pants, leaning back against the wall on the other side of the stall. His eyes watched you as you pulled your own clothes back on. Both of you knew this had to stay between you, if anyone found out they’d surely use it to get you eliminated from the games.

Your fingers ran through your hair trying to at least make yourself look presentable before you went back into the pits of hell. “Well…”

You, being in amp, were basically like a little sister to the others. Well, besides agent. Despite your playful banter and bickering in the gaming streams, you and Agent had always been just friends. But the viewers, ever-attuned to any hint of romantic chemistry, couldn't help but point out the palpable tension that sparked whenever you and Agent were together on camera. Agent's knack for delivering insults always seemed to be directed at you, leaving the audience divided between enjoying your reactions and secretly shipping the two of you together.

Tonight, the amp house was eerily silent. Kai was away in Taiwan for Ray's graduation, leaving the house blissfully without his usual boisterous presence. Duke was nowhere to be found, preferring to stream in the comfort of his separate house these days. Davis was rarely around, spending most of his time at his girlfriend's place. Even Chris, who normally slept at the amp house, was absent. It was just you and Agent the only ones in the house, but it didn't really mean anything to either of you.

—

At 1 am, Agent had finally finished a six-hour stream. Exhaustion and fatigue weighed heavily on his frame as he gently removed his headset, then his hat, shaking his signature dreads. His gaze lingered on the now darkened monitors, a sense of weariness etched across his face. With a weary sigh, he reached forward and began shutting everything off, the room plunging into a temporary state of silence.

Suddenly, his door opened, agent stood up from his chair, not looking towards his door, obviously knowing it was you. But then felt a wave of confusion hit. It was 1 am, why the hell would you be in his room late at night? He heard your footsteps approaching him, but didn't turn around yet. He couldn't help but let out a small sigh and an eye roll, assuming your intentions were to bother him.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he asked a bit bluntly, his tiredness was noticeable in his tone of voice. He waited for a response, still not turning to look at you. His gaze lingered on the monitors in front of him, making sure everything was off before he called it a night.

"I can't sleep." the gentle tone of your voice made agent turn around to finally face you, his expression softened upon seeing you look at him with those tired eyes. He was a bit surprised. Hearing your soft, quiet voice was unusual and even surprising. Usually, you don't speak in such a soft tone, but the tiredness in your voice made him realize that you were extremely sleep deprived.

"Damn...Are you okay? You look tired as hell." he couldn't help but feel a wave of concern at the thought of you not getting a healthy amount of rest.

"hmhm" hearing your soft reply only made him feel more concerned. He stared at you from his desk, looking at you with a gentle gaze. "um" he heard you pause, his gaze lingering on your tired figure. "Can I sleep in here with you?"

Upon hearing you ask that, his expression changed to a surprised look. He was shocked to hear you say that. sleep in his room? with him? he felt flustered. his heart skipped a beat, looking at your tired figure. he couldn't say no. especially if you looked exhausted. he sighed, nodding his head as he looked at you.

"Yeah- you can sleep in here with me for tonight." he responded back to your question, before turning back to his monitors, watching as they finished shutting down. He glanced back at you, walking to his door that led to his other rooms.

"come on" He walked inside the other room, which was connected to his gaming room. His bathroom was dimly lit, and his shower was large and spacious. He turned to look at you, noticing how tired you looked and how you were rubbing your eyes. The corner of his lips turned into a soft grin, seeing how adorable you looked tired.

He led you to his main room, which was connected to his bathroom. He guided you into the bedroom, walking towards his bed that could fit two people. he laid down on his bed, getting comfortable. The room was average size, a red light illuminating the room.

"you can lay down" he mumbled, watching you close his door. He acknowledged how sleepy you were, and found it adorable. His heart warmed at the precious sight of you, all tired and drained.

He smiled gently at you, his eyes looking at your tired body. He saw you come onto the bed, laying down next to him. he was blushing a bit, seeing how cute you looked. it was unusual for him to think about how you look since he usually makes fun of you. He isn't used to seeing you like this.

He then placed his bonnet on, laying down properly on his comfortable bed. He observed you silently staring at his ceiling, noticing that you seemed to be more comfortable now that you weren't alone anymore. He glanced at your tired figure, a small smile appeared on his lips.

He gazes at your features, taking in how pretty you looked laying next to him. He then found himself wondering what was making you so sleep deprived. His eyes scanned your face, and then spoke softly.

"did something happen? Or why can't you sleep?" he pondered, looking at you with a soft and gentle look, staring down at your lips, watching them as you opened them to speak.

"I feel lonely- I just can't sleep with how lonely my room felt" he turned his head to look directly into your eyes now that you stopped looking at the ceiling, holding eye-contact with you. a pang of sympathy hit him when you said you felt lonely. he quietly listened to you closely, noticing your expression softening as you spoke. a silent feeling of pity arose in him as he looked at you, hearing you saying you were lonely

"you're lonely huh?" He said in a soft whisper as he looked at you, a hint of tiredness in his voice, he continued to gaze into your eyes silently, his eyes slowly roaming over your face, noticing how close you two were. he didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes shifting back down to your lips before looking back into your eyes again. he was feeling a weird feeling in his stomach at the moment as he looked at you, his tired mind a bit overwhelmed by your presence and how adorable and cute you looked at the moment. he slowly reached up and gently pushed some hair behind your ear.

"You should’ve said so…" he muttered quietly, continuing to look into your eyes, feeling a strange and confusing feeling of attraction and desire for you. despite the constant bickering and insults that the two of you give to each other, he can’t deny the fact that you are extremely attractive. he couldn’t deny that he thought you were cute and wanted you bad. he slowly moved his hand and gently touched your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing against your skin.

Agent could see your eyes glance down at his hand resting on your cheek, before looking back into his eyes. the feeling of desire continued to grow in him, making it harder for him to keep his composure and control his thoughts. he swallowed quietly, his voice soft and gentle as he spoke to you "So lonely you had to crawl into my bed, huh?" he joked in a whisper, his soft and gentle touch still on your cheek.

Agent noticed a small grin forming on the corner of your lips, and it only made his heart flutter a bit as he looked at you. he couldn’t help but notice the tired and sleepy expression on your face. he couldn’t deny that you looked adorable at the moment. he slowly leaned in a bit closer and spoke in a even more quieter voice. "Looks like you’re about to fall asleep…"

His gaze fixed at you while you slowly blinked at him, too exhausted to respond. he could tell that you were tired and about to fall asleep at any second by the way you started slowly blinking, your tiredness taking over your entire body. seeing you looking tired made him feel a rush of emotions, from wanting to hold you in his arms to wanting to just keep watching you. he softly chuckled at your lack of response and softly spoke again "Goddamn, you look cute when you’re sleepy."

He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, as he looked at you while you slowly grew more sleepy. the thought of holding your body against his own made him want to hold you close. the idea of just slowly running his fingers through your hair as you fall asleep was running through his mind. he slowly moved his hand from your cheek and gently rested it on your waist as he gently pulled you towards him, wanting you closer to him

He slowly pulled you closer to him, your body now closer to his, as he wrapped his arms around your waist. he could barely keep his composure and control his thoughts, the idea of holding you so close to his body made him feel some type of way. he felt the intense desire to kiss you but held it back, he didn’t want to give in to his own wants yet. he looked at you for a moment, his eyes still lingering all over your sleepy face.

He held you close to him, feeling your body against his, the heat and warmth from your body feeling good against him. he had to hold back all the thoughts in his mind of wanting to kiss you and hold you even closer, but he controlled himself for the time being. he gently nuzzled his face against the top of your head, softly closing his eyes and taking in the feel of your body against him. your sleepy expression and cute body made him want you even more

He let out a soft content sigh as he nuzzled his face against the top of your head, his hands slowly rubbing your side gently. he continued holding you close to him, your body pressed against his chest. he slowly closed his eyes again as he spoke in a soft and quiet voice. "You better not drool all over me while you sleep." he joked in a hushed whisper, feeling the tiredness taking over his mind.

"I don't drool." he softly smiled at your response, your tired tone and sleepy expression were still cute to him. he slowly opened his eyes again as he looked down at you, listening to your mumbled reply, quietly scoffing at it "Oh, yeah? You’re lying. You definitely Drool." he said in a hushed tone, poking your side gently, a teasing tone in his voice, his body still holding you close against him

He felt his heart flutter again as you opened your eyes and looked up at him, feeling you cuddling against him and nuzzling your face into his chest. he couldn’t resisting softly chuckling at how cute and adorable you looked at the moment. he wrapped my arms even tighter around your waist, pulling you closer to him and holding you tightly "hm, going quiet now, huh?" he said quietly, his hand rubbing your back softly.

He heard you only humming in response, nuzzling your face into his chest and closing your eyes. seeing you close your eyes and nuzzle into his chest made him smile again to himself. he continued to rub your back gently, his hand moving in soft and slow circles. he could tell you were falling asleep as he held you in his arms, a soothing feeling of comfort washing over him. he closed his eyes for a moment and rested his head on top of yours, breathing in the scent of your hair and listening to your gentle breathing

He held you close as he felt you slowly falling asleep in his arms, your body relaxing, your breathing getting slower and softer, the way you nuzzled your face into his chest making his heart flutter again. he slowly exhaled and spoke in a quiet, whispery tone again, his hand still rubbing your back in a gentle and soothing motion "Just fall asleep already." he whispered, a hint of affection in his voice as he looked at you, admiring your sleepy expression and adorable tired body against his

He continued to watch over you as you slowly fell asleep in his arms, his hand still rubbing your back in a gentle and soothing motion. he could see how comfortable and relaxed you looked, your eyes slowly closing and your breathing slowing down. his heart swelled with affection and a sense of protectiveness as he held you in his arms, feeling your body relaxing as you drifted off into a deep and gentle sleep. "Sleep babygirl…" he whispered softly, continuing to hold you, feeling your body slowly relax and ease into a deep sleep. he gently shifted a bit, pulling you even closer to his body, wanting to keep you as close as possible while you sleep. as he held you, he noticed how cute and adorable you looked when you slept, your face so relaxed and peaceful. he slowly ran his fingers through your hair softly, the affectionate and protective feeling in his heart growing stronger as he watched over you while you slept.

He stayed there, holding you close to his body, your body pressed up against his as you slept peacefully. he softly sighed to himself in content, his eyes roaming over your face as you slept. he continued gently rubbing your back with one hand, the other hand softly continuing to play with your hair. he couldn’t help but marvel at how adorable and beautiful you looked while you slept, his heart feeling both affection and protectiveness towards you

He continued watching you sleep, a wave of tiredness washing over him. he was fighting the urge to fall asleep, he wanted to stay awake and keep his arms around you, continuing to gently rub your back. but the sound of your gentle breathing and the soothing feeling of holding you in his arms were slowly coaxing him to sleep. he gently sighed, his eyes closing for a moment as he tried to resist the sleepiness but he knew it was futile.

The quiet room was illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, the silver moonlight streaming through the glass of the sliding door and creating a gentle and soothing ambience. the two of you were cuddled up against each other, your bodies close together and his arms still holding you securely against him. his chest rose and fell gently as he slept, his breaths soft and steady. the room was still and peaceful, the only sound being the sound of your soft breathing and the occasional sounds of the night outside.

Your body was catching up on the sleep you missed out on. This brought you a sense of calm and contentment that you rarely felt. neither of you or agent had expected to end up like this, cuddled together in his bed, the warmth of agents body against yours feeling like a cure for both your sleepless nights. Now you know exactly who to go to for comfort whenever you struggled to sleep.

The sweat beading off your forehead mixed with his, he reached around the other side and kissed your cheek, the gaze he gave you through the mirror, made you clench around him, his length filling you, leaving you craving for an ounce of movement.

he raised himself into a push-up position, moaning at the little twitching his dick did. He gather as many curls as he could with one hand, which was basically your whole head, you’d be beating him senselessly about fucking up your hair, but at this moment you didn’t care, it’s not like he was hurting you.

“I want you to look at yourself in the mirror,” he carefully moved your head back to the center of the mirror, returning your gaze to meet his, “You take your eyes off, I’ll slow down. Got it?”

You nodded your head in agreement, “Give me words baby,” He yanked your head back, slowly gyrating his hips in a circle, making you follow his command. “Yessss Daddy,”

He pulled the corner of his mouth into a smirk, “That's my good girl, I love you.”

Before you could even get a chance to say it back, he gave you one powerful thrust, to prepare you for what was about to come.

He leans down to your ear, panting and cursing under his breath while he planted kisses on your shoulders leading up to your ear, “Breathe mamas,” his words were like God’s pure words, looking into your skull as the most beautiful sound of you filled the air, “That pretty ass voice, You like it when I fuck you like this? Hm?” He asked you with each thrust growing sharp.

“YesYesYesYesYes Fuck!” you whimpered, lowering your head which slowed his pace down, “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, feeling you clenching around his dick made him desire you more.

He loved when you smiled, he loved it when you moaned, he loved it when you made sure the whole world knew his name and every curse word in the universe, he loved it when you submitted to him, you were always a hassle but you learned to submit to him, and he loved that shit.

“Fuck,” He leaned back, resting his hands on your hips, groaning at you slowly fuck him back, he guided you carefully up and down his dick, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was tryna trap your ass.

“This pussy feels amazing baby, She’s taking me soooo fuckin’ well. You like fuckin’ me like this? Fuck me back like the lil slut you are?” he questioned you knowing damn well you couldn’t comprehend what in the entire fuck he was talking about, you were too focused on how good he was fucking you, his slightly curved dick touching all the right spots and spots you didn’t know was even there before, its like he learned your body without you knowing and you loved it.

you whined as he slowly slid out of you, his dick fully coated with your essence. He flipped you to your side and to which he giggled at your face, your lips permanently stuck like the letter ‘O’.

“Come on baby, I know you got one more in you.”

“I done gave you threeeee,” you dragged your words into whines, you have been fucked outta your mind and so has he, but neither one of you wanted to be apart from each other.

He positioned himself along with your entrance, you clenched over nothing as your pussy was trying to welcome him back to his home.

He grips your throat enough to where you can breathe just a little, bringing your face close to his as he gives you a sultry meaningful kiss, one that leaves you feeling like the two of you’s souls are complete, merging you both into one.

Without breaking the kiss, he slowly teased you with his length, sliding it up and down your wet folds, smacking his tip right on your clit, giggling at the small twitch and hitches your breath made.

He let go of your throat as he slowly slid back into you, breaking the kiss to let out thee most dramatic gasp you could have ever gasped, got to give it to him, toxic dick is what’ll make a bitch sick.

He locks his arms from under your armpit, you threw your arms around him, keeping him close as he grips your shoulders, steadying himself before he begins to rock his hips.

The slow, sensual pace drove you mad, your moans turning into whimpers as he kept fuckin his love deeper into you.

“I’m gonna,” He moaned deeply in your ear, you kept him close, locking your legs behind him so he couldn’t go nowhere, at this point you were the one trapping this nigga.

“Please cum in me!” you whimpered loosely as your body did something all too familiar.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Pleaseeeeee?”

“I ca-can’t hearrrr you,” he growled primarily as he fucked your hungrily, his thrusts fogging your brain on actual words, all you could blurt was:

“Daddy please cum in my pussy? Fuck, fuck, Please Daddy?!”

his chuckles turned into moans as his dick twitched inside you, you felt him shoot his seed deep inside you, fucking it deeper in you as you scream in pleasure and unholiness, you black out for a few seconds.

When you came to, Duke was gripping your hips to keep you still, rutting into you a few more before halting to a complete stop.

The room was filled with heavy breathing and unwanted clatter from the TV, the both of you started laughing when you two came down from Cloud 9, Duke slid out and plopped beside you.

“I love you baby.” you breathed, climbing over to lay on his chest.

“I love you more mamas,” he rubbed your shoulders, running his lines over his fingermarks, “Sorry About That.”

Arthur Morgan

- We’ve all seen how he was with Mary. He’d be besotted with you

- His journal would be filled with sketches of you, entries talking about how much he adores you, little notes about how you looked that day or musings about his plans for your future together.

- Definitely doodles a little heart with your initials too <3

- He’s touch starved. So he loves physical contact. A hand to your knee, your back, arm around your shoulders or your waist. He likes keeping you close.

- Brings you stuff from his little travels. Picks flowers for you, finds little trinkets for you.

- Keeps a picture of you by his bed.

- Forehead kisses!!!!!

- Kisses your hand. And kisses to your wrist. He loves when you reach up to cup his face and he can turn to press his lips against your wrist.

- He’s so much more than a tough, burly cowboy. He’s quiet, caring, considerate. And he adores you

NSFW

- takes his time. Likes to work at you until not a single tense muscle is left in your body. Worships you.

- Loves any positions where he can see your face, needs to be close enough to constantly kiss you and tell you how good you are for him

- “ there’s my girl, doin so good for me darlin “ “ jus’ like that darlin, let me take good care of ya “

- Not incredibly vocal, but the noises he does make he ensures are right by your ear.

- Refuses to finish before you ever.

- Loves to finish inside tho. He knows it’s risky, but he loves the closeness. And if he’s feeling particularly risky he’ll definitely push his come back into you with his fingers “ don’t waste it now “

- Grips The headboard.

John Marston

- he’s stupid. He really is. He’ll be head over heels for you, with you clearly reciprocating those feelings and he’d still think you didn’t like him like that.

- Like. You could kiss him and he’d still be like ‘ what are we? ‘

- When he does finally put two and two together he’ll have no shame or cautions in showing you off.

- He’s handsy. Likes coming up behind you when you’re washing dishes for Pearson to rub at your shoulders.

- Or pull you down to sit on his lap before you can even think about taking the empty spot on the log next to him by the fire.

- Overprotective. One tiny snide comment from anyone and he’s ready to start swinging.

- Definitely knows how to push your buttons and wind you up, and will do it just for fun and to get a rise outta you.

- And then spend the rest of day grovelling and apologising.

NSFW

- Loves going down on you. Like. Loves it. The man could spend hours there if you’d let him and Lord has he tried.

- Not very serious most of the time.

- Pretty vocal. And doesn’t really care if anyone’s listening either.

- Like i said, he’s handsy. His hands are restless and will grab at whatever part of you they can.

- Loves when you ride him and has absolutely made a cowgirl joke more than once.

- Will grab at your hips and guide your movements as you do. Told you he’s handsy.

- But also isn’t opposed to you on your back, legs over his shoulders. Presses kisses to your ankles and makes jokes about how good the view is.

Dutch Van Der Linde

- he’s not the most attentive of people at times. He’s constantly in his head and constantly thinking about things that aren’t you.

- But when he does allow himself time alone with you he is disgustingly charming.

- He always knows what to say, always knows the right words to have you melting into a puddle at his feet. You could be in the worst mood with him but a few whispers in your ear and it’s all forgotten.

- Has a million terms of endearment for you. My angel, my dear , my darling. He rarely ever uses your actual name, only when he’s mad.

- Loves to give you gifts, the more expensive the better. And he likes you to show them off too. He likes to show you off.

- Reads to you a lot.

- PDA is afraid of him. He doesn’t care where he is or who’s watching him, he’ll loop an arm around your waist to kiss your neck, pull you onto his lap when he’s reading beside his tent and kiss you. No shame.

NSFW

- will take his time with you but in a far different way to, say, Arthur

- He’ll edge you and overstimulate you for hours, because be gets off on the fact that you simply let him. That you obey his every command.

- Degrading and humiliating 🤝🏻 Dutch Van Der Linde

- He’s never too mean. And his degrading comments are more often than not laced with something sweet.

- Dacryphilic. 100000%. He loves watching you cry because he’s worked you into such an overstimulated mess.

- He’ll swipe your tears away or kiss them from your cheeks “ well isn’t that just a pretty sight? “ “ those tears for me, my angel? “

- Definitely has some kind of authority kink. Likes you calling him sir for sure.

- Loves you giving him head. Just loves you on your knees. It’s a power thing. And he’s a cocky son of a bitch.

- Sat back in his chair and won’t lift a damn finger to help you out, won’t even unbuckle his belt. And don’t tell me he doesn’t smoke whilst he watches you.

Sadie Adler

- She is absolutely not shy about her feelings when she finally accepts she has them.

- Shes just so sweet to you.

- Around camp she’s stuck to you like glue. Her arm is permanently around your waist or your shoulders, or her hand laced with yours and is ready to snap at any intrusive questions from anyone else about it at the drop of a hat

- Love language is gift giving. Just taken in a bounty but found a shiny lil necklace in his pocket? Well. It’s hers now. Or should I say, yours.

- If your hairs long enough she’ll braid it like hers, any excuse to be able to sit close to you and whisper sweet things in your ear.

- Would teach you how to shoot better, she wants to make sure you know how to defend yourself. but also wants the excuse to stand behind you and show you how to hold her rifle properly.

- Big spoon.

NSFW

- Sadie’s gained control over literally everything else in life, and it doesn’t change in the bedroom

- She trusts you whole heartedly but she’s not about to give up any sort of control to you for a While

- Makes sure she can see your face at all times, loves watching your face contort and relax in pleasure that she’s giving you

- Full of praise “ ain’t you just the prettiest thing? “ “ oh look at you! D’ya know how pretty you look from here? “ “ always such a good girl for me “

- Has a thing for putting her fingers in your mouth. Especially after she’s just fucked you with them.

- Having you on your knees eating her out drives her crazy. Will pull at your hair a little too hard but will soothe the sting with a thousand words of praise about how good you make her feel.

- And now hear me out. Loves to watch you. Will book you a hotel room together just so she can sit across the room and watch you touch yourself for her, encouraging you the entire time

- It’s never long before she absolutely has to have her hands on you though in the end.

Molly O’Shea

- sheeeee has some trust issues. And abandonment issues. She’s just… she’s a lot at times.

- But she is fiercely loyal and will love you with every fibre of her being

- And she wants to be loved as fiercely in return. She’ll spiral without constant reassurance “ d’you even love me anymore? “ “did I do somethin wrong? Haven’t told me you love me today “

- She knows deep down you do love her. She’s just afraid.

- She is such a romantic. She loves holding your hand, sitting close to you, doing your makeup like hers and stealing kisses in between painting your lips red

- She’ll write you sappy romantic poetry and leave you lil notes

- You’ll often overhear her gushing to other people about how in love she is too. She just loves to talk about you and how deeply she adores you.

- Likes when you give her forehead kisses.

NSFW

- Pillow princess. End of story.

- She’s not completely submissive though. She’ll tell you what she wants and what she likes

- She just wants to be taken care of okay. She needs to be taken care of.

- Makes the softest, sweetest sounds and will tell you she loves you a million times over.

- Enjoys when things just… naturally happen. Cuddling with you at night, but pushing her hips lightly back against you. Which usually ends with your hand slipping past her waistband and making her come on your fingers.

- Likes to be on top of you sometimes, simply so she can show off whilst she strips. Not to really do anything. Shes really not that much of a giver. She likes being watched. She likes to know she’s desired. And usually it ends up with you dragging her to sit on your face.

- You have to shower her with praise. She wants to know she looks beautiful, that she’s doing well, worship her. Which is incredibly easy for you cause like fucking look at her she’s gorgeous.

- Wraps herself around you when you cuddle after, legs intertwined and arms around you, head buried in your chest or neck. Pls my sweet baby needs to be held.

𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳:

You sat by the crackling campfire, the night draped around you like a comforting blanket, waiting patiently for Arthur to return from his outing with Lenny.

As the minutes stretched into hours, the quiet of the night was suddenly shattered by the sound of husky laughter and stumbling footsteps approaching the camp.

Arthur stumbled into view, his usually composed demeanor replaced by a boisterous energy, his laughter ringing out into the night. You watched as he stumbled towards you, his movements unsteady and his words slurred with intoxication.

"Hey there, sweetheart!" He exclaimed, his voice louder than usual, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he approached you, his arms outstretched in an exaggerated gesture of affection.

"Arthur.." You greeted him with a chuckle, reaching out to steady him as he stumbled forward. "You're drunk."

He grinned at you, his usual charm amplified by the alcohol coursing through his veins. "Just a bit," He admitted with a laugh, his words slurring together slightly. "But I missed you, darlin'."

As Arthur held you in his drunken embrace, he leaned in close, his warm breath tickling your ear and he whispered, "Come with me, I want to show you something."

Curiosity piqued, you allowed him to lead you away from the camp, the darkness of the trees enveloping you like a cloak. With each step, his intoxicating scent of whiskey and cheap cologne hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest.

Finally, he stopped, the trees providing enough secrecy around you. Before you could protest or question his intentions, Arthur pressed you against a sturdy tree trunk, his lips crashing against yours in a passionate kiss.

His embrace was fervent and urgent, fueled by the fire of his drunken desire. His hands roamed eagerly over your body, his touch electric against your skin as he pulled you closer, his breath hot against your lips.

///

And that was how you found yourself, dangerously close to getting caught by the rest of the gang, pressed firmly against the rough bark of a tree, stripped naked to his mercy.

The stretch was breathtaking, every centimeter of his length sending electrifying waves of pleasure through you as he pounded away relentlessly. With each rapid thrust, Arthur grunted huskily, his teeth clenched together in sheer determination. His eyes remained fixated on your bouncing form, his gaze intense and unwavering.

"Arthur-" You gasped, your breath coming in ragged bursts, heat flooding your body.

In that moment, every sensation overwhelmed you, yet you yearned for more. There was nothing in this world, in that moment, more important than Arthur Morgan, thrusting into you with an intensity that felt like a primal need with your leg wrapped around his defined torso and his large palms roaming the curves of your body.

''Beautiful-'' He whispered between pants, his voice a husky echo against your skin as he leaned in, his lips tantalizingly close to your quivering flesh.

''You are mine.'' With a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine, he enveloped one hardened nipple in his mouth, drawing it between his lips with a hunger that left you trembling. His tongue danced with an almost predatory insistence, claiming you entirely in a way that left you powerless to resist.

With each of his forceful thrusts, you reciprocated with equal intensity, your nails digging into his forearms with a ferocity that threatened to break skin, and your teeth grazing against his lips as you captured his mouth in a hungry kiss when he turned his face towards you.

''Please- Arthur, please!'' You knew you were babbling, but the overwhelming sensation coursing through your veins left you unable to form coherent words.

''Quiet, sweetheart. You don’t want anyone to catch us, do you?'' Arthur's voice was low, sending shivers down your spine as you struggled to maintain composure amidst the overwhelming waves of lust. His words ignited a fire within you, the intensity of his gaze leaving you feeling dizzy with desire.

Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, your breath coming in short gasps as you tried to focus on just breathing. With each movement of his hips, Arthur's rhythm intensified, the sensation bordering on maddening as he drove himself deeper into you.

''Can you be quiet for me?'' He whispered, his hand moving from your mouth to rest gently on your lower back. You nodded in response, your teeth sinking into your lip as you fought to stifle the moans threatening to escape your lips.

Your body started to shake uncontrollably, tremors coursing through every fiber of your being. With each passing moment, the sensation intensified, rendering your legs numb and leaving every muscle sore and cramped. Even the slightest movement sent waves of soreness rippling through you, threatening to overwhelm your senses.

Despite the haze of alcohol, he remained attentive to your every move, his hands a steady anchor that kept you upright. With a firm grip, he ensured you didn't falter or lose balance, his eyes never wavering from your features as he sought to understand your every emotion.

Hot tears welled in your eyes, a mixture of pleasure and intense emotion that threatened to spill over with each hard motion of his body. Arthur was so deep, so incredibly deep inside of you that it felt as though he was reaching places untouched, bringing pleasure straight to your soul.

Your muscles twitched and spasmed in time with his relentless thrusts, the rhythm of your bodies syncing perfectly as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Each moan that escaped your lips was met with the wet fabric of his shirt, the sound muffled but unmistakable in the heat of the moment.

"Good girl," Arthur murmured, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, a rare smirk gracing his lips, a sight reserved only for moments like these, fueled by the intoxicating effects of alcohol. ''Good fucking girl.'

The pressure building inside of you reached its breaking point, shattering your senses. In that moment, you clung to Arthur desperately, pulling at his hair and digging your nails into his skin as if he were your lifeline.

Open-mouthed cries of pleasure escaped your throat, the intensity of your orgasm too powerful to be contained. Arthur cursed under his breath, his focus solely on maintaining his movements long enough to ride out the wave of your climax.

He could feel you gushing wetness, squirting on his cock and leaking down both of your thighs. He wasn’t strong enough to resist the pleasure that came with the realization that he’d made you spasm so hard your body couldn’t control itself. He followed, pumping his cum deep inside of you while your folds squeezed the life out of him.

Time seemed to stand still as you clung to each other, reluctant to let go of the moment. When Arthur finally pulled away slightly, you whimpered, clinging to him tighter, craving the comfort and reassurance that only he could provide.

''I know, sweetheart. I know." Arthur's voice was soft and comforting as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. He could sense the weight of your emotions, knowing that you must be feeling overwhelmed in that moment.

"You did so good.'' He murmured, his hand gently rubbing your back in soothing circles.

𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯:

As you slipped out of your dress, the fabric cascading around your ankles, you felt the weight of the day lifting from your shoulders. The dim light of the lantern cast shadows across the canvas walls of your tent, creating a cozy sanctuary amidst the chaos of the gang outside, singing songs around the fire.

With each button undone, you reveled in the sensation of freedom, relishing the cool air against your skin as you prepared to settle for bed. The soft rustle of fabric echoed in the silence as you reached for your nightgown, a familiar routine that brought a sense of comfort to the end of another long day.

But just as you were about to slip into the warmth of your nightclothes, the tent flap suddenly stirred, and there he was, John. His usually rugged features were contorted with jealousy, his eyes clouded with the haze of alcohol as he stumbled into the tent.

"John?" You exclaimed, surprise and frustration warring within you as you struggled to comprehend his state. "What are you doing here?"

He ignored your question, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of desire and accusation. "You've been spending too much time with Javier!" He slurred, his words heavy with bitterness as he collapsed onto the ground beside you, his drunkenness palpable.

You sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy for him even as irritation prickled at the edges of your patience. "John, I told you. Javier is teaching me how to play guitar. There's nothing between us."

But he wasn't listening, lost in his own insecurities and doubts. With a pout that bordered on childish, he reached out to you, his fingers brushing against your skin in a clumsy attempt at affection.

"I wanna teach you something, too.." He murmured, his voice low and husky, his lips trailing along the curve of your neck as he spoke.

You shivered at the sensation, the heat of his touch sending a thrill racing down your spine. Despite the lingering frustration of his outburst of jealousy, you found yourself unable to resist the magnetic pull of his gaze, drawn to him with an intensity that left you breathless.

"What do you want to teach me?" You whispered, your voice barely more than a soft sigh as you surrendered to the hunger that burned within you.

///

You couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards Javier. His presence close to you eventually led you sinking down on your knees as your jealous lover stood before you. It was as if the flames of his possessiveness ignited a primal need within him, driving him to assert his dominance and claim you as his own.

Letting out a satisfied sigh, you drank in the taste of his precum, reveling in the salty sensation as it danced across your taste buds before John rested his large, calloused hands upon your hair, gently guiding your movements with a firm touch.

His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with want, as you worked your magic, eliciting a drawn-out, staticky moan from deep within his chest.

You flattened your tongue more efficiently, eager to please him, to elicit even the slightest tremor of pleasure from his lips.

For a fleeting moment, a sensation of blazing heat washed over the back of your throat as you released him, lowering your head to place a tender kiss at the base of John's throbbing cock.

As your tongue darted out to caress the prominent vein, tracing its path with delicate precision, he struggled to contain the building pressure threatening to erupt within him.

A loud groan escaped John's lips as he lifted his hips slightly, urging you to take him deeper into your mouth. The unexpected motion caught you off guard and you fought against the instinct to gag, your body instinctively adjusting to accommodate him even as tears welled up in your eyes and began to trickle down your flushed cheeks.

''That's my girl-'' He murmured, his voice hoarsed as he tightened his grip on your hair and with a quick thrust, followed by a sharp gasp, he was sheathed fully in your throat.

You desperately tried not to gag as he continued to exert himself, pulling out of your mouth just to slam his length back in you again. He was using you, like a toy to release his pent-up sexual tension and unreasonable jealousy, and you could not have been more aroused.

"These lips belong to me, understand?" He grunted, punctuating his declaration with another forceful thrust into your throat.

The once defiant man now emitted sounds you had never heard before, a mix of a squeal and a moan, interspersed with gasps for air. You reached out to cup his balls through the fabric of his pants, feeling his member twitch under your tongue.

John drooled, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes tightly shut, his breath heavy, like music to your ears.

But what struck you most was the absence of his usual smirk, instead, a slight frown adorned his face as he gasped with each thrust into the recesses of your throat. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he was close to release.

Profanities and shameless moans filled the quiet of the night, ensuring that the rest of the gang members close by would hear. John pulled your hair rather harshly, evidently losing control as he maneuvered your head just the way he desired.

The vibrations of your unfiltered sounds spread throughout his sensitive length, further enhancing the tingling pleasure he was feeling.

Without pause, he continued to fuck your throat with each jerk of your head, thrusting his cock down your throat just as he brought your head down to swallow him whole. Your lewd gags were the most beautiful sounds, and even more so, the thick pools of your saliva that connected your mouth to his length, the most beautiful sight.

The ache between your legs pulsed with each passing moment, the next breath that left your lungs rolling out in a trembling whine. Your skin felt as if it wanted to fly off your body into the next star system, consumed by the overwhelming sensations coursing through you.

Without warning, he pushed even deeper, and you understood immediately why. His orgasm ripped through him, eliciting another prolonged groan of satisfaction as his essence coated the back of your throat.

As he finally relented, leaving a strand of saliva and semen bridging your lips, he held his still pulsating member against your face, releasing one final burst that streaked across your forehead and hair.

You gazed at John in absolute awe, your senses still reeling from him soring both your lips and throat as he gradually descended from his euphoric state.

His eyes met yours, a smoldering intensity that made your breath catch in your throat and as he looked down at you, still kneeling before him, he reached out to caress your cheek, his touch gentle. His fingers, coated with remnants of his pleasure, traced delicate, wet patterns along your skin.

You watched, transfixed, as he brought his slickened finger to your lips, wordlessly offering it to you. Without hesitation, you parted your lips, tasting the tang of his salty essence as you obediently licked his finger clean.

Then, with a teasing spark in his eyes, he spoke arrogantly, his words dripping with playful suggestion. "Now go say hi to Javier for me. He'll get the message."

''Fuck you, Marston.'' As you rose to your feet, defiance burned in your eyes, though a hint of shyness tinged your voice.

''Your wish is my command, madam.'' Before you could fully process his words or reach out to him, he moved with unexpected swiftness, seizing your face in his hands and pulling you into a passionate kiss.

𝘑𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘳:

You laid on the plush bed, draped in your silky nightgown, the warmth of the crackling fire beside you seeping into your skin.

As you basked in the warmth, Javier's lips began to trail soft, tender kisses along the expanse of your thighs. Each touch sent ripples of pleasure coursing through your body.

The lingering scent of whiskey and cigarettes clung to him, a testament to the indulgence he had partaken in at the hotel bar downstairs earlier that evening.

Despite his intoxication, Javier worshipped your body with a reverence that left you breathless. With every caress, every kiss, he took his time, exploring every inch of your skin as if it were a sacred temple to be cherished. His adoration was palpable, his actions speaking volumes of his devotion to you.

"Déjame probarte, mi amor. Por favor-" With each tender kiss, his drunken need for you intensified, his movements becoming more urgent.

(t: let me taste you, my love, please-)

You chuckled softly as you looked into his eyes, noticing the signs of intoxication lingering in his gaze.

"You're drunk, Javi.." You remarked with a playful smile, gently teasing him as you tried to reason with him. "Maybe we should just go to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

But he simply shook his head, his determination evident even in his inebriated state. "I'm not drunk," he protested with a lopsided grin, his words slurring slightly as he leaned closer to you. "Solo estoy disfrutando el momento contigo."

(t: I just want to enjoy this moment with you.'')

Despite not understanding a single word, the melodic rhythm of his speech sent shivers down your spine. You couldn't help but admire the way his lips formed each syllable, the passion and intensity in every word.

Lost in the moment, you found yourself running your fingers through his hair, savoring the softness beneath your touch.

''Quiero comerte entera, cariño-''

(t: I want to eat you whole, darling-)

Eventually, unable to contain your curiosity any longer, you gently interrupted him, your voice barely above a whisper. "Javi, can you translate that for me?"

Instead of obliging, he simply chuckled, his eyes glistening with mischief as he leaned in closer to your body.

"Let me show you, instead." He murmured, his voice husky as he spoke.

Finally, unable to resist any longer, he reached for the hem of your nightgown, lifting it slowly until it pooled around your stomach.

''Maybe we shouldn't..'' Your breath caught in your throat as you whispered, the words escaping your lips barely audible.

He just snickered, his laughter a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine, and whatever protest or remark you were going to make died down as the tip of his tongue nudged at your clit.

Your breath hitched in anticipation as you leaned back against the soft pillows, your heart pounding rapidly to the sudden touch. With trembling hands, you eagerly shuffled your legs further apart, offering him better access to your throbbing core.

You felt Javier's face burying itself between your thighs, the rough texture of his skin sending electric pulses of pleasure through your body.

The flat of his tongue started to give little kitten licks up and down your folds, each stroke sending waves of sensation coursing through you, always ending on a tantalizing drag against your sensitive pearl.

"Javi-" A little whimper escaped you, hushed and whining, as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure washing over you.

His amber eyes bore into yours as you swore you could feel him smirk against you, his silent amusement adding to the intoxicating mix of sensations.

''Oh god-'' Another chaste kiss to your clit elicited a gasping breath from you, your idle hand tightening its grip in his messy black hair, fingers tangling in the locks as you encouraged him to continue.

You noticed a subtle change in Javier’s movements, a newfound urgency and dedication as he worshipped your body with his mouth.

Your juices began to coat his chin as he held onto your squirming hips, his eagerness showing in the way he practically pulled you down onto his face. With each suck and lick to your clit, he drove you closer to the edge of ecstasy, his ministrations becoming more fervent and desperate.

More keens and moans spilled from your lips as a graze of teeth sent bolts of pleasure through you, the sensation causing you to grind down onto his mouth in a fervour of need.

''Preciosa- fuck-'' There was a humming sound as Javier groaned beneath you, his own arousal taking over as he pleasured you.

A fog of a different kind of intoxication thickened in your mind, clouding your thoughts as you lost yourself in the throes of his lips.

With a certain tilt of your head, you caught sight of Javier jerking off his cock while he continued to devour you, his eyes half-lidded with desire as his tight fist worked up and down his length. The sight of him, slick with pre-cum fluids and swollen with the need to orgasm, only added to your own desperation for release.

The more ferociously he licked your pussy, the harder he stroked himself, his cock leaking slick from that swollen, reddened tip.

Slowly, Javier's middle finger pressed against you, the anticipation causing your breath to hitch in your throat. With a gentle but firm pressure, it slipped inside, encountering little resistance as it delved deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp of pleasure, your body instinctively arching towards him as he filled you.

As his finger bottomed out inside you, a low moan escaped your lips, the sound muffled by the New pressure. You could feel the heat building between your legs, your arousal pooling at the point where his finger met your core.

Javier could sense the subtle changes in your body, the way your cunt fluttered and pulsed around his finger. He reveled in the feeling of you, the way you squeezed him tight, every ridge inside your plush walls a testament to your desire. With each gentle thrust of his finger, he explored the depths of your pleasure, savoring the intimacy of the moment.

He seemed to understand exactly how your body worked, his touch deliberate and calculated as he curled his finger just barely, sending you closer to your climax with each motion.

With a deft flick of his digit, he found your sweetest spot, and he didn't hesitate to exploit it. The sensation was electric, a symphony of pleasure that left you gasping for air. Again and again, he brushed against that sensitive area, each stroke consuming you whole.

You were on the brink of coming undone, your body thrumming with anticipation as Javier's touch sent ripples of pleasure cascading through you. But just as you felt yourself on the cusp, he abruptly pulled away, leaving you stunned and breathless.

Shock was displayed all over your features as Javier chuckled softly, his amusement evident all over his face.

And then, with a gentle but deliberate movement, Javier closed the distance between you, his eyes locked with yours as his hands roamed over your body.

''You're going to finish with me inside you, amor.''

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴:

As you walked towards the tranquil lake, away from the loud celebration of the gang's successful mission, the ethereal glow of the bright moon above casted a shimmering path across the water. The night air was crisp and cool against your skin, offering a welcome respite from the warmth of the fire.

Finding a secluded spot by the water's edge, you sat down and dipped your fingers into the cool, refreshing liquid, splashing it onto your face and shoulders in an attempt to wash away the remnants of the long day but before you could repeat the gesture, a pair of strong, familiar hands settled on your hips, sending a shiver down your spine.

Giggling, you turned to find Charles standing behind you, his breath heavy with the scent of whiskey. Despite his usual resilience to alcohol, it was clear that tonight's celebration had gotten the better of him. He had accepted Sean's challenge to see who could drink the most, and it seemed he had emerged on the losing end.

''Mhm, Charles-'' A whimper escaped your lips as his lips trailed along your skin with a newfound hunger, his breath hot against your neck.

Even in his inebriated state, Charles remained relatively quiet, his usual reticence undisturbed by the alcohol coursing through his veins.

However, there was a noticeable shift in his demeanor as his breath grew louder and heavier against your skin. With each kiss, his tongue teased and tantalized, promising the emergence of vivid purple marks on your skin in the morning.

A sudden gasp escaped your lips as he stumbled backwards, pulling you along with him. With a surprising agility, he managed to find purchase on a tree log, his body sinking onto it as he settled into a seated position with you straddling his thighs.

''Mm, need you, angel.'' Charles cooed softly, his touch tender as he rested his palm under your jaw. With a deft movement, he brought your face closer to his, his intent clear as he sought to capture the perfect view of your dazed eyes.

''Anything for my man.'' You whispered softly, your voice barely above a breath as you cradled his face in your hands

Wordlessly, you moved with anticipation, your hands trembling slightly as you slid down the waistband of his pants. As you did, you felt the warmth radiating from his clothed cock, the heat passing along your cheeks in a tantalizing wave.

With each inch of fabric you peeled away, the excitement grew even more as the cotton material finally wrapped around his muscular thighs.

A low hiss escaped Charles' lips as the brief contact of cold air brushed against his freed cock, causing it to spring to life with eager anticipation. The sound of it slapping heavily against his bruised stomach filled the air, echoing in the stillness of the night as the voices of your fellow gang members seemed to fade in the distance.

He was huge, his length extending well beyond his navel and the thickness of it easily comparable to your wrist.

With delicate precision, you used your fingertips to guide the hard length of him to your entrance, feeling the anticipation building with each passing moment.

As you started to sink down, the bulbous head of his cock dipped into the flesh of your labia, the pressure forcing the meaty lips to spread for him.

''Oh, my-'' A faltering breath escaped your lips as you sucked it in, a desperate attempt to steady yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

The lack of good preparation made the penetration a slow and deliberate process, each inch of him breaching your body with torturous slowness. Despite it all, the searing burn that accompanied his entry, only made you bask in the intensity of the sensation, your senses consumed by the pleasure of it all.

He breached your body one agonizing fraction at a time, the pressure just giving the right amount of painful as he pushed deeper inside you.

Finally, the glans of his cock popped through the first barrier, a primal moan escaping your lips as you stilled above him. With a newfound determination, you bore down on him again, the unbidden sound of your whimpers like music to his ears.

''You feel so-, so good-''Charles responded with a deep, rumbling noise, the barely coherent words reverberating through the air only to fuel your need to please him even more.

You choked on a disgruntled squawk as he lifted his hips, forcing himself another inch or so inside you. The sudden movement caught you off guard, causing you to sway above him, the tension in your loins doubling and threatening to overwhelm you.

''Mhm-'' Groaning deep in the back of your throat, you haltingly pivoted your hips, up, down, up and down.

Each movement a deliberate effort to loosen your passage and coat him in more arousal. With each motion, you felt the tension in your body ease, the sensation of him sliding against your inner walls igniting a fire within you.

As you started to lower yourself again, just a brief moment later, the penetration came easier, Charles' cock slipping effortlessly against your slickened walls until you were fully seated on his lap. With a heady sigh of pleasure, you tossed your head back, the sensation overwhelming your senses.

Taking advantage of your exposed vulnerability, Charles seized the opportunity to squeeze your breast in a tight grip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity coursing through you.

''Look at you-'' He breathed, his voice heavy with adoration. ''So lovely when you’re enjoying yourself like this.''

Your whole body heaved and lurched at his praise, every single muscle in your shuddering frame locking up as you clamped down on him so hard it physically hurt.

A primal scream tore from your throat, echoing into the night sky as pure, unadulterated bliss rushed in to swarm your senses, completely overriding the faint discomfort of being stretched to the absolute limit.

In response to your climax, Charles groaned, his own pleasure evident as he let you ride out the waves of your ecstasy on his excitedly jumping cock. His hands grasped at your sides, fingers digging into the love handles he found there, holding onto you as if you were a lifeline in the midst of a storm.

Like a wild beast, you clawed at his flesh, your nails leaving red marks in their wake as you desperately sought release. His arms, shoulders, chest, anything you could reach became a canvas for your frenzied need as you bucked and spasmed throughout the throes of your ecstasy.

It was the sporadic squeezing of your cunt that finally milked the orgasm right out of him. You felt him stiffen beneath you, a grunt escaping his tightly clenched teeth as he violently twitched inside your body.

The abrupt pressure on your sweet spot had you seeing stars, your breath hitching as you swayed unsteadily on top of him, both of you lost in the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

It took you a prolonged moment to start coming down from the blinding rush of endorphins, your senses still swimming in the aftermath of ecstasy. Each breath came short and quick, the air feeling heavy against your chest as you struggled to regain your composure.

Your skin was sticky with sweat and it effectively glued you to him, making even the simple act of lifting your head a taxing effort.

As you laid there, basking in the warmth of his embrace, you became aware of Charles gently petting your head, his touch a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

His fingers traced delicate patterns through your hair, smoothing down the unruly strands with a tenderness that brought a smile to your lips.

"Should I go thank Sean for this?" You murmured tiredly, the words slipping from your lips in a hazy whisper.